dimensions.”  Admirable connoisseur!  “And did you step in to take a look at

the grand picture on your way back.”  “It is a melancholy daub! my lord, not one principle of the pyramid in any one group; there is nothing of the colouring of Titian, the expression of Rubens, the grace of Raphael, the purity of Domenichino, the corregiescity of Corregio, the learning of Poussin, the airs of Guido, the taste of the Caraccis, or the grand contour of Angelo.”  “Grant me patience, just heaven!  Of all the cants which are canted in this canting world, though the cant of hypocrites may be the worst—the cant of criticism is the most tormenting!  I would go fifty miles on foot, for I have not a horse worth riding on, to kiss the hand of that man whose generous heart will give up the reins of his imaginations into his author’s hands; be pleased, he knows not why, and cares not wherefore.  Great Apollo! if thou art in a giving humour, give me—I ask no more—but one stroke of native humour with a single spark of thy own fire along with it, and send Mercury with the rules and compasses if he can be spared, with my compliments, to—no matter.”

This is all very amusing, and I don’t know that the case upon that side could be better stated, except that it is overstated; for, if this be true, there ought to be no such thing as criticism at all, and all rules are worse than useless.  Everybody may do as he pleases.  And yet we know that not only is there a right way and a wrong of painting a picture, writing a book, making a building, or composing a symphony, but there are rules which, if disobeyed, will destroy the work.  These rules, apparently artificial, have their foundation in nature, and were first dictated by her.  Only we must be careful still to appeal constantly to her as the source and fountain of our rules.

“First follow nature, and your judgment frame
By her just standard, which is still the same,
Unerring nature, still divinely blight,
One clear, unchanged, and universal light,
Life, force, and beauty must to all impart,
At once the source, and end, and test of art.”

By too much attention to theory, by too close a study of books, we may become narrow-minded and pedantic, and gradually may become unable to appreciate natural beauties, our whole attention being concentrated on the defects in art.  We want to listen to the call of the poet,

“Come forth into the light of things,
Let nature be your teacher.”

It is nature that mellows and softens the distance, and brings out sharply the lights and shadows of the foreground, and the artist must follow her if he would succeed.  It is nature who warbles softly in the love notes of the bird, and who elevates the soul by the roar of the cataract and the pealing of the thunder.  To her the musician and the poet listen, and imitate the great teacher.  It is nature who, in the structure of the leaf or in the avenue of the lofty limes, teaches the architect how to adorn his designs with the most graceful of embellishments, to rear the lofty column or display the lengthening vista of the cathedral aisle.  It is nature who is teaching us all to be tender, loving, and true, and to love and worship God, and to admire all His works.  Let us then in our criticism refer everything first of all to nature.  Is the work natural?  Does it follow nature?  Secondly, does it follow the rules of art?  If it passes the first test, it is well worth the courteous attention of

the critic.  If it passes both tests, it is perfect.  But if only the second test is passed, it may please a few pedants, but it is worthless, and cannot live.

6.  Criticisms should be bonâ fide.

You will be rather alarmed at a lawyer beginning this topic, and will expect to hear pages of “Starkie on Libel,” or to have all the perorations of Erskine’s speeches recited to you.  For one terrible moment I feel I have you in my power; but I scorn to take advantage of the position.  I don’t mean to talk about libel at all, or, at least, not more than I can help.  I have been endeavouring to show what good criticism should be like.  If criticism is so base that there is a question to be left to a jury as to what damages ought to be paid for the speaking or writing of it, one may say at once that it is unworthy of the name of criticism at all.  Slander is not criticism.  But there is a great deal of criticism which may be called not bonâ fide, which is yet not malicious.  It is biassed perhaps, even from some charitable motive, perhaps from some sordid motive, perhaps from indolence, from a desire to be thought learned or clever, or what not—in fact, from one or other of those thousand things which prevent persons from speaking fairly and straightforwardly.  When you take up the Athenæum or the Spectator, and read from those very able reviews an account of the last new novel, do you think the writer has written simply what he truly thinks and feels about the matter?  No! he has been told he has been dull of late.  He feels he must write a spicy review.  He has a cold in his head, he is savage accordingly.  A friend of his tells him he knows the author, or he recognizes the

name of a college friend—he will be lenient.  The book is on a subject which he meant to take up himself; and, without knowing it, he is jealous.  I need not multiply further these suggestions which will occur to anyone.  We all remember the dinner in Paternoster Row given by Mrs. Bungay, the publisher’s wife.  Bungay and Bacon are at daggers drawn; each married the sister of the other, and they were for some time the closest friends and partners.  Since they have separated it is a furious war between the two publishers, and no sooner does one bring out a book of travels or poems, but the rival is in the field with something similar.  We all remember the delight of Mrs. Bungay when the Hon. Percy Popjoy drives up in a private hansom with an enormous grey cab horse and a tiger behind, and Mrs. Bacon is looking out grimly from the window on the opposite side of the street.  “In the name of commonsense, Mr. Pendennis,” Shandon asked, “what have you been doing—praising one of Mr. Bacon’s books?  Bungay has been with me in a fury this morning at seeing a laudatory article upon one of the works of the odious firm over the way.”  Pen’s eyes opened wide with astonishment.  “Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that we are to praise no books that Bacon publishes; or that if the books are good we are to say that they are bad?”  Pen says, “I would rather starve, by Jove, and never earn another penny by my pen, than strike an opponent an unfair blow, or if called upon to place him, rank him below his honest desert.”

There was a trial in London in December, 1878, which illustrates the subject I am upon.  It was an

action for libel by the well-known artist, Mr. Whistler, against Mr. Ruskin, the most distinguished art critic of the age.  The passage in the writing of Mr. Ruskin, of which Mr. Whistler complained, contains, I think, almost every fault which, according to my divisions, a criticism can contain.  The passage is as follows:—“For Mr. Whistler’s own sake no less than for the protection of the purchaser, Sir Coutts Lindsey ought not to have admitted works into the gallery in which the ill-educated conceit of the artist so nearly approached the aspect of wilful imposture.  I have seen and heard much of cockney impudence before now, but never expected to hear a coxcomb ask 200 guineas for flinging a