Criticism should not be set off too sharply from other forms of
literary expression. It has no special rights, privileges, and
authority; and at the same time it has no special disabilities that
consign it to a secondary place in the divisions of literature. In any
unit of art, a sonnet or an epic, a short story or a novel, a little
review or a history of aesthetics, a man is trying to say something.
And the value of what he says must, of course, depend partly on the
essential interest of his subject; but it depends to a greater extent
on the skill with which he puts words together, creates interest in
himself. Arnold's essay on Keats is less Keats than Arnold. It could
not have been if Keats had not existed. But the beauty of that
sequence of words, that essay in criticism, is due to the genius of
Arnold. Francis Thompson on Shelley adds no cubit to the stature of
Shelley, but Thompson's interpretation is a marvellous piece of poetic
prose which cannot be deducted without enormous loss from the works of
Thompson, from English criticism. We read Pater on Coleridge, not for
Coleridge but for Pater, and we read Coleridge for Coleridge, not for
Shakespeare. Thackeray's lecture on Swift, which is full of animosity
and miscomprehension, is a well-written revelation of Thackeray.
Trollope's book on Thackeray, which is full of friendship and
admiration, is an ill-written revelation of Trollope.
Some men of great ability, like Trollope, who have written good books
themselves, lack the faculty, whatever it may be, of writing in an
entertaining fashion about the books of other men. Swinburne is a
striking example. His knowledge of literature was immense, and he had
the enthusiasms and contempts that make the critical impulse; but
except when the poet in him seized the pen and made a passage of
lyrical prose, his excursions into criticism are bewildering and
difficult to read. His sonnets on Dickens, Lamb, and the Elizabethans
are worth more than all his prose. On the other hand, Lamb, who wrote
like an angel about the Elizabethan dramatists, failed completely as a
dramatist.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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