“How,” says Warburton, “happened it in the definitions of Man, that _reason_, is always made essential to him? Nobody ever thought of making _goodness_ so. And yet it is certain that there are as few reasonable men as there are good. To tell you my mind, I think Man might as properly be defined, _an animal to whom a sword is essential_, as one to _whom reason is essential_. For there are as few that _can_, and yet fewer that _dare_, use the one as the other.”—And yet, he might have added, too many that misuse both. The aforesaid Critic on the Athenæum establishment spoke with as little consideration as Trim, when he said that the Opus might have been a novel, implying the while—if it had so pleased the Author; and I make answer advisedly like my Uncle Toby in saying that it could not have pleased me. The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts.[1] [Footnote 1: WORDSWORTH.] Wherefore should I write a novel? There is no lack of novels nor of novel-writers in these days, good, bad, and indifferent. Is there not Mr. James who since the demise of Sir Walter is by common consent justly deemed King of the historical Novelists? And is there not Mrs. Bray who is as properly the Queen? Would the Earl of Mulgrave be less worthily employed in writing fashionable tales upon his own views of morality, than he is in governing Ireland as he governs it? Is there any season in which some sprigs of nobility and fashion do not bring forth hot-house flowers of this kind? And if some of them are rank or sickly, there are others (tell us, Anne Grey! are there not?) that are of delicate penciling, rich colours, and sweet scent. What are the Annuals but schools for Novelists male and female? and if any lady in high life has conceived a fashionable tale, and when the critical time arrives wishes for a temporary concealment, is not Lady Charlotte Bury kindly ready to officiate as _Sage Femme_? The Critic was not so wide of the mark in saying that this Opus ought to have been a novel—to have pleased him, being understood. Oh, like a book of sport thou'lt read me o'er; But there's more in me than thou understandest:[2] And indeed as Chapman says in his Commentary on the Iliad, “where a man is understood there is ever a proportion between the writer's wit and the writees,—that I may speak with authority, according to my old lesson in philosophy, _intellectus in ipsa intelligibilia transit_.” [Footnote 2: TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.] _Le role d'un auteur est un role assez vain_, says Diderot, _c'est celui d'un homme qui se croit en etat de donner des leçons au public. Et le role du critique? Il est plus vain encore; c'est celui d'un homme qui se croit en etat de donner des leçons à celui qui se croit en etat d'en donner au public. L'auteur dit, Messieurs, écoutezmoi, car je suis votre maitre. Et le critique, C'est moi, Messieurs, qu'il faut écouter, car je suis le maitre de vos maitres._