Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 002.djvu/695
Remember only this much, that if my remarks appear less bitter than those of your illustrious friend, you must not on that account suppose that we radically differ in opinion. The privy councillor[1] must be excused for speaking with a little extra-severity, for he has had reason to think on this subject more than once, with the feelings of personal resentment and insulted genius;—but of this in the sequel.
Although you are well read in English authors, it may not be unnecessary to tell you, that nothing is more unlike a German Review than an English one. If you look first at the table of contents in an Edinburgh, and then at that in a Leipsig Review, you perceive, indeed, that the books criticised are not the same books, but you would not suspect that the whole system and style of criticism adopted in the two works are far more different than the languages in which they are composed. A German Reviewer is a plain, sensible, sober professor, doctor, or master of arts, hired by his bookseller to compose a simple analysis of a new work, in the very same dispassionate and reflective manner wherein an abstract of any book of antiquity, dug up at Pompeii or Pæstum, would probably be written. It is no matter although the first leaf be awanting, and the author's name a mystery; the poem, history, or treatise, is judged according to its own merits by the critic; and the reader is presented with one or two interesting extracts, enough to excite, not to satisfy, the appetite of his curiosity.—An English Reviewer is a smart, clever man of the world, or else a violent political zealot. He takes up a new book either to make a jest of it, and amuse his readers and himself at the expense of its author, or he makes use of the name of it merely as an excuse for writing, what he thinks the author might have been better employed in doing, a dissertation, in favour of the minister, if the Review be the property of a Pittite, against him and all his measures, if it be the property of a Foxite, bookseller. It is no matter although the poor author be a man who cares nothing at all about politics, and has never once thought either of Pit or Fox, Castlereagh or Napoleon, during the whole time of composing his book. The English Revievers are of the opinion of Pericles, that politics are, or should be, in some way or other, the subject of every man's writings. "τον μηδεν τωνδε μετέχοντα ἐκ ἀπραγμονα αλλ' ἀχρειον νομίζομεν." The book itself is perhaps as far, both in subject and spirit, from politics, as can well be imagined. The Reviewer does not mind that: when he sits down to criticise it, his first question is not, "Is this book good or bad?" but it is, "Is this writer a ministerialist or an oppositionist?" No one knows: the author is a person who lives in his province, and eats beef and drinks port, without ever asking who is minister, regent, or king. But he has a nephew, a cousin, or an uncle, who is member of parliament, and votes. This is quite sufficient. If he votes with Lord Castlereagh, the poetry, or biography, or history, or philosophy, or erudition, of his kinsman, is excellent in the eyes of the Quarterly, and contemptible in those of the Edinburgh Reviewer. Does he oppose the minister? then the tables are turned: the Quarterly despises, and the Edinburgh extols him. His genius is tried, not by the rules of Aristotle, but by those of St Stephen's chapel. A man may be a dunce,—that is a trifle. If he can influence a single vote in the House of Commons, he may reckon upon being trumpetted up as a great man by either one set of critics or another.
The truth is, that the English Reviewer does not much care what the merit of the author is. The author is a mere puppet in the hands of the critic. His name indeed appears at the top of the page; he is the ostensible punch of the exhibition; but the person behind the curtain is very ill satisfied unless your admiration is reserved for himself. He can make his doll scream or growl as he pleases: he makes it hop through a jig, or swim through a minuet, as it suits his fancy. My dear friend, the author is nothing—the Reviewer every thing. It is he that pockets your money, and is it not but fair that he should furnish you with the amusement?
You remember what I have said of Shakspeare, that he is an angelic being, a pure spirit, who looks down upon "the great globe itself, and all which it inhabits," as if from the elevation of some higher planet. He is,
- ↑ He means Goëthe.