Chapter VI: Criticism (1)

Few of us pass a day without answering such questions as, "What do you think of the Hudson car?" or, "How did Kreisler's playing strike you?" or, "What is your opinion of the work of Thackeray or Alice Brown or Booth Tarkington?" or, "Do you like the X disc harrow?" When we are among intimate friends we give our opinions, based on our personal reaction to the subject of inquiry or on our impartial estimate of it as an automobile, a musical performance, a collection of books, or an agricultural machine. Many of us give a large space in our conversation to such estimates on all conceivable subjects. And, for purposes of insignificant conversation, there is no reason why we should not. Accused of making "Criticism" in the formal sense, however, many of us should recoil with terrified denial. But that is exactly what we are doing, whether we praise or blame, accept or reject, so long as we base our opinion on sincere personal or sound principles, we criticize. _For criticism is the attempt to estimate the worth of something--object or idea--either abstractly on a basis of principles and relations, or personally on the basis of our reactions to the subject of criticism._ That is, we may, for example, criticize the roads of New York State on the basis of what a road is for and how well these roads serve their purpose, or we may take as basis the inspiration, the keen ecstasy that we feel as we skim over the smooth boulevard. So long as our notions of good roads are sound, so long as we react sensibly, with balance, to the smooth rounding way, we make good criticism, we judge the worth of the subject of criticism and find it either good or bad.

It is to be noted that this criticism is something more than mere comment, than mere off-hand remarks. The old saying is, "Anybody can say _something_ about _anything_!" An off-hand utterance _may_ tell the truth; we cannot be sure that it will. Only when we have a well-considered basis of either principle or personal feeling can we be at all certain of our opinions.

Now the range in which our opinions, our criticisms, may be expressed, is as wide as human thought and accomplishment. We sometimes think of criticism as being confined to literature and art, and speak of literary criticism, musical criticism, dramatic criticism, and art criticism, as if these were all. The term criticism has actually been so restricted in common practice that unless otherwise noted it is taken for granted as applying to these subjects. But criticism is much more comprehensive than such restriction indicates: any object or subject is capable of criticism. Just as we might arrive at the conclusion that Booth Tarkington's stories about Penrod are either good or bad, so we might say that a make of piano, a type of bridle, a new kind of fertilizer, a method of bookkeeping, a recipe for angel cake is good or is sufficient or is valueless. We might have--in fact we do have--Engineering Criticism, Carpenter Criticism, Needlework Criticism, Poultry Criticism, and as many kinds as there are classes of subjects. In this treatment we shall use the term in this broad sense and include all subjects in our scope. Of course we are to remember that the criticism becomes of more value as the subject of criticism is of more moment: criticism of the drama is nobler, perhaps, than criticism of egg beaters and picture hooks. We must also remember that the less high orders of criticism are neither useless nor undesirable but often most helpful.

Requirements demanded of the Critic

Since, then, the brand of the critic is on us all, since we practice the habit, consciously or not, most of the time, and since the range is so wide, no reason exists why we should be terrified at the thought of writing criticism, of making formal estimate. Certain requirements are demanded, to be sure; not every one can dive into the sea of criticism without making an awkward splash and receiving a reddening smart. But these requirements are in no way beyond the possibility of acquiring by any one who will set himself to the task.

_a._ _Ability to analyze_

In the first place, a critic must have the power to analyze. We have seen that analysis consists in breaking a subject into its components, in discovering of what it is made. This is the first great necessity in criticizing. You wish, for example, to make a criticism of a new rifle for your friends. It is not enough that you should with gusto enunciate, "It's just great!" "Oh, it's fine, fine and dandy!" "Golly but it's a good one!" Your friends are likely to ask "Why?" or to say, "The gentleman doth protest too much!" If, on the other hand, you remark that the rifle is admirable because of its sights, its general accuracy, its cartridge chamber, its comparative freedom from recoil, then you will be giving your friends definite and useful criticism, for you will have analyzed the virtue of the object into its components. Now this necessity for analysis exists in criticism of literature and art just as in criticism of rifles. Before you can properly estimate the value of a novel or a play you must divide the impression it makes into the various heads, such as emotional power, convincingness in the message of the book or play, truth to life, and whatever heading you may think necessary. Until you do this your impressions, your judgments will of necessity be vague and dim in their outlines, and though they may seem to be comprehensive, will be found actually to be insufficient to give your reader or listener a firm notion of the subject--he will have no nucleus of thought round which his total estimate will center. As soon, however, as you analyze, and make definite, so soon he will receive real enlightenment. In the following account of the work of James Russell Lowell at the Court of Saint James we find at once this careful breaking of the subject into parts which can be treated definitely. Had the writer merely uttered general impressions of the diplomacy of our ambassador we who read should have been comparatively unhelped.

To those who hold the semi-barbarous notion that one of the duties of a foreign minister is to convey a defiant attitude toward the people to whom he is accredited--that he should stick to his post, to use the popular phrase, "with his back up," and keep the world that he lives in constantly in mind that his countrymen are rough, untamable, and above all things quarrelsome, Mr. Lowell has not seemed a success. But to them we must observe, that they know so little of the subject of diplomacy that their opinion is of no sort of consequence. The aim of diplomacy is not to provoke war, but to keep the peace; it is not to beget irritation, or to keep it alive, but to produce and maintain a pacific temper; not to make disputes hard, but easy, to settle; not to magnify differences of interest or feeling, but to make them seem small; not to win by threats, but by persuasion; not to promote mutual ignorance, but mutual comprehension--to be, in short, the representative of a Christian nation, and not of a savage tribe.

No foreign minister, it is safe to say, has ever done these things so successfully in the same space of time as Mr. Lowell. If it be a service to the United States to inspire Englishmen with respect such as they have never felt before for American wit and eloquence and knowledge, and thus for American civilization itself, nobody has rendered this service so effectually as he has done. They are familiar almost _ad nauseam_ with the material growth of the United States, with the immense strides which the country has made and is making in the production of things to eat, drink, and wear. What they know least of, and had had most doubts about, is American progress in acquiring those gifts and graces which are commonly supposed to be the inheritance of countries that have left the ruder beginnings of national life far behind, and have had centuries of leisure for art, literature, and science. Well, Mr. Lowell has disabused them. As far as blood and training go, there is no more genuine American than he. He went to England as pure a product of the American soil as ever landed there, and yet he at once showed English scholars that in the field of English letters they had nothing to teach him. In that higher political philosophy which all Englishmen are now questioning so anxiously, he has spoken not only as a master, but almost as an oracle. In the lighter but still more difficult arts, too, which make social gatherings delightful and exciting to intellectual men, in the talk which stimulates strong brains and loosens eloquent tongues, he has really reduced the best-trained and most loquacious London diners-out to abashed silence. In fact, he has, in captivating English society,--harder, perhaps, to cultivate, considering the vast variety of culture it contains, than any other society in the world,--in making every Englishman who met him wish that he were an Englishman too, performed a feat such as no diplomatist, we believe, ever performed before.[67]

[67] Gustav Pollak: _Fifty Years of American Idealism_. Houghton
Mifflin Company. By courtesy of _The Nation_.

_b._ _Knowledge of the General Field_

Besides the ability to analyze the critic must have some knowledge of the general field in which the subject lies. For a man who has never thought about musical form to attempt criticism of a sonata is foolish--he can at best merely comment. It is this fact that vitiates much of the cracker-barrel criticism of the country store--subjects are estimated about which the critic is largely ignorant. When an uneducated person makes shrewd comment, as he often does, on a play, he will usually be found to have criticized a character such as he has known or the outcome of a situation the like of which he is familiar with rather than the play as a whole. Now perfect criticism would demand perfect knowledge, but since that is impossible, a good working knowledge will suffice, the wider the better. Knowledge of the general principles of piano playing will enable a critic to estimate, in the large, the work of a performer; he cannot criticize minutely until he has added more detailed knowledge to his mental equipment.

_c._ _Common Sense_

However much knowledge and ability to analyze a critic may have, he is a will-o'-the-wisp unless he have common sense and balance. Since a critic is in many ways a guide, he must guard as sacred his ability to see the straight road and to refuse the appeal of by-paths, however attractive. As critic, you must not be overawed by a name, be it of artist or manufacturer, nor allow much crying of wares in the street to swerve you from your fixed determination to judge and estimate only on the worth of the subject _as you find it_. This is far from meaning that the critic should give no weight to the opinions of others; you should always do that; but, having examined the subject, and knowing your opinions, you should then speak the truth as you see it. Your one final desire should be to go to the heart of the matter accurately, and then to state this clearly. And just as you do not blindly accept a great name, so do not be wheedled by gloss and appearance, but keep a steady aim for the truth.

_d._ _Open-mindedness_

Finally, this balance, this passion for the truth, will lead the critic to strive always for open-mindedness. "I would rather be a man of disinterested taste and liberal feeling," wrote Hazlitt, "to see and acknowledge truth and beauty wherever I found it, than a man of greater and more original genius, to hate, envy, and deny all excellence but my own...." And he was right when he said it: the willingness to accept a new idea or object if it is worthy, whether it go against the critic's personal desires or not, is one of the great qualities that he will find indispensable. "I never heard of such a thing!" is not a sufficient remark to condemn the thing. In fact, almost a sufficient answer to such an exclamation would be, "Well, what of it?" or, "'T is time you did."

Methods of Criticism

Armed with open-mindedness, then, with balance and common sense, with knowledge of the field, and with ability to analyze, you are ready to begin. What method shall you pursue? Though no absolutely sharp line can be drawn between kinds of criticism, we may treat of three that are fairly distinct: the historical method, the method by standards, and the appreciative. In most criticism we are likely to find more than one method employed, often all three. You need not confine yourself to one any more than a carpenter need refuse to use any but one tool, but for purposes of comprehension and presentation we shall keep the three here fairly distinct. We shall examine the three now, briefly, in the order named.

_a._ _The Historical Method_

Suppose that you are asked to criticize one of Cooper's novels, say _The Last of the Mohicans_. You find in it red men idealized out of the actual, red men such as presumably never existed. You may, then, in disgust throw the book down and damn it with the remark, "The man does not tell the truth!" But you will not thereby have disposed of Cooper. Much better it would be to ask, How came this man to write thus? When did he write? For whom? How did men at that time regard the Indian? In answering these questions you will relate Cooper's novel to the time in which it was written, you will see that before that time the Indian was regarded with unmixed fear, as too often since with contempt, and that at only that time could he have been idealized as Cooper treats him. You would relate the novel to the whole movement of Sentimentalism, which thought that it believed the savage more noble than civilized man, and you would then, and only then, get a proper perspective. Your original judgment, that Cooper's Indians are not accurate portraits of their kind, would not be modified; for the whole work, however, you would have a new attitude.

In the same way, asked for an opinion of the old-style bicycle with enormous front wheel and tiny trailer, you would not summarily reply, "I prefer a chainless model of my own day," but would discover the place that the old style occupied in the total development of the bicycle, would look at it as related to the preceding absence of any bicycle, and would see that, though it may to-day be useless, in its time it was remarkable. Likewise you will discover that the old three-legged milking stool has been in immemorial use in rude byres and stables, since three points--the ends of the legs--always make a firm plane, which four points do not necessarily do. And one hundred years hence, when a critic comes to judge the nature faking of the early twentieth century, he will relate this sentimental movement to the times in which it appeared, and, though he may well finally be disgusted, he will understand what the thing was and meant, how it came about, what causes produced it.

Illustration of the value of this method is found in the following historical account of the American business man. To a European this man sometimes is inexplicable--until he reads some illuminating setting forth of the facts as here.

As long as the economic opportunities of American life
consisted chiefly in the appropriation and improvement of
uncultivated land, the average energetic man had no difficulty
in obtaining his fair share of the increasing American economic
product; but the time came when such opportunities, although still
important, were dwarfed by other opportunities, incident to the
development of a more mature economic system. These opportunities
which were, of course, connected with the manufacturing,
industrial, and technical development of the country, demanded
under American conditions a very special type of man--the man
who would bring to his task not merely energy, but unscrupulous
devotion, originality, daring, and in the course of time a large
fund of instructive experience. The early American industrial
conditions differed from those of Europe in that they were fluid,
and as a result of this instability, extremely precarious. Rapid
changes in markets, business methods, and industrial machinery
made it difficult to build up a safe business. A manufacturer or
a merchant could not secure his business salvation, as in Europe,
merely by the adoption of sound conservative methods. The American
business man had greater opportunities and a freer hand than his
European prototype; but he was too beset by more severe, more
unscrupulous, and more dangerous competition. The industrious and
thrifty farmer could be fairly sure of a modest competence, due
partly to his own efforts, and partly to the increased value of his
land in a more populous community; but the business man had no such
security. In his case it was war to the knife. He was presented
with choice between aggressive daring business operations, and
financial insignificance or ruin.

No doubt this situation was due as much to the temper of the
American business man as to his economic environment. The business
man in seeking to realize his ambitions and purposes was checked
neither by government control nor social custom. He had nothing
to do and nothing to consider except his own business advancement
and success. He was eager, strenuous, and impatient. He liked the
excitement and risk of large operations. The capital at his command
was generally too small for the safe and conservative operation of
his business; and he was consequently obliged to be adventurous,
or else to be left behind in the race. He might well be earning
enormous profits one year and be skirting bankruptcy the next.
Under such a stress conservatism and caution were suicidal. It
was the instinct of self-preservation, as well as the spirit of
business adventure, which kept him constantly seeking for larger
markets, improved methods, or for some peculiar means of getting
ahead of his competitors. He had no fortress behind which he could
hide and enjoy his conquests. Surrounded as he was by aggressive
enemies and undefended frontiers, his best means of security lay
in a policy of constant innovation and expansion. Moreover, even
after he had obtained the bulwark of sufficient capital and more
settled industrial surroundings, he was under no temptation to quit
and enjoy the spoils of his conquests. The social, intellectual,
or even the more vulgar pleasures, afforded by leisure and wealth,
could bring him no thrill which was anything like as intense as
that derived from the exercise of his business ability and power.
He could not conquer except by virtue of a strong, tenacious,
adventurous, and unscrupulous will; and after he had conquered,
this will had him in complete possession. He had nothing to do but
to play the game to the end--even though his additional profits
were of no living use to him.[68]

[68] Herbert Croly: _The Promise of American Life_. By courtesy of the
publishers, The Macmillan Company, New York City.

In criticizing literature and art this method is often difficult, for we must take into account race, geography, and other conditions. We must see that only in New England, of all the sections of the United States, could Hawthorne have written, that Tolstoi could not have written in Illinois as he did in Russia, that Norse Sagas could not have appeared among tropical peoples, that among the French alone, perhaps, could Racine have come to literary power as he did. And in examining the work of two writers who treat the same subject in general, as Miss Jewett and Mrs. Freeman treat New England life, we shall find the influence of ancestry and environment and training largely determining, on the one hand the quaint fine sunshine, on the other hand the stern hard Puritanism. We shall also have to learn what incidents in an author's life have helped to determine his point of view, how early poverty, or sorrow, or a great experience of protracted agony or joy have made him sympathetic, or how aristocratic breeding and the early introduction into exclusive circles have made him naturally unresponsive to some of the squalor, the sadness of lowly life. We shall perceive that the early removal of Scott to the country began his intense love for Scottish scenery and history, that the bitter laughter of Byron's mother turned part of the poet's nature to gall. In other words, when we are dealing with the exquisitely fine products of impassioned thought we have a difficult task because so many influences mold these thoughts, so many lines of procedure are determined by conditions outside the particular author or artist, all of which must be considered if we wish our work to be really of value. The following illustration shows in brief space the attempt to link a movement in literature to the times in which it appeared, to show that it is naturally a product of the general feeling of the times.

Yet, after all, it is not the theories and formulæ of its
followers that differentiate the "new poetry"; the insistence upon
certain externalities, the abandonment of familiar traditions,
even the new spirit of the language employed, none of these are
more than symptoms of the deep inner mood which lies at the roots
of the whole tendency. This tendency is in line with the basic
trend of our times, and represents the attempt in verse, as in many
other branches of expression, to cast off a certain passionate
illusionment and approach the universe as it actually is--the
universe of science, perhaps, rather than that of the thrilled
human heart. This is the kernel of the entire new movement, as has
already been clearly pointed out by several writers on the subject.

Everywhere in the new verse we are conscious of a certain
objective quality, not the objective quality of _The Divine Comedy_
or _Faust_, which is achieved by the symbolic representation in
external forms of inner spiritual verities, but an often stark
objectivity accomplished by the elimination of the feeling human
medium, the often complete absence of any personal reaction. We
are shown countless objects and movements, and these objects and
movements are glimpsed panoramically from the point of view of
outline, color, and interrelation, as through the senses merely;
the transfiguring lens of the soul is seldom interposed or felt
to be present. To the "new poet" the city street presents itself
in terms of a series of sense-impressions vividly realized, a
succession of apparently aimless and kaleidoscopic pageantries
stripped of their human significance and symbolic import. They have
ceased to be signs of a less outward reality, they have become
that reality itself--reality apprehended from a singly sensuous
standpoint untainted by any of the human emotions of triumph
or sorrow, pity or adoration. Love is thus frequently bared of
its glamour and death of its peculiar majesty, which may now be
regarded as deceitful and fatuous projections of the credulous
soul, and not to be tolerated by the sophisticated mood of the
new and scientific poet, for it is exactly with these beautiful
"sentimentalities" that the analytic mind of science is not
concerned.[69]

[69] From _Scribner's Magazine_, September, 1917. By courtesy of the
publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York City. Copyright,
1917.

This method seeks, then, to place a work, whether of art or science or industry, in its place in the whole course of development of such ideas. It examines causes such as commercial demands, general prosperity, war, and only after this examination gives the work its estimate of value.

Now this method may seem uninteresting, dry, dull. Not always does it escape this blame. For it is inevitably impersonal, it looks at the thing perhaps coldly--at least without passion. But in so doing, and in considering the precedents and surroundings of the object of criticism, it largely escapes the superficiality of personal whim, and it avoids silly reaction to unaccustomed things. Much of our empty criticism of customs in dress and manners of architecture such as that of Southern California, of other religions such as those of the Chinese and the Hindoos, would be either done away or somewhat modified if we used this method. One reason, perhaps, why the Goths destroyed the beautiful art works of Rome was the fact that they had not the critical spirit, did not relate these works to their development and race. Of course there were other reasons. By linking the object of criticism to the race as a whole, by seeing how and why it became created, the critic is largely broadened and the reader is kept from superficiality. Moreover, when this method is not too abstractly pursued, it gives to things, after all, a human meaning, for it links them to humanity. That it may be misleading in literature and art is obvious, for a creation may be accounted for in an attractive way as the result of certain forces that had their beginnings in sense and wisdom, and so be made to seem admirable, whereas it really has little worth on a basis of lasting usefulness and significance. But, properly and thoroughly used, this method, even though it gives us an account of a work rather than finally settling its value, scatters away the vague mists of superficial generalization and drives deeply into causes and results.

_b._ _The Method by Standards_

As the historical method is generally impersonal, objective, so is the method of criticizing by standards. In using this method we try to determine whether the object of criticism fulfills the demands of its type, whether its quality is high or low. For example, we thus judge a tennis court as to its firm footing, its softness, its retention of court lines, its position as regards the sun. In all these qualities an ideal tennis court would be satisfactory; the question is, is this one. So a headache powder should relieve pain without injuring with evil drugs; if this one does, we shall not condemn it. If the rocks in a landscape painting look like those which the heroic tenor in grand opera hurls aside as so much "puffed wheat," we must condemn the artist, for rocks should look solid. An evangelist should have certain qualities of piety and reverence, and should accomplish certain lasting results; we shall judge Billy Sunday, for example, according to whether he does or does not fulfill these demands. Likewise a lyric poem should have certain qualities of freshness, grace, passion, by which we rate any given lyric.

In fact, we ask, in any given case, does this work do what such a thing is supposed to do, does it have the qualities that such a thing is supposed to have? And on our answer will depend our judgment. This is the kind of criticism that business men use constantly; they rate a cash system or a form of order blank or an arrangement of counters in a store on the basis of the presence or absence of the qualities that distinguish an ideal system, blank, arrangement. In the following example we have a combination of the historical and the standards methods, finally accounting for and judging the value of the common kinds of cargo steamers.

A trip round any busy seaport will show the reader, if he has
not noticed it already, that there are many different types of the
ordinary cargo steamer. The feature which displays the difference
most noticeably is the arrangement of the structures on the deck,
and it may be reasonably asked why there are these varieties, and
how it is that a common type has not come to be agreed upon.

The answer to that question is that the differences are not
merely arbitrary, but are due to a variety of influences, and it
will be interesting to look briefly at these, as the reader will
then be able, the next time he sees a cargo steamer, to understand
something of the ideas underlying its design.

The early steamers had "flush" decks, which means that the
deck ran from end to end without any structures of considerable
size upon it; a light bridge was provided, supported upon slender
uprights, for "lookouts" purposes, and that was all. On the face of
it this seems a very simple and admirable arrangement. It had many
disadvantages, however, as we shall see.

In the first place, it permitted a wave to come on board at
the bow and sweep right along the deck, often doing great damage.
This was mitigated somewhat by building the ships with "shear,"
that is, with a slope upwards fore and aft, so as to make the ends
taller than the middle. That, however, was not sufficient, so ships
were built with an upper deck, so that the bow should be high
enough to cut through the waves instead of allowing the water to
come on board. Owing, however, to the method by which the tonnage
of a ship is reckoned, as will be explained later, that had the
effect of adding largely to the tonnage _on which dues have to be
paid_ without materially increasing the carrying capacity of the
ship.

The difficulty was therefore got over in this way. The bow
was raised and covered in, forming what is known as a "top-gallant
forecastle," which not only had the effect of keeping the water
off the deck, but provided better accommodation for the crew as
well. That did not provide, however, against a wave overtaking the
ship from the rear and coming on board just where the steering
wheel was, so a hood or covering over the wheel became usual,
called the "poop." Nor did either of these sufficiently protect
that very important point, the engine-room. For it needs but a
moment's thought to see that there must be openings in the deck
over the engines and boilers, and if a volume of water should
get down these, it might extinguish the fires and leave the
ship helpless, absolutely at the mercy of the waves. The light
navigating bridge was therefore developed into a substantial
structure the whole width of the ship, surrounding and protecting
the engine-and-boiler-room openings, and incidentally providing
accommodation for the officers.

Ships of this type answered very well indeed, for if a wave
of exceptional size should manage to get over the forecastle, the
water fell into the "well" or space between the forecastle and
bridge-house, and then simply ran overboard, so that the after part
of the ship was kept dry.

Then troubles arose with the loading. The engines, of course,
need to be in the center, for they represent considerable weight,
which, if not balanced, will cause one end of the ship to float
too high in the water. Thus the hold of the ship is divided by the
engine-room into two approximately equal parts, but out of the
after-hold must be taken the space occupied by the tunnel through
which the propeller shaft runs, from the engine to the screw. Thus
the capacity of the after-hold becomes less than the forward one,
and if both are filled with a homogeneous cargo such as grain (and,
as we shall see presently, such a cargo must always entirely fill
the hold), the forward part of the ship would float high in the
water. The trouble could not be rectified by placing the engines
further forward, for then the ship would not float properly when
light.

Shipowners overcame this trouble, however, by raising the
whole of the "quarter-deck"--the part of the deck, that is, which
lies behind the after end of the "bridge-house"--and by that means
they made the after-hold deeper than the other. Thus the commonest
type of all, the "raised quarter-deck, well-decker," came into
existence, a type of which many examples are to be seen on the
sea.[70]

[70] Thomas W. Corbin: _Engineering of To-day_. By courtesy of the
publishers, Seeley, Service & Co., London.

In the following paragraphs Professor Thomas R. Lounsbury of Yale University criticizes the use of final e in English words. You will note that he uses a combination of the historical method and the method by standards.

There seems to be something peculiarly attractive to our
race in the letter _e_. Especially is this so when it serves no
useful purpose. Adding it at random to syllables, and especially to
final syllables, is supposed to give a peculiar old-time flavor to
the spelling. For this belief there is, to some extent, historic
justification. The letter still remains appended to scores of
words in which it has lost the pronunciation once belonging to
it. Again, it has been added to scores of others apparently to
amplify their proportions. We have in our speech a large number
of monosyllables. As a sort of consolation to their shrunken
condition an _e_ has been appended to them, apparently to make
them present a more portly appearance. The fancy we all have for
this vowel not only recalls the wit but suggests the wisdom of
Charles Lamb's exquisite pun upon Pope's line that our race is
largely made up of "the mob of gentlemen who write with ease." The
belief, in truth, seems to prevail that the final _e_ is somehow
indicative of aristocracy. In proper names, particularly, it is
felt to impart a certain distinction to the appellation, lifting it
far above the grade of low associations. It has the crowning merit
of uselessness; and in the eyes of many uselessness seems to be
regarded as the distinguishing mark of any noble class, either of
things or persons. Still, I have so much respect for the rights of
property that it seems to me every man ought to have the privilege
of spelling and pronouncing his own name in any way he pleases.

The prevalence of this letter at the end of words was largely
due to the fact that the vowels, _a_, _o_, and _u_ of the original
endings were all weakened to it in the break-up of the language
which followed the Norman conquest. Hence, it became the common
ending of the noun. The further disappearance of the consonant
_n_ from the original termination of the infinitive extended this
usage to the verb. The Anglo-Saxon _tellan_ and _helpan_, for
instance, after being weakened to _tellen_ and _helpen_, became
_telle_ and _helpe_. Words not of native origin fell under the
influence of this general tendency and adopted an _e_ to which they
were in no wise entitled. Even Anglo-Saxon nouns which ended in a
consonant--such, for instance, as _hors_ and _mús_ and _stán_--are
now represented by _horse_ and _mouse_ and _stone_. The truth is,
that when the memory of the earlier form of the word had passed
away an _e_ was liable to be appended, on any pretext, to the end
of it. The feeling still continues to affect us all. Our eyes have
become so accustomed to seeing a final e which no one thinks of
pronouncing, that the word is felt by some to have a certain sort
of incompleteness if it be not found there. In no other way can
I account for Lord Macaulay's spelling the comparatively modern
verb _edit_ as _edite_. This seems to be a distinction peculiar to
himself.

* * * * *

In the chaos which came over the spelling in consequence of
the uncertainty attached to the sound of the vowels, the final _e_
was seized upon as a sort of help to indicate the pronunciation.
Its office in this respect was announced as early as the end of
the sixteenth century; at least, then it was announced that an
unsounded _e_ at the end of a word indicated that the preceding
vowel was long. This, it need hardly be said, is a crude and
unscientific method of denoting pronunciation. It is a process
purely empirical. It is far removed from the ideal that no letter
should exist in a word which is not sounded. Yet, to some extent,
this artificial makeshift has been, and still is, a working
principle. Were it carried out consistently it might be regarded
as, on the whole, serving a useful purpose. But here, as well as
elsewhere, the trail of the orthographic serpent is discoverable.
Here as elsewhere it renders impossible the full enjoyment of
even this slight section of an orthographic paradise. Here, as
elsewhere, manifests itself the besetting sin of our spelling,
that there is no consistency in the application of any principle.
Some of our most common verbs violate the rule (if rule it can
be called), such as _have_, _give_, _love_, _are_, _done_. In
these the preceding vowel is not long but short. There are further
large classes of words ending in _ile_, _ine_, _ite_, _ive_,
where this final _e_ would serve to mislead the inquirer as to
the pronunciation had he no other source of information than the
spelling.

Still, in the case of some of these words, the operation of
this principle has had, and is doubtless continuing to have, a
certain influence. Take, for instance, the word _hostile_. In the
early nineteenth century, if we can trust the most authoritative
dictionaries, the word was regularly pronounced in England as if
spelled hós-t[)i]l. So it is to-day in America. But the influence
of the final _e_ has tended to prolong, in the former country, the
sound of the preceding _i_. Consequently, a usual, and probably the
usual, pronunciation there is hos-t[=i]le. We can see a similar
tendency manifested in the case of several other adjectives. A
disposition to give many of them the long diphthongal sound of the
_i_ is frequently displayed in the pronunciation of such words as
_agile_, _docile_, _ductile_, _futile_, _infantile_. Save in the
case of the last one of this list, the dictionaries once gave the
_ile_ nothing but the sound of _il_; now they usually authorize
both ways.

Were the principle here indicated fully carried out,
pronunciations now condemned as vulgarisms would displace those
now considered correct. In accordance with it, for instance,
_engine_, as it is spelled, should strictly have the _i_ long.
One of the devices employed by Dickens in _Martin Chuzzlewit_ to
ridicule what he pretended was the American speech was to have
the characters pronounce _genuine_ as _gen-u-[=i]ne_, prejudice
as _prej-u-d[=i]ce_, _active_ and _native_ as _ac-t[=y]ve_ and
_na-t[=i]ve_. Doubtless he heard such pronunciations from some
men. Yet, in these instances, the speaker was carried along by the
same tendency which in cultivated English has succeeded in turning
the pronunciation _hos-t[)i]l_ into _hos-t[=i]le_. Were there
any binding force in the application of the rule which imparts
to the termination _e_ the power of lengthening the preceding
vowel, no one would have any business to give to it in the final
syllable of the words just specified any other sound than that of
"long i." The pronunciations ridiculed by Dickens would be the
only pronunciations allowable. Accordingly, the way to make the
rule universally effective is to drop this final _e_ when it does
not produce such an effect. If _genuine_ is to be pronounced
_gen-u-[)i]n_, so it ought to be spelled.[71]

[71] Thomas R. Lounsbury: _English Spelling and Spelling Reform_. By
courtesy of the publishers, Harper & Brothers, New York City.
Copyright.

Now it is evident that unless the critic's standards are fair and sensible, unless they are known to be sound and essential, his criticism is likely to be valueless. If my ideas of the qualities of ideal tennis courts are erratic or queer, my judgment of the individual court will be untrustworthy. Your first duty as critic, then, is to look at your standards. In judging such things as ice cream freezers, motorcycles, filing systems, fertilizers, rapid-firing guns, and other useful devices, you will find no great difficulty in choosing your standards. When you come to literature and the arts, however, you find a difficult task. For who shall say exactly what a lyric poem shall do? Or who shall bound the field of landscape painting? No sooner does Reynolds begin painting, after he has formulated the laws of his art and stated them with decision, than he violates them all. No sooner did musicians settle just what a sonata must be than a greater musician appeared who transcended the narrower form. Moreover, in the field of literature and the arts we often find great difficulty in surmounting the cast of our individual minds; we like certain types and are unconsciously led to condemn all others. The great critic rises superior to his peculiar likes and prejudices, but most of us are hindered by them. One great benefit to be derived from writing this particular kind of criticism is in gaining humility--humility at the greatness of some of the works of the past, before which, when we really look at them, we are moved to stand uncovered, and humility at the lack of real analysis that we have made before we attempt the criticism, and finally humility at the tremendous effort we must make to write criticism at all worthy of the subjects. But the difficulty of writing such criticism well should make you exert yourself to the utmost to acquire skill before you attempt this form.

This method, like the historical, makes against superficiality, for it necessitates real knowledge of the class to which the object of criticism belongs, the purposes of the class, its bearings, and then a sure survey of the individual itself. And in forcing the critic to examine his standards to determine their fairness and soundness it makes against hasty judgment. Properly used, this method should result in something like finality of judgment.

_c._ _The Appreciative Method_

There come occasions when you are not primarily interested in the historical significance of the subject of criticism, and when you are indifferent to objective standards, when, in fact, you are almost wholly interested in the _individual_ before you, in what it is or in the effect it has on you. You rather _feel_ toward it than care to make a cold analysis of it; you are moved by it, are conscious of a personal reaction to it. In such cases you will make use of what is called appreciative criticism. This method consists in interpreting, often for one who does not know the work, the value of the work, the good things in it, either as they appear to one who studies or as they affect the critic. After reading a new book, for example, or attending a concert, or driving a wonderfully smooth running automobile, or watching the team work in a football game, you are primarily interested in the phenomena shown as they are in their picturesque individuality or in your own emotional reaction to them. In the following example George Gissing makes an appreciative criticism of English cooking, not by coldly tracing the historical influences that have made this cooking what it is, nor by subjecting it to certain fixed standards to which admirable cooking should attain, but rather by telling us what English cooking is and by giving us the flavor of his own emotional delight in it.

As so often when my praise has gone forth for things English,
I find myself tormented by an after-thought--the reflection that I
have praised a time gone by. Now, in this matter of English meat.
A newspaper tells me that English beef is non-existent; that the
best meat bearing that name has merely been fed up in England for a
short time before killing. Well, well; we can only be thankful that
the quality is still so good. Real English mutton still exists, I
suppose. It would surprise me if any other country could produce
the shoulder I had yesterday.

Who knows? Perhaps even our own cookery has seen its best
days. It is a lamentable fact that the multitude of English people
nowadays never taste roasted meat; what they call by that name
is baked in the oven--a totally different thing, though it may,
I admit, be inferior only to the right roast. Oh, the sirloin of
old times, the sirloin which I can remember, thirty or forty years
ago! That was English, and no mistake, and all the history of
civilization could show nothing on the tables of mankind to equal
it. To clap that joint into a steamy oven would have been a crime
unpardonable by gods and men. Have I not with my own eyes seen it
turning, turning on the spit? The scent it diffused was in itself a
cure for dyspepsia.

It is a very long time since I tasted a slice of boiled beef;
I have a suspicion that the thing is becoming rare. In a household
such as mine, the "round" is impracticable; of necessity it must
be large, altogether too large for our requirements. But what
exquisite memories does my mind preserve! The very coloring of a
round, how rich it is, yet how delicate, and how subtly varied! The
odor is totally different from that of roast beef, and yet it is
beef incontestable. Hot, of course, with carrots, it is a dish for
a king; but cold it is nobler. Oh, the thin broad slice, with just
its fringe of consistent fat!

We are sparing of condiments, but such as we use are the best
that man has invented. And we know _how_ to use them. I have heard
an impatient innovator scoff at the English law on the subject of
mustard, and demand why, in the nature of things, mustard should
not be eaten with mutton. The answer is very simple; this law has
been made by the English palate--which is impeccable. I maintain
it is impeccable. Your educated Englishman is an infallible
guide to all that relates to the table. "The man of superior
intellect," said Tennyson--justifying his love of boiled beef and
new potatoes--"knows what is good to eat"; and I would extend it to
all civilized natives of our country. We are content with nothing
but the finest savours, the truest combinations; our wealth, and
happy natural circumstances, have allowed us an education of the
palate of which our natural aptitude was worthy. Think, by the bye,
of those new potatoes, just mentioned. Our cook, when dressing
them, puts into the saucepan a sprig of mint. This is genius. No
otherwise could the flavour of the vegetable be so perfectly, yet
so delicately, emphasized. The mint is there, and we know it; yet
our palate knows only the young potato.[72]

[72] Gissing: _The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft_, "Winter." By
permission of the publishers, E. P. Dutton & Co., New York.

Appreciative criticism may on the one hand approach criticism by standards, since, for example, to praise a pianist for melting his tones one into another implies that such melting is a standard. It may, again, consist largely in telling what the thing _is_, as to say that the Progressive Party was one that looked forward rather than backward, planned reforms for the people, insisted on clean politics, etc. It may, in the third place, consist in giving a transcript of the writer's feelings as he is in the presence of the subject of criticism, as one might picture the reaction of inspiration to a view from a mountain peak, or express his elation in listening to a famous singer, or show his wild enthusiasm as he watches his team slowly fight its way over the goal line. In all three of these cases the criticism answers the question, "What does this work seem to be, what do I find in it, and wherein do I think it is good?" That is appreciative criticism.

Now since you can adequately estimate in this way only when you are aware of the qualities of the subject, the first requirement for success in this kind of criticism is keen and intelligent sympathy with the work, an open-minded, sensible hospitality to ideas and things. If I am quite unmoved by music, I cannot make reliable appreciative criticism of it. If I have no reaction to the beauty of a big pumping station, when asked for criticism of it, I shall perforce be silent. If my mind is closed to new ideas, I can never "appreciate" a new theory in science, in sociology, in art or in religion.

In the next place, I must refrain from morbid personal effusion. Certain of our sentimental magazines have published, at odd times, extremely personal rhapsodies about symphonies and poems. The listener has been "wafted away," has heard the birdies sing, the brooks come purling over their stones, has seen the moon come swimming through the clouds--but the reader of such criticism need not be too harshly censured if he mildly wonders whether the critic ought not to consult a physician.

Sometimes this fault occurs through the endeavor to make the criticism attractive, one of the strong demands of the appreciative kind. Since the personal note exists throughout, and since you wish to make your reader attracted to the object that you criticize, your writing should be as pleasing as is legitimately possible. Allow yourself full rein to express the beauties of your subject with all the large personal warmth of which you are capable, with as neatly turned expression as you can make, always remembering to keep your balance, to avoid morbidness in any form.

It is in this way that you will give to your criticism one of its most valued qualities, appealing humanness. Less final, perhaps, in some ways, than the historical method or the method by standards, the appreciative is likely to be of more immediate value in re-creating the work for your reader, in giving him a real interpretation of it. And this method, like the other two, fights against superficiality. Such a silly saying--silly in criticism--as "I like it but I don't know why" can have no place here. One may well remember the answer attributed to the artist Whistler, when the gushing woman remarked, "I don't know anything about art but I know what I like!" "So, Madam, does a cow!" If you guard against the morbid or sentimental effusive style, and really tell, honestly and attractively, what you find good in the subject, your criticism is likely to be of value. Note that in the selection which follows, though the author feels strongly toward his subject, he does not fall, at any time, into gushing remarks that make a reader feel sheepish, but rather keeps a really wholesome tone throughout.

To-day I have read _The Tempest_. It is perhaps the play that
I love best, and, because I seem to myself to know it so well, I
commonly pass it over in opening the book. Yet, as always in regard
to Shakespeare, having read it once more, I find that my knowledge
was less complete than I supposed. So it would be, live as long as
one might; so it would ever be, whilst one had the strength to turn
the pages and a mind left to read them.

I like to believe that this was the poet's last work, that he
wrote it in his home in Stratford, walking day by day in the fields
which had taught his boyhood to love rural England. It is ripe
fruit of the supreme imagination, perfect craft of the master hand.
For a man whose life business it has been to study the English
tongue, what joy can there be to equal that of marking the happy
ease wherewith Shakespeare surpasses, in mere command of words,
every achievement of these even, who, apart from him, are great?
I could fancy that, in _The Tempest_, he wrought with a peculiar
consciousness of this power, smiling as the word of inimitable
felicity, the phrase of incomparable cadence, was whispered to him
by the Ariel that was his genius. He seems to sport with language,
to amuse himself with new discovery of its resources. From king to
beggar, men of every rank and of every order of mind have spoken
with his lips; he has uttered the lore of fairyland; now it pleases
him to create a being neither man nor fairy, a something between
brute and human nature, and to endow its purposes with words. Those
words, how they smack of the warm and spawning earth, of the life
of creatures that cannot rise above the soil! We do not think of it
enough; we stint our wonder because we fall short in appreciation.
A miracle is worked before us, and we scarce give heed; it has
become familiar to our minds as any other of nature's marvels,
which we rarely pause to reflect upon.