nal
inquiry as to what "I" really do like in the _Agamemnon_ and do dislike
in Mr. Dash. And in answering it, it will hardly be possible to consider
too large a number of instances of all degrees of merit, from Aeschylus
himself to Mr. Dash himself, of all languages, of all times. Let
Englishmen be compared with Englishmen of other times to bring out this
set of differences, with foreigners of modern times to bring out that,
with Greeks and Romans to bring out the other. Let poets of old days be
compared with poets of new, classics with romantics, rhymed with
unrhymed. Let the straitest doctrinaire criticism of men of talent like
Boileau and simpletons like Rymer be compared with the fullest
appreciations of Coleridge and Hazlitt, of Sainte-Beuve and Mr. Arnold.
"Compare, always compare" is the first axiom of criticism.[1]

The second, I think, is "Always make sure, as far as you possibly can,
that what you like and dislike is the literary and not the
extra-literary character of the matter under examination." Make sure,
that is to say, that admiration for the author is not due to his having
taken care that the Whig dogs or the Tory dogs shall not have the best
of it, to his having written as a gentleman for gentlemen, or as an
uneasy anti-aristocrat for uneasy anti-aristocrats, as a believer
(fervent or acquiescent) in the supernatural, or as a person who lays
it down that miracles do not happen, as an Englishman or a Frenchman, a
classic or a romantic. Very difficult indeed is the chase and discovery
of these enemies: for extra-literary prejudices are as cunning as winter
hares or leaf-insects, in disguising themselves by simulating literary
forms.

Lastly, never be content without at least endeavouring to connect cause
and effect in some way, without giving something like a reason for the
faith that is in you. No doubt the critic will often be tempted, will
sometimes be actually forced to say, "'J'aime mieux Alfred de Musset,'
and there's an end of it." All the imperfect kinds, as they seem to me,
of criticism are recommended by the fact that they are, unlike some
other literary matter, not only easier writing but also easier reading.
The agreeable exercises of style where adjectives meet substantives to
whom they never thought they could possibly be introduced (as a certain
naughty wit has it), the pleasant chatter about personal reminiscences,
the flowers of rhetoric, the fruits of wit, may not be easy, but they
a