however, rarely happens), are the best.
But the power of execution, the manner of seeing nature, is one thing,
and may be so superlative (if you are only able to judge of it) as
to countervail every disadvantage of subject. Raphael's storks in the
Miraculous Draught of Fishes, exulting in the event, are finer than the
head of Christ would have been in almost any other hands. The cant
of criticism is on the other side of the question; because execution
depends on various degrees of power in the artist, and a knowledge of it
on various degrees of feeling and discrimination in you; but to
commence artist or connoisseur in the grand style at once, without any
distinction of qualifications whatever, it is only necessary for the
first to choose his subject and for the last to pin his faith on the
sublimity of the performance, for both to look down with ineffable
contempt on the painters and admirers of subjects of low life. I
remember a young Scotchman once trying to prove to me that Mrs. Dickons
was a superior singer to Miss Stephens, because the former excelled in
sacred music and the latter did not. At that rate, that is, if it is the
singing sacred music that gives the preference, Miss Stephens would only
have to sing sacred music to surpass herself and vie with her pretended
rival; for this theory implies that all sacred music is equally good,
and, therefore, better than any other. I grant that Madame Catalani's
singing of sacred music is superior to Miss Stephens's ballad-strains,
because her singing is better altogether, and an ocean of sound more
wonderful than a simple stream of dulcet harmonies. In singing the last
verse of 'God Save the King' not long ago her voice towered above the
whole confused noise of the orchestra like an eagle piercing the
clouds, and poured 'such sweet thunder' through the ear as excited equal
astonishment and rapture!

Some kinds of criticism are as much too insipid as others are too
pragmatical. It is not easy to combine point with solidity, spirit with
moderation and candour. Many persons see nothing but beauties in a work,
others nothing but defects. Those cloy you with sweets, and are 'the
very milk of human kindness,' flowing on in a stream of luscious
panegyrics; these take delight in poisoning the sources of your
satisfaction, and putting you out of conceit with nearly every author
that comes in their way. The first are frequently actuated by personal
friendship, the last by all th