Autobiography of Anthony Trollope eBook

Lothair, which is as yet Mr. Disraeli’s last work, and, I think, undoubtedly his worst, has been defended on a plea somewhat similar to that by which he has defended Vivian Grey.  As that was written when he was too young, so was the other when he was too old,—­too old for work of that nature, though not too old to be Prime Minister.  If his mind were so occupied with greater things as to allow him to write such a work, yet his judgment should have sufficed to induce him to destroy it when written.  Here that flavour of hair-oil, that flavour of false jewels, that remembrance of tailors, comes out stronger than in all the others.  Lothair is falser even than Vivian Grey, and Lady Corisande, the daughter of the Duchess, more inane and unwomanlike than Venetia or Henrietta Temple.  It is the very bathos of story-telling.  I have often lamented, and have as often excused to myself, that lack of public judgment which enables readers to put up with bad work because it comes from good or from lofty hands.  I never felt the feeling so strongly, or was so little able to excuse it, as when a portion of the reading public received Lothair with satisfaction.

CHAPTER XIV

ON CRITICISM

Literary criticism in the present day has become a profession,—­but it has ceased to be an art.  Its object is no longer that of proving that certain literary work is good and other literary work is bad, in accordance with rules which the critic is able to define.  English criticism at present rarely even pretends to go so far as this.  It attempts, in the first place, to tell the public whether a book be or be not worth public attention; and, in the second place, so to describe the purport of the work as to enable those who have not time or inclination for reading it to feel that by a short cut they can become acquainted with its contents.  Both these objects, if fairly well carried out, are salutary.  Though the critic may not be a profound judge himself; though not unfrequently he be a young man making his first literary attempts, with tastes and judgment still unfixed, yet he probably has a conscience in the matter, and would not have been selected for that work had he not shown some aptitude for it.  Though he may be not the best possible guide to the undiscerning, he will be better than no guide at all.  Real substantial criticism must, from its nature, be costly, and that which the public wants should at any rate be cheap.  Advice is given to many thousands, which, though it may not be the best advice possible, is better than no advice at all.  Then that description of the work criticised, that compressing of the much into very little,—­which is the work of many modern critics or reviewers,—­does enable many to know something of what is being said, who without it would know nothing.