Read FALLACIOUS MEDITATIONS ON CRITICISM I of Plum Pudding, free online book, by Christopher Morley, on

There are never, at any time and place, more than a few literary critics of genuine incision, taste, and instinct; and these qualities, rare enough in themselves, are further debilitated, in many cases, by excessive geniality or indigestion.  The ideal literary critic should be guarded as carefully as a delicate thermal instrument at the Weather Bureau; his meals, friendships, underwear, and bank account should all be supervised by experts and advisedly maintained at a temperate mean.  In the Almost Perfect State (so many phases of which have been deliciously delineated by Mr. Marquis) a critic seen to become over-exhilarated at the dining table or to address any author by his first name would promptly be haled from the room by a commissionaire lest his intellectual acuity become blunted by emotion.

The unfortunate habit of critics being also human beings has done a great deal to impair their value to the public.  For other human beings we all nourish a secret disrespect.  And therefore it is well that the world should be reminded now and then of the dignity and purity of the critic’s function.  The critic’s duty is not merely to tabulate literary material according to some convenient scale of proved niceties; but to discern the ratio existing in any given work between possibility and performance; between the standard the author might justly have been expected to achieve and the standard he actually attained.  There are hierarchies and lower archies.  A pint pot, full (it is no new observation), is just as full as a bathtub full.  And the first duty of the critic is to determine and make plain to the reader the frame of mind in which the author approached his task.

Just as a ray of sunshine across a room reveals, in air that seemed clear, innumerable motes of golden dancing dust and filament, so the bright beam of a great critic shows us the unsuspected floating atoms of temperament in the mind of a great writer.  The popular understanding of the word criticize is to find fault, to pettifog.  As usual, the popular mind is only partly right.  The true critic is the tender curator and warden of all that is worthy in letters.  His function is sacramental, like the sweeping of a hearth.  He keeps the hearth clean and nourishes the fire.  It is a holy fire, for its fuel is men’s hearts.

It seems to us probable that under present conditions the cause of literature is more likely to suffer from injudicious and excessive praise rather than from churlish and savage criticism.  It seems to us (and we say this with certain misgivings as to enthusiasms of our own) that there are many reviewers whose honest zeal for the discovering of masterpieces is so keen that they are likely to burst into superlatives half a dozen times a year and hail as a flaming genius some perfectly worthy creature, who might, if he were given a little stiff discipline, develop into a writer of best-readers rather than best-sellers.  Too resounding praise is often more damning than faint praise.  The writer who has any honest intentions is more likely to be helped by a little judicious acid now and then than by cartloads of honey.  Let us be candid and personal.  When someone in The New Republic spoke of some essays of our own as “blowzy” we were moved for a few moments to an honest self-scrutiny and repentance.  Were we really blowzy, we said to ourself?  We did not know exactly what this meant, and there was no dictionary handy.  But the word gave us a picture of a fat, ruddy beggar-wench trudging through wind and rain, probably on the way to a tavern; and we determined, with modest sincerity, to be less like that in future.

The good old profession of criticism tends, in the hands of the younger generation, toward too fulsome ejaculations of hurrahs and hyperboles.  It is a fine thing, of course, that new talent should so swiftly win its recognition; yet we think we are not wholly wrong in believing that many a delicate and promising writer has been hurried into third-rate work, into women’s magazine serials and cheap sordid sensationalism, by a hasty overcapitalization of the reviewer’s shouts.  For our own part, we do not feel any too sure of our ability to recognize really great work when we first see it.  We have often wondered, if we had been journalizing in 1855 when “Leaves of Grass” appeared, would we have been able to see what it meant, or wouldn’t we have been more likely to fill our column with japeries at the expense of Walt’s obvious absurdities, missing all the finer grain?  It took a man like Emerson to see what Walt was up to.

There were many who didn’t.  Henry James, for instance, wrote a review of “Drum Taps” in the Nation, November 16, 1865.  In the lusty heyday and assurance of twenty-two years, he laid the birch on smartly.  It is just a little saddening to find that even so clear-sighted an observer as Henry James could not see through the chaotic form of Whitman to the great vision and throbbing music that seem so plain to us to-day.  Whitman himself, writing about “Drum Taps” before its publication, said, “Its passion has the indispensable merit that though to the ordinary reader let loose with wildest abandon, the true artist can see that it is yet under control.”  With this, evidently, the young Henry James did not agree.  He wrote: 

It has been a melancholy task to read this book; and it is a still more melancholy one to write about it.  Perhaps since the day of Mr. Tupper’s “Philosophy” there has been no more difficult reading of the poetic sort.  It exhibits the effort of an essentially prosaic mind to lift itself, by a prolonged muscular strain, into poetry.  Like hundreds of other good patriots, Mr. Walt Whitman has imagined that a certain amount of violent sympathy with the great deeds and sufferings of our soldiers, and of admiration for our national energy, together with a ready command of picturesque language, are sufficient inspiration for a poet....  But he is not a poet who merely reiterates these plain facts ore rotundo.  He only sings them worthily who views them from a height....  Mr. Whitman is very fond of blowing his own trumpet, and he has made very explicit claims for his book....  The frequent capitals are the only marks of verse in Mr. Whitman’s writing.  There is, fortunately, but one attempt at rhyme....  Each line starts off by itself, in resolute independence of its companions, without a visible goal ... it begins like verse and turns out to be arrant prose.  It is more like Mr. Tupper’s proverbs than anything we have met....  No triumph, however small, is won but through the exercise of art, and this volume is an offence against art....  We look in vain through the book for a single idea.  We find nothing but flashy imitations of ideas.  We find a medley of extravagances and commonplaces.

We do not know whether H.J. ever recanted this very youthful disposal of old Walt.  The only importance of it at this moment seems to us this:  that appreciation of all kinds of art is so tenderly interwoven with inherited respect for the traditional forms of expression by which they are conveyed that a new and surprising vehicle quite unfits most observers for any reasonable assessment of the passenger.

As for Walt himself, he was quite unabashed by this or any other onslaught.  He was not gleg at argument, and probably rolled up the issue of the Nation in his pocket and went down to Coney Island to lie on the sand and muse (but no, we forget, it was November!).  In the same issue of the Nation he doubtless read, in the “Literary Notes,” that “Poems Relating to the American Revolution,” by Philip Freneau, was “in press under the scholarly editing of Evart A. Duyckinck to form a complete presentment of the genius of an author whose influence in the affairs of his time would alone impart a lasting value to his works.”  At this Walt smiled gently to himself, wondered how soon “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed” would get into the anthologies, and “sped to the certainties suitable to him.”