The Autobiography of William Jerdan
F. B. to William Jerdan, [1830 ca.?]
“I am rash enough to address you on a subject on which
I dare say enough has been written, and about which very likely I may have
read; though being blessed with an unusually bad memory, I cannot quote from
any work, impressions are no firmer on my mind than on sand, and changed, or
altogether erased, as soon as made. This I mention, as it is not my wish to
pass as my own what I may have borrowed from others, though unconscious when
and where. You will consider it great boldness in me to undertake such a task,
when I tell you that I am no ![]()
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scholar, that I never have
made a Latin speech, and am better acquainted with the feelings of men, than
with my own language. To come to the matter; I am going to speak about a
formidable class of men—the natural enemies of aspirants to fame—I mean the
critics. A critic is a man who lives on others’ faults. His soul-delight
and chief occupation, is to show all men in their worst light, and by exposing
all the errors, and suppressing the beauties of their works, endeavours to
prove them void of merit. ’Tis an occupation in which, in our days, there
is great scope for his talent, as none being able to read every new work that
is published, they trust to the opinions of the unsparing foe to worth. What a
moment of delight when he finds some unlucky mistake in an author of repute!
how he exults when he happens to meet with some wrong expression! and with what
satisfaction, sipping his luscious port-wine negus, he cuts up the poor devil,
and writes him down to ruin! how he triumphs when successful in destroying a
fellow-creature’s reputation! ’tis a luxury of feeling only known
to him. Critics are a morose, unhappy species of animal, delighting in the
infliction of pain:—they are the steel-traps and spring-guns of the paths of
literature. Woe to him who should make a false step; they’ll mangle him
for life, or kill him outright. I’ve often thought what courage a man
must have to turn author; he exposes himself to merciless and irresistible
enemies, who will either crush him at once, or if possessed of superior genius,
will use their every endeavour that it may not turn to his advantage. A single
grammatical error is with them perdition to a work; all else there may be to
admire in it cannot atone for such a crime. If a man had perfection of mind,
they’d find fault with his body, and with perfection itself they find
cause to complain that there is nothing to blame. They wish to reduce all to
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a level, and will allow of no
merit but what is granted by them, which, faith, is little enough! I remember,
after reading ‘De
Bourrienne’s Memoir,’ that he had impressed me with a
contemptible notion of the greatest genius of his age, and endeavoured to pass
himself off as superior to the person he describes. Most men being fond of
dispraise, these scorpions—these destroyers of fame—these Arguseyed dissectors
have great sway; and the general opinion is, that their criticisms are
impartial and just, which general opinion is as false as most others. It must
be a strong body indeed that will live after having been submitted to their
operations. How many persons do I know in my limited acquaintance whose
happiness seems to consist in dissatisfaction—Do this, you should have done
that; do that, you should have done this. Generosity is called extravagance;
coolness, indifference; warmth, rage: in one word, whatever is, is wrong. They
breathe but to blame, and would be miserable in contentment. I shall conclude
by expressing my pity for those who are exposed to the fangs of these wild
beasts, and by hoping that it will never be my misfortune to be noticed by
them, though I risk being lashed with their well-pricked rod for these few
lines, not that there is any merit in their composition, but you know, sir,
that when a foe, however contemptible we may suppose him, attacks us in our own
quarters, we all take to arms immediately to castigate him for his rashness.
“Sir, your obedient Servant,
“F. B.”
