again set forward after a light refreshment, contrary to the desire and earnest entreaties of her maid, and to the no less vehement remonstrances of Mrs. Whitefield, who, from good-breeding, or perhaps from good-nature (for the poor young lady appeared much fatigued), pressed her very heartily to stay that evening at Gloucester. Having refreshed herself only with some tea, and with lying about two hours on the bed, while her horses were getting ready, she resolutely left Mrs. Whitefield's about eleven at night; and striking directly into the Worcester road, within less than four hours arrived at that very inn where we last saw her. Having thus traced our heroine very particularly back from her departure till her arrival at Upton, we shall, in a very few words, bring her father up to the same place; who, having received the first scent from the postboy who conducted his daughter to Hambrook, very easily traced her afterward to Gloucester; whence he pursued her to Upton, as he had learned Mr. Jones had taken that route: for Partridge, to use the squire's expression, left everywhere a strong scent behind him; and he doubted not in the least but Sophia travelled, or, as he phrased it, ran the same way. He used, indeed, a very coarse expression, which need not be here introduced; as fox-hunters, who alone would understand it, will easily suggest it to themselves.

BOOK XI.

CONTAINING ABOUT THREE DAYS.

CHAP. I.-A crust for the critics.

In our last initial chapter we may be supposed to have treated that formidable set of men who are called critics with more freedom than becomes us; since they exact, and indeed generally receive, great condescension from authors. We shall in this, therefore, give the reasons of our conduct to this august body; and here we shall, perhaps, place them in a light in which they have not hitherto been seen. This word critic is of Greek derivation, and signifies judgment: hence I presume some persons, who have not understood the

original, and have seen the English translation of the primitive, have concluded that it meant judgment in the legal sense, in which it is frequently used as equivalent to condemnation. I am the rather inclined to be of that opinion, as the greatest number of critics has of late years been found among the lawyers. Many of these gentlemen, from despair, perhaps, of ever rising to the bench in Westminster Hall, have placed themselves on the benches at the playhouse, where they have exerted their judicial capacity, and have given judgment, i. e. condemned, without mercy. The gentlemen would, perhaps, be well enough pleased, if we were to leave them thus compared to one of the most important and honourable offices in the commonwealth, and, if we intended to apply to their favour, we would do so; but as we design to deal very sincerely, and plainly too, with them, we must remind them of another officer of justice, of a much lower rank; to whom, as they not only pronounce, but execute their own judgment, they bear likewise some remote resemblance. But, in reality, there is another light in which these modern critics may, with great justice and propriety, be seen; and this is, that of a common slanderIf a person who pries into the characters of others with no other design but to discover their faults and to publish them to the world, deserves the title of a slanderer of the reputation of men, why should not a critic, who reads with the same malevolent view, be as properly styled the slanderer of the reputation of books?

er.

Vice has not, I believe, a more abject slave; society produces not a more odious vermin; nor can the devil receive a guest more worthy of him, nor possibly more welcome to him, than a slanderer. The world, I am afraid, regards not this monster with half the abhorrence which he deserves; and I am more afraid to assign the reason of this criminal lenity shown towards him; yet it is certain that the thief looks innocent in the comparison; nay, the murderer himself can seldom stand in competition with his guilt; for slander is a more cruel weapon than a sword, as the wounds which the former gives are always incurable. One method indeed there is of killing, and that the basest and most execrable of all, which bears an exact analogy to the vice here declaimed against, and that is poison;—a

means of revenge so base, and yet so horrible, that it was once wisely distinguished by our laws from all other murders, in the peculiar severity of the punishishment. Besides the dreadful mischiefs done by slander, and the baseness of the means by which they are affected, there are other circumstances that highly aggravate its atrocious quality; for it often proceeds from no provocation, and seldom promises itself any reward, unless some black and infernal mind may propose a reward in the thoughts of having procured the ruin and misery of another.

Shakspeare has nobly touched this vice, when he

says,

"Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing:
Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands:
But he that filches from me my good name,

Robs me of that which not enriches him,

But makes me poor indeed!"

With all this my good reader will doubtless agree; but much of it will probably seem too severe when ap plied to the slanderer of books. But let it here be considered that both proceed from the same wicked disposition of mind, and are alike void of the excuse of temptation. Nor shall we conclude the injury done this way to be very slight, when we consider the book as the author's offspring, and indeed as the child of his brain.

The reader who has suffered his muse to continue hitherto in a virgin state, can have but a very inadequate idea of this kind of paternal fondness. To such we may parody the tender exclamation of Macduff, "Alas! thou hast written no book." But the author, whose muse has brought forth, will feel the pathetic strain, perhaps will accompany me with tears (especially if his darling be already no more), while 1 men→ tion the uneasiness with which the big muse bears about her burden, the painful labour with which she produces it, and, lastly, the care, the fondness, with which the tender father nourishes his favourite, till it be brought to maturity, and produced into the world. Nor is there any paternal fondness which seems less to savour of absolute instinct, and which may so well be reconciled to worldly wisdom, as this. These children may most truly be called the riches of their

father; and many of them have with true filial piety fed their parent in his old age: so that not only the affection, but the interest of the author may be highly injured by these slanderers, whose poisonous breath brings his book to an untimely end. Lastly, the slanderer of a book is, in truth, the slanderer of the author: for as no one can call another bastard without calling the mother whore, so neither can any one give the names of sad stuff, horrid nonsense; &c., to a book, without calling the author a blockhead; which, though in a moral sense it is a preferable appellation to that of villain, is, perhaps, rather more injurious to his worldly interest. Now, however ludicrous all this may appear to some, others, I doubt not, will feel and acknowledge the truth of it; nay, may perhaps think I have not treated the subject with decent solemnity; but surely a man may speak truth with a smiling countenance. In reality, to depreciate a book maliciously, or even wantonly, is, at least, a very illnatured office; and a morose, snarling critic, may, I believe, be suspected to be a bad man.

I will therefore endeavour, in the remaining part of this chapter, to explain the marks of this character, and to show what criticism I here intend to obviate; for I can never be understood, unless by the very persons here meant, to insinuate that there are no proper judges of writing; or to endeavour to exclude from the commonwealth of literature any of those noble critics to whose labours the learned world are so greatly indebted. Such were Aristotle, Horace, and Longinus among the ancients; Dacier and Bossu among the French; and some, perhaps, among us, who have certainly been duly authorized to execute at least a judicial authority in foro literario. But without ascertaining all the proper qualifications of a critic, which I have touched on elsewhere, I think I may very boldly object to the censures of any one passed upon works which he has not himself read. Such censurers as these, whether they speak from their own guess or suspicion, or from the report and opinion of others, may properly be said to slander the reputation of the book they condemn. Such may likewise be suspected of deserving this character, who, without assigning any particular faults, condemn the whole in general defamatory terms; such as-vile, dull, d-d stuff, &c., and

particularly by the use of the monosyllable "low;" a word which becomes the mouth of no critic who is not right honourable. Again, though there may be some faults justly assigned in the work, yet, if those are not in the most essential parts, or if they are compensated by greater beauties, it will savour rather of the malice of a slanderer, than of the judgment of a true critic, to pass a severe sentence upon the whole merely on account of some vicious part. This is directly contrary to the sentiments of Horace:

"Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis
Offendar maculis, quas aut incuria fudit,

Aut humana parum cavit natura-"

"But where the beauties, more in number, shine,
I am not angry when a casual line,

That with some trivial faults unequal flows,

A careless hand, or human frailty shows."-FRANCIS.

For, as Martial says, aliter non fit, Avite, liber: no book can be otherwise composed. All beauty of character, as well as of countenance, and indeed of every thing human, is to be tried in this manner. Cruel indeed would it be, if such a work as this history, which has employed some thousands of hours in the composing, should be liable to be condemned, because some particular chapter, or perhaps chapters, may be obnoxious to very just and sensible objections; and yet nothing is more common than the most rigorous sentence upon books supported by such objections, which, if they were rightly taken (and that they are not always), do by no means go to the merit of the whole. In the theatre, especially, a single expression, which does not coincide with the taste of the audience, or with any individual critic of that audience, is sure to be hissed; and one scene which should be disapproved would hazard the whole piece. To write within such severe rules as these is as impossible as to live up to some splenetic opinions; and if we judge according to the sentiments of some critics, and of some Christians, no author will be saved in this world, and no man in the next.