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THE CRITICISM OF CHATEAUBRIAND.
It must be a very universal maxim to suit all circumstances, and yet there is one which may be applied on all occasions—"Judge not" is the general motto. Take the actions of our nearest friends, and how little do we know of the hopes that instigated, or of the fears that prevailed! We sometimes cannot avoid owning that we ourselves have committed a fault, but how we gloss it over—how we take temperament and temptation into account, till at length it appears to be a thing inevitable—redeemed by the regret it has occasioned, and the lesson it has given. Not so do we reason for others—then we look to the isolated fact, not to the causes: the error shuts out the excuse. The truth is, we know nothing of each other excepting by the aid of philosophy and of poetry; philosophy, that analyzes our thoughts, and poetry that expresses our feelings. Little of the examination of the one, or of the tenderness of the other, enters into our daily opinions, and yet by them we alone know the hidden heart within. "Judge not" is the first great rule of the moral world; it is equally applicable to the literary one. Yesterday is constantly reversing the decree of to-day; our notion of our contemporaries is biassed in many ways—vanities, envyings, and prejudices, are things
"All taking many shapes, and bearing many names;"
but all alike shutting out the light. Time is the great leveller, but he is also the sanctifier and the beautifier. If our judgment, then, of our own literature be liable to so many objections, what must it be when we attempt to decide on that of a foreign nation; the maxim, "Judge not," must indeed be the first principle laid down. No stranger can enter into one great charm thrown around the poetry of every country—namely, that of association. Unconsciously to ourselves, we connect with our favourite writers the emotions which first made us seek in them for expression, and with the scenes amid which we turned their pages. Did we read them in summer, under the silver shiver of the aspen?—they have gathered to themselves the sunshine raining through the leaves, and the freshness on the open air. Were they our companions by the hearth-side on a long winter evening?—they are linked with pleasant memories of comfort and of home. It is impossible for a stranger to share these subtle sympathies, and yet their atmosphere is around the literature of every nation. But literary, like all other commerce, has its incalculable advantages: the merchant brings with him not only wealth, but knowledge. Communication is in itself civilization; we wear away our own prejudices only by contact with those of others. We are forced into making allowances, by seeing how much we need that they should be made for ourselves.
Chateaubriand says, in an admirable spirit of candour, "In living literature no person is a competent judge but of works written in his own language. I have expressed my opinion concerning a number of English writers; it is very possible that I may be mistaken, that my admiration and my censure may be equally misplaced, and that my conclusions may appear impertinent and ridiculous on the other side of the Channel." They can appear neither ridiculous nor impertinent; we
