New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1917-10-28
(From The Saturday Review)
HOWEVER, the large body Of readers

books have swallowed the assumption
that modern criticism, being matter Of
taste, can usefully be pursued by the I'M
assisted light of nature; that there are
no rules; and (since this is a democratic
age) that one mans opinion is as good
as another. There is accordingly no
longer any reason why books should be
damned, unless it be that the critic is
sour, ill-natured fellow who has not
learned that to read all is to forgive all.
When a reviewer is not bound by any
accepted standard to be hard upon the
book of the week, there is obviously no
reason why he should not praise it, unless
he happens to dislike the author, or to
be neglected by the publisher, or to have
a naturally inhumane and limited nature.
Clearly the more man can find to
approve in the work of his fellow men
the more liberal, sympathetic and discern
ing he must be. Admittedly there are
scores of clever writer's of prose and
verse to-day who are read by scores of
thousands of people. To be blind to their
merit is to be bilious in mind, body or
estate. And so it comes about that praise,
universal and intense, has come to be
recognized as the sign Of the good critic.
Every day new poets, new novelists and
new dramatists are discovered and dis
cussed in terms which Johnson would
have hesitated to employ Of Homer him
self. Mr.. Mais, who has been a school
master, has an unfair advantage over the
ordinary reviewer in that he is not even
limited to the fully fedged works of genius
which issue monthly from the presses. He
can tell US of young Masefelds not yet
cut of MS, of sucking Keatses Of whose
work Il can only murmur to myself,
Exquisite Beautiful Young poets of
sixteen years or so who prompt in Mr..
Mais the staggering reflection that there
are probably hundreds of poets at this
moment working quietly in this country
as good as these, of whom we have heard
literally nothing"
Of his more ordinary opportunities Mr..
Mais avails himself to the full. Though
we disclaim any intention of dealing with
Mr.. Mais's opinions in detail we are
bound in fairness to ourselves to indicate
the intensity and scope of his enthusiasm.
Among the novelists he finds a "score or
so of great writers, of whom ten at least
stand right out from their generation and
deserve to live so long as English litcra-
ture is read. Mackenzie NAV or
may not Mr.. Mais has here an unusual
access Of caution] be one of those ten"
but he has "claim to greatness" and of
Guy and Pauline Mr.. Mais proclaims
that there is nothing like it in the Ian
guage."
Of the poets Mr.. Mais is even more
assured: There has never been an age
so rich in poets in history as our
own. We live in a time of amaz-
ing literary geniuses." To the theatre
before the war most of the leading
geniuses Of our time had contributed their
quota. There were also meteoric
fights Of poetic geniuses who neither fol-
lowed nor founded any school, but flashed
brilliantly for an hour and then swept by"
THERE is matter for reflection in this
L book of Mr.. Mais. 1t is too typical a
work to be passed over as merely indi-
eating habit of self-indulgence upon the
part Of literary glutton. We are glad
TO think that Mr.. Mais and his like really
enjoy Shakespeare and Swift and Field
ing; but we remember Wilhelm Meister
at the play. He was enchanted when the
audience applauded a tragedy. How
glorious to be a tragedian and to move
the multitude to such noble endsl But
after the tragedy came professional
contortionist who pleased the multitude
even better than the tragedy had done.
Whereupon Wilhelm began to have his
doubts concerning the precise value and
quality Of the multitudes affection for
/ the tragedy. The celebration of great
men by critics who use almost precisely
/ the same language concerning every third
book which issues from the publishers
may be less significant Of taste and judg-
ment than it seems. We may be moved
to remember the saying Of La Rochefou-
cauld concerning those whose praise of
others is really intended to proclaim their
own discernment. Critics who write like
, Mr. Mais often intend no more than TO
say: Il see great merit here Of which
less alert and imaginative man might
oxcusably be unaware"