tragedy, and comedy, and a foundation is laid for the practice of criticism. These systems of poetic theory, although they seem at first sight to be dogmatic, are really inductive in their origin. Aristotle, for example, the earliest formulator of rules for writing, based those rules on the practice of the great writers of Greece. Since the poems of Homer had beginning, middle, and end, so must all epic poems. The inherent intelligence and good sense of the critic, however, led him to analyze the great works of art, which had been proved great by their long continued power to appeal, and understand those principles on which genius had created drama or poem. These principles Aristotle discussed and explained and developed, and so built up a body of critical theory to serve as a guide for future writers and future readers of literature.

To these principles that were based primarily upon practice, later writers of Poetics, like Horace and Boileau, added certain other rules, such as the division of a play into five acts or the observance of the unity of time, which had their real origin in theory. So, by the time of the Renaissance and during it, we find a large body of dogmatic theory controlling or attempting to control both creation and criticism. That theory was, of course, strictly limited, because it was based on a system that regarded Greek drama and poetry as the final word in literature, and because, even in its later forms, it often took practically no notice of such new types as the romance and the lyric, that had sprung up or developed into importance in the intervening centuries. It controlled criticism far more than it did creation, because criticism, being more intellectual, is more easily held in leash. Consequently, although we have in England in the sixteenth century a Shakespeare unfettered by the unities,

we are not surprised to find in the next century critics who are calling him an "irregular genius," a genius, to be sure, but one who violates many of the rules laid down by the ancients.

This dogmatic and judicial critical theory was a great curb upon the practice of criticism. When critics began, as they did with the rise of periodical literature, to write reviews of individual plays or poems, they found their hands tied. Thus Addison "examines" Paradise Lost by inquiring whether, in all the respects of fable, characters, sentiment, and language, it conforms to the rules for epic poetry. Dryden "examines" The Silent Woman, and calls it the most perfect of Jonson's plays, because it observes the rules for comedy. But any critic who is worthy of the name is bound to free at least a few fingers from the restrictions of too narrow theory. It is with congratulation and pleasure that we discover, sometimes embedded in classical criticism, sometimes standing boldly by themselves, individualistic appreciations of works of art or authors or styles, such as Sidney's famous passage on Chevy Chase, or Dryden's masterly interpretation of the greatness of Shakespeare or Chaucer, or Addison's essay on The Fairy Way of Writing, or Dr. Johnson's scattered comments on the imagination.

With the coming of the romantic movement and its emphasis on the individual and on history, critical theory itself began to break its bonds. The revolt of critical writing against neo-classic restraint accompanied that of creative writing. Individual response to a work of art took the place of the narrow standards of the Poetics, and critics began to consider the time in which a book was written and the circumstances under which it was composed, and to judge it accordingly. It was no longer necessary for writing to conform to the types discussed by

Aristotle, Horace, and Boileau or to follow exactly their rules for composition to gain a favorable hearing. Shakespeare's plays and chivalric romance, for instance, which violated the rules, met with new appreciation. With the growth of periodicals, reviews of new books or essays on old ones became frequent, and these reviews showed, as the years went on, an increasing freedom from rules and a greater variety of critical methods and principles. History and philosophy, æsthetics and hedonism, all sorts of new movements in thought and life, had their influence. Hence, while it is simple enough to characterize in broad terms the criticism of the Renaissance or of the neoclassic period, it is virtually impossible to reduce the criticism of the nineteenth century to a formula or creed of any kind. And today, with terms like impressionism, appreciative criticism, science, æsthetics, in the air, the reader becomes bewildered, and looks, often in vain, for a guide. Each school of critical thought in turn sounds plausible. Perhaps the way out of the maze is most easily found by` avoiding the pitfall of too much terminology, not caring whether we are impressionistic or judicial critics, but looking at the literature itself. By combining the impression it makes upon us individually with what men have said great literature should be and do, by analyzing it and comparing it with other works that we feel are great, by noting our responses to both form and content, we may arrive at some definite judgment of the value of a certain book, its value, not only to ourselves but to the world. And that, after all, is criticism.

But before we embark on this sea, to work out our own chart as we go, we must throw overboard certain rosy hopes with which we have set sail. We must not think that it is possible for us to settle here and now all the

questions of criticism. If we could, the critical millennium would be here, the critical man would be perfect, and there would be no progress left to make. History has shown us that literature and literary standards change with succeeding periods in the development of man's thought; it shows us too that criticism changes and must change to adapt itself to the alterations in literature. It also makes manifest the fact that there are certain problems that have been discussed since the beginning of critical thinking, are still being discussed, and will always be discussed as long as men talk about the product of the pen or the typewriter or whatever in future ages takes the place of the typewriter. What are the proper subjects for poetry? What constitutes immorality in literature or is literature quite unmoral? Where is the dividing line between poetry and prose? What are the merits of meter and rhyme? These questions put up their heads in every generation; sometimes they are tricked out in modern ornaments, so that they look new, but the features are the same. They can never be permanently settled for the whole world. It is impossible 'to settle them satisfactorily even for a generation.

We come, then, to a definition of criticism. The word itself comes from the Greek verb Kpive, to judge or κρίνειν, to discern. Criticism is an act of judgment, and the literary critic is a literary judge. The analogy, although it cannot be pressed too far, is suggestive. The prisoner at the bar is the book; the evidence is what can be proved in regard to its value to the world. The jury is composed of the critic's heart and head, his musical sense, his imagination,-all the faculties that are appealed to by literature. They are to bring in a verdict of guilty or not guilty, worthy to live or fit only to die. But literary judgment is not merely a decision between two alterna

heart us.

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tives. If the verdict is "Guilty," the judge must determine the extent of the punishment: shall the book be consigned to the scrap heap immediately or shall it be allowed a certain lease of life? Shall it be shut up forever in the archives of the curious or frequent the company of a small group of men or be allowed, as long as it lives, to roam the world at large, with entry everywhere? And if the verdict is "Not guilty,"—here, perhaps, our analogy breaks down-then the judge must determine the nature of the reward; he deals not merely, -not mainly with punishment. Sometimes the jury will disagree; the head will vote for acquittal, the heart for punishment; the visual imagination will approve, the auditory will condemn. Then the final decision rests with the judge on the basis of the evidence presented, the opinions of the jurymen, and the body of law on which all judicial opinions rest. What is the equivalent of that body of law? May it not be, not rules, but principles of right literary conduct as formulated from the innumerable cases of Books vs. Readers through the centuries?

There are those who claim that there can be no standards set up for the purpose of judging art. Such objectors usually belong to the so-called impressionistic school of criticism. Pietro Aretino, for instance, a sixteenth century critic, said that there was no rule except the whim of genius, no standard of judgment beyond individual taste.2 And Anatole France defines the good critic as the man "who relates the adventures of his soul among masterpieces." The result of such a process is impressionism, not judgment. In the impressionistic criticism of a great writer and thinker, we may find literature of a high

Referred to by Spingarn, Creative Criticism, p. 10.

3 La Vie Litteraire, 33rd ed. (Paris, Calmann Lévy), Vol. I, p. iii.