which has recently so tickled the fancy of Punch,[1] cannot wholly replace that clear-headed serenity which is the true test of a critic's worth and the most pleasing expression of his genius. He should have no visible inclination to praise or blame; it is not his business, as Mr. Bagehot puts it, to be thankful, and neither is he the queen's attorney pleading for conviction. Mr. Matthew Arnold, who considered that Byron was "the greatest natural force, the greatest elementary power, which has appeared in our literature since Shakespeare," presented his arguments plainly and without the faintest show of enthusiasm. He did not feel the need of reviling somebody else in order to emphasize his views, and he did not care to advance opinions without some satisfactory explanation of their existence. Mr. Courthope may content himself with saying that a matter is one not for argument, but for perception; but Mr. Arnold gave a reason for the faith that was in him. Mere preference on the part of a critic is not a sufficient sanction for his verdicts, or at least it does not
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"But when poet Swinburne steps into the fray,
And slangs like a fish-wife, what, what can one say?"
