Nothing but that; but, in juxtaposition with the absolute eulogies of Sir Charles Adderley and Mr. Roebuck, how eloquent, how suggestive are those few lines!  “Our old Anglo-Saxon breed, the best in the whole world!”—­how much that is harsh and ill-favored there is in this best! Wragg! If we are to talk of ideal perfection, of “the best in the whole world,” has any one reflected what a touch of grossness in our race, what an original short-coming in the more delicate spiritual perceptions, is shown by the natural growth amongst us of such hideous names,—­Higginbottom, Stiggins, Bugg!  In Ionia and Attica they were luckier in this respect than “the best race in the world”; by the Ilissus there was no Wragg, poor thing!  And “our unrivalled happiness”; —­what an element of grimness, bareness, and hideousness mixes with it and blurs it; the workhouse, the dismal Mapperly Hills,—­how dismal those who have seen them will remember;—­the gloom, the smoke, the cold, the strangled illegitimate child!  “I ask you whether, the world over or in past history, there is anything like it?” Perhaps not, one is inclined to answer; but at any rate, in that case, the world is very much to be pitied.  And the final touch,—­short, bleak and inhuman:  Wragg is in custody.  The sex lost in the confusion of our unrivalled happiness; or (shall I say?) the superfluous Christian name lopped off by the straightforward vigor of our old Anglo-Saxon breed!  There is profit for the spirit in such contrasts as this; criticism serves the cause of perfection by establishing them.  By eluding sterile conflict, by refusing to remain in the sphere where alone narrow and relative conceptions have any worth and validity, criticism may diminish its momentary importance, but only in this way has it a chance of gaining admittance for those wider and more perfect conceptions to which all its duty is really owed.  Mr. Roebuck will have a poor opinion of an adversary who replies to his defiant songs of triumph only by murmuring under his breath, Wragg is in custody; but in no other way will these songs of triumph be induced gradually to moderate themselves, to get rid of what in them is excessive and offensive, and to fall into a softer and truer key.

It will be said that it is a very subtle and indirect action which I am thus prescribing for criticism, and that, by embracing in this manner the Indian virtue of detachment[40] and abandoning the sphere of practical life, it condemns itself to a slow and obscure work.  Slow and obscure it may be, but it is the only proper work of criticism.  The mass of mankind will never have any ardent zeal for seeing things as they are; very inadequate ideas will always satisfy them.  On these inadequate ideas reposes, and must repose, the general practice of the world.  That is as much as saying that whoever sets himself to see things as they are will find himself one of a very small circle; but it is only by this small circle resolutely