on the line Time and the hour runs through the roughest day, to “suppose every reader is disgusted at the tautology”; but it performed the immense service of stimulating enthusiasm for clear thought and exact expression.  These discriminating and objective critics will always be particularly useful to those whose intellects dominate their emotions, and who need some sort of intellectual jolt to set their aesthetic sensibilities going.  Happily, the race shows no signs of becoming extinct, and Sir Walter Raleigh and M. Lanson are the by no means unworthy successors of Dr. Johnson and Saint-Evremond.

It is inexact to say that the nineteenth century invented impressionist criticism, the nineteenth century invented nothing except the electric light and Queen Victoria.  But it was in the later years of that century that Impressionism became self-conscious and pompous enough to array itself in a theory.  The method everyone knows:  the critic clears his mind of general ideas, of canons of art, and, so far as possible, of all knowledge of good and evil; he gets what emotions he can from the work before him, and then confides them to the public. [U] He does not attempt to criticize in the literal sense of the word; he merely tells us what a book, a picture, or a piece of music makes him feel.  This method can be intensely exciting; what is more, it has made vast additions to our aesthetic experience.  It is the instrument that goes deepest:  sometimes it goes too deep, passes clean through the object of contemplation, and brings up from the writer’s own consciousness something for which in the work itself no answerable provocation is to be found.  This leads, of course, to disappointment and vexation, or else to common dishonesty, and can add nothing to the reader’s appreciation.  On the other hand, there are in some works of art subtleties and adumbrations hardly to be disentangled by any other means.  In much of the best modern poetry—­since Dante and Chaucer, I mean—­there are beauties which would rarely have been apprehended had not someone, throwing the whole apparatus of objective criticism aside, vividly described, not the beauties themselves, but what they made him feel.  And I will go so far as to admit that in a work of art there may be qualities, significant and precious, but so recondite and elusive that we shall hardly grasp them unless some adventurer, guided by his own experience, can trace their progress and show us their roots in the mind from which they sprang.

[Footnote U:  Happily, I have never laid great claims to that prevalent modern virtue, originality; otherwise, I might have been somewhat dashed by coming across the following passage, only the other day, in the miscellaneous writings of Gibbon (de mes lectures Oct. 3, 1762):  “Till now (says he) I was acquainted only with two ways of criticising a beautiful passage:  the one, to shew, by an exact anatomy of it, the distinct beauties of it, and whence they sprung; the other, an idle exclamation, or a general encomium which leaves nothing behind it.  Longinus has shown me that there is a third.  He tells me his own feelings upon reading it; and tells them with such energy that he communicates them.”]