What remained to me from my love of Macaulay was a love of criticism, and I read almost as much in criticism as I read in poetry and history and fiction. It was of an eccentric doctor, another of the village characters, that I got the works of Edgar A. Poe; I do not know just how, but it must have been in some exchange of books; he preferred metaphysics. At any rate I fell greedily upon them, and I read with no less zest¹ than his poems the bitter, and cruel, and narrow-minded criticisms which mainly filled one of the volumes. As usual, I accepted them implicitly², and it was not till long afterwards that I understood how worthless they were.
I think that hardly less immoral³ than the lubricity of literature, and its celebration of the monkey and the goat in us, is the spectacle such criticism affords of the tigerish play of satire⁴. It is monstrous⁵ that for no offence but the wish to produce something beautiful, and the mistake of his powers in that direction, a writer should become the prey⁶ of some ferocious⁷ wit, and that his tormentor⁸ should achieve credit by his lightness and ease in rending⁹ his prey; it is shocking to think how alluring¹⁰ and depraving the fact is to the young reader emulous of such credit, and eager to achieve it. Because I admired these barbarities of Poe’s, I wished to irritate them, to spit some hapless victim on my own spear, to make him suffer and to make the reader laugh. This is as far as possible from the criticism that enlightens and ennobles, but it is still the ideal of most critics, deny it as they will; and because it is the ideal of most critics criticism still

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