Charles Mackay (Чарльз Маккей)
To a Friend Afraid of Critics
Afraid of critics! an unworthy fear: Great minds must learn their greatness and be bold. Walk on thy way; bring forth thine own true thought; Love thy high calling only for itself, And find in working recompense for work, And Envy's shaft shall whiz at thee in vain. Despise not censure; weigh if it be just, And if it be—amend, whate'er the thought Of him who cast it. Take the wise man's praise, And love thyself the more that thou couldst earn Meed so exalted; but the blame of fools Let it blow over like an idle whiff Of poisonous tobacco in the streets, Invasive of thy unoffending nose. Their praise no better, only more perfumed. The Critics—let me paint them as they are. Some few I know, and love them from my soul; Polish'd, acute, deep read; of inborn taste Cultured into a virtue; full of pith And kindly vigor; having won their spurs In the great rivalry of friendly mind, And generous to others, though unknown; Who would, having a thought, let all men know The new discovery. But these are rare; And if thou find one, take him to thy heart, And think his unbought praise both palm and crown, A thing worth living for, were nought beside. Fear thou no critic, if thou'rt true thyself;— And look for fame, now, if the wise approve, Or, from a wiser jury yet unborn. The Poetaster may be harm'd enough, But Criticasters cannot crush a Bard. If to be famous be thy sole intent, And greatness be a mark beyond thy reach, Manage the critics, and thou'lt win the game; Invite them to thy board, and give them feasts, And foster them with unrelaxing care; And they will praise thee in their partial sheets, And quite ignore the work of better men. But if thou wilt not court them let them go, And scorn the praise that sells itself for wine, Or tacks itself upon success alone, Hanging like spittle on a rich man's beard. One, if thou'rt great, will cite from thy new book The tamest passage,—something that thy soul Revolts at, now the inspiration's o'er, And would give all thou hast to blot from print And sink into oblivion,—and will vaunt The thing as beautiful, transcendent, rare— The best thing thou hast done. Another friend, With finer sense, will praise thy greatest thought, Yet cavil at it; putting in his ‘buts’ And ‘ yets ’ and little obvious hints, That though 'tis good, the critic could have made A work superior in its every part. Another, in a pert and savage mood, Without a reason, will condemn thee quite, And strive to quench thee in a paragraph. Another with dishonest waggery, Will twist, misquote, and uttterly pervert Thy thought and words; and hug himself meanwhile In the delusion, pleasant to his soul, That thou art crush'd, and he a gentleman. Another with a specious fair pretence, Immaculately wise, will skim thy book, And self-sufficient, from his desk look down With undisguised contempt on thee and thine; And sneer and snarl thee from his weekly court, From an idea, spawn of his conceit, That the best means to gain a great renown For wisdom, is to sneer at all the world, With strong denial that a good exists;— That all is bad, imperfect, feeble, stale, Except this critic who outshines mankind. Another, with a foolish zeal, will prate Of thy great excellence; and on thy head Heap epithet on epithet of praise In terms preposterous, that thou wilt blush To be so smother'd with such fulsome lies. Another, calmer, with laudations thin, Unsavory and weak, will make it seem That his good nature, not thy merit, prompts The baseless adulation of his pen. Another, with a bull-dog's bark, will bay Foul names against thee for some fancied slight Which thou ne'er dream'd of, and will damn thy work For spite against the worker; while the next, Who thinks thy faith or politics a crime, Will bray displeasure from his monthly stall, And prove thee dunce, that disagreest with him. And, last of all, some solemn sage, whose nod Trimestrial, awes a world of little wits, Will carefully avoid to name thy name, Although thy words are in the mouths of men And thy ideas in their inmost hearts, Moulding events, and fashioning thy time To nobler efforts.—Little matters it: Whate'er thou art, thy value will appear. If thou art bad, no praise will buoy thee up; If thou art good, no censure weigh thee down, Nor silence, nor neglect prevent thy fame. So fear not thou the critics! Speak thy thought; And, if thou'rt worthy, in the people's love Thy name shall live, while lasts thy mother tongue.
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