28 Letters from the United States of North America, [Jury, 
that, whatever it may be, on which their only hope of distinction is 
founded, while it is moreover, the means by which they live—the foun- 
tain of their daily bread.* 
Men who have wasted their lives in the study of Greek—which they 
cannot shape into half as good English, as that in which they found it 
translated forty years before, will persuade you, that for getting through 
this world as you may desire, there is nothing like Greek. And why ?— 
To say any thing less, would be to say, first, that they had been wasting 
their lives, and secondly, that they were so many fools. Go further— 
look about you on every side. So is it with painters, and with lawyers, 
and authors, and with everybody else. They dare not own it, even to 
themselves, that they are a fortieth part so foolish as they appear, each to 
all the rest, for having so wasted their lives. 
Again—if the critic were ever so good a painter, and ever so free 
from prejudice, and ever so good a writer into the bargain (a good 
writer by-the-by he must be, or who would care for what he might say 
of the shop?) + he would be either unable or afraid to speak the plain 
truth of people in the same trade, if they were superior—if inferior—if 
equal. How could he? especially if they were about him, or at work 
within his reach; men that he would be sure to meet every week of his 
life, or even if they were alive at the same time, though afar off. He 
would be either jealous or envious, or afraid of being thought so; and 
whether jealous or not, envious or not, he would be thought so, whenever 
he spoke the truth, or said that which, if it were said by another, would 
pass for the truth. In every case, therefore, he would be disqualified 
for the duty of a critic, or the criticism which he gave would be of 
no value. He would be in fear, at every step—it could not be otherwise— 
the fault is. in the very nature of men, who, if they look for a motive at 
all, are quite sure to look for a bad one—afiaid, lest if he spoke against 
a brother of the brush, it should be attributed to jealousy or envy; and 
lest, if he spoke in his favour, it should be attributed either to partiality, 
or to intimacy, or to the you-scratch-me-and-I-tickle-you-understanding of 
the craft ;{ or—observe what I say now, it is the clencher of my whole 
theory—or to the fear of being charged with jealousy, or envy. There !— 
Authors, when they scribble about painting and painters, do not write 
for painters, but for the public—for that public to whom the painters 
look for their reward—for that public, who while they disregard what- 
ever a man may say of himself, or of the art by which he lives, are pretty 
sure to regard with a liberal eye whatever he may choose to say of 
another man, or another art; if he appears to have no share in the re- 
putation of that other man or other art. A motive will be sought for, 
a bad motive too, in every case where a man speaks well of another ; 
and I agree that if such motive be found, or any motive at all, worthy 
or unworthy, whatever he may have said will go for nothing. I agree 
moreover, that, in every case, whether it be found or not, everybody 
will suppose it, nevertheless, to exist; and I agree that every man who 
praises another will be thought to have a secret share in that other's re- 
* Worthy of Castlereagh’s—“ the fundamental feature upon which that question 
hinges.” —X. Y. Z. 
+ But how is aman to be a good writer and a great painter too, when to be either 
would appear to require the practice of a life?—X. Y. Z. 
+ By which it would appear that our friend over sea has a knack of Benthamizing.— 
Xx. Y. Z. 
