191-1:J on A Criticism on Critics l;'U3 



profoundly ignorant of the elements of his art. But neither his 

 knowledge nor their ignorance make the smallest difference to the 

 volubility of their hints. There lias always been and will always 

 be a. ring of critics to every public performer. That there was not 

 a ring of critics round Adam in the Rabbinical legend mentioned 

 above was a mere accident due to the newness of the world : at any 

 rate, all the other inhabitants of the world were there, and I have 

 no doubt the serpent joined in the hissing. 



Onlookers proverbially see most of the game : but it would 

 appear from the tone they adopt that they alone see and understand 

 any of it, while those who happen to be engaged in it are completely 

 ignorant of the subject. In fact, where the carcase is, there are 

 the eagles gathered together, and with claw and blood-stained beak 

 they discuss it as the vultures discussed Prometheus. And like 

 Prometheus, the carcase for the most part continues to live and 

 circulate under all this storm of squawling and pecking, which may 

 be painful, Imt is not fatal. Indeed, most of those scarified carcases 

 seem in course of time to become callous to their vultures. Even 

 the man who faints at the football match recovers in spite of the 

 ministrations of his critics ; Adam continues his work, and Eve 

 very likely abandons the critical attitude and turns her hand to 

 apron-making — becomes in fact a constructive artist too. That 

 instinct, as we shall see, finds a parallel in more advanced and 

 civilized eras, and is productive of curious results. 



As I have said, the moment one man begins to do a thing, others 

 give their opinion on it. It is quite clear that this must be so. 

 All performances must be able to stand a test, must show themselves 

 capable of fulfilling the design which the constructor had in his 

 mind when he devised them. If a man invents a steam-engine, the 

 test is tliat it should be able to move and to pull," and not blow up 

 oftener than is reasonable. Here the engine is its own critic, and 

 provided it does its work, it justifies its creator. In consequence the 

 circle of loafers who are unable to make steam-engines have nothing 

 to chatter about, and therefore they stroll away in search of subjects 

 which give them more scope. What they want is an invention, the 

 efficiency of which is not a matter that can be verified by material 

 tests such as pounds avoirdupois, or miles per hour, but one of 

 which the efficiency is a matter of taste, a thing about which there 

 are certainly not less than two opinions, and probably about two 

 million. And those affairs, the efficiency of which is a matter of 

 taste, are beautiful things, things of which the aim is to rouse the 

 emotions without regard to their practical utility. They are in fact 

 what we know as works of art. They may be good works of art, 

 or bad works of art, but they are not directly useful, nor is that their 

 excuse for existence. They set out to be beautiful, or perhaps ugly, 

 which now-a-days seems to be considered the same thing. It is 

 round these that the critics congregate ; it is the consideration of 



