1914] on A Criticism on Critics 147 



'' Mariana," or food for ridicule in " Mv Room " ? Or when did 

 they become aware of Wordsworth ? At what age was Browning, 

 and how many masterpieces of drama and song had been achieved 

 by him, when first the critics, instructed by the pubHc, began to 

 recognize his existence ? And when did they awake to the fact of 

 George Meredith ? 



This is not a very promising record of past services that we have 

 here, when we seek to find out what we owe to critics for their dis- 

 covery and recognition of beauty. There is not one star in the 

 artistic firmament of the nineteenth century whose rising was seen 

 by the telescopes of these magi. Invariably it either escaped them 

 altogether, until when, blazing in mid -heaven, the public pointed 

 it out to them, or, if they saw it, they called it no true star, but a 

 gaseous comet, which would disintegrate again if they threw a few 

 stones at it, or clapped their hands, as if the star and the singer were 

 a cat on the tiles, which obstructed their view. On the other hand, 

 they often thought that a cat on the tiles was a star, and hailed it as 

 such, and magnificently proclaimed how high it would soar into the 

 zenith ; and this, I think, has been as much due to their fear of again 

 not recognizing the rising of some star, as to genuine admiration of 

 the cat. Having learned by a century of sad experience that their 

 ancestral colleagues had often missed a thing because they did not 

 understand it, they not continually prostrate themselves before some 

 bizarre charlatan, in case he, like Keats and Charlotte Bronte and 

 the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, and a few little trifling namei of 

 that sort, may afterwards prove to be of some significance. And if 

 it turns out right, they pat each other on the back, and say, " We 

 told you so." A tragic instance of what we may call the cat-star 

 occurred quite lately. 



There was an exhibition in the Grafton Street galleries a few 

 years ago which filled our mouths with laughter and our tongues 

 with joy. It was called the post-impressionist school, and apparently 

 now is endemic amongst us like, indeed, very like, measles. Tbf 

 critics went there, and remembering their sad dilatoriness in day. 

 gone by, determined that this time they would be up to date, and 

 with tear-dimmed telescopes they swarmed up Pisgah and beheld 

 the promised land. Some of the most authoritative among them 

 thought it a rather hazardous expedition, but in general by their 

 writings or support they joined the flight of eagles who could look 

 at the sun without laughing. Dawn had come : no star but the sun 

 itself uprose over the promised land. A new renaissance more lovely 

 than Italy had ever seen, more glorious than the art which blossomed 

 by the ^gean Sea, had streaked the heavens. " We have ceased to 

 ask." exclaimed on^ of them, in a dithyraminc outlnirst— " we have 

 ceased to ask, ' What does this picture represent ? ' and ask instead, 

 ' What does it make us feel ? ' " And ... it is almost too pathetic, 

 once again the critics appear to have done the wrong thing. At 



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