The really dangerous people are the practitioners of the
amusing trades of criticism, who can somehow or other
persuade themselves that they are not ordinary rule-of‐
thumb workmen but priests inspired direct from the
IT seems a rather mean thing for Mr. Ernest Newman to give the game away like this on other poor critics, for Mr. Newman is such a fine first‐ class critic that he can easily afford to be brave and candid. But what on earth will his colleagues in the dramatic wing of the Critics' Circle think of this disturbing humility? These gospellers of good taste who dread drama having the heart-beat of life in it and treat a play which has the sound of flutes as if it were a mendicant at a street corner begging a coin from cold pockets; who are always yelling or wistfully whispering for new things in the theatre, for God's sake, and when they get it, fail to try to understand and pine away for such masterpieces as Family Affairs or The Old Folks at Home. Few of them, I dare say, ever read Newman, and the few who do will get busy and shut their eyes, close their ears, and seal their lips tighter than ever Stanley Baldwin could, against this low treason on the part of one of themselves.