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GILBERT。　　Not　when　they　became　poetry。　　Not　when　they　received　a　beautiful　form。　　For　there　is　no　art　where　there　is　no　style；　and　no　style　where　there　is　no　unity；　and　unity　is　of　the　individual。　No　doubt　Homer　had　old　ballads　and　stories　to　deal　with；　as　Shakespeare　had　chronicles　and　plays　and　novels　from　which　to　work；　but　they　were　merely　his　rough　material。　　He　took　them；　and　shaped　them　into　song。　　They　become　his；　because　he　made　them　lovely。　They　were　built　out　of　music；


And　so　not　built　at　all；　And　therefore　built　for　ever。


The　longer　one　studies　life　and　literature；　the　more　strongly　one　feels　that　behind　everything　that　is　wonderful　stands　the　individual；　and　that　it　is　not　the　moment　that　makes　the　man；　but　the　man　who　creates　the　age。　　Indeed；　I　am　inclined　to　think　that　each　myth　and　legend　that　seems　to　us　to　spring　out　of　the　wonder；　or　terror；　or　fancy　of　tribe　and　nation；　was　in　its　origin　the　invention　of　one　single　mind。　　The　curiously　limited　number　of　the　myths　seems　to　me　to　point　to　this　conclusion。　　But　we　must　not　go　off　into　questions　of　comparative　mythology。　　We　must　keep　to　criticism。　　And　what　I　want　to　point　out　is　this。　　An　age　that　has　no　criticism　is　either　an　age　in　which　art　is　immobile；　hieratic；　and　confined　to　the　reproduction　of　formal　types；　or　an　age　that　possesses　no　art　at　all。　　There　have　been　critical　ages　that　have　not　been　creative；　in　the　ordinary　sense　of　the　word；　ages　in　which　the　spirit　of　man　has　sought　to　set　in　order　the　treasures　of　his　treasure…house；　to　separate　the　gold　from　the　silver；　and　the　silver　from　the　lead；　to　count　over　the　jewels；　and　to　give　names　to　the　pearls。　　But　there　has　never　been　a　creative　age　that　has　not　been　critical　also。　　For　it　is　the　critical　faculty　that　invents　fresh　forms。　　The　tendency　of　creation　is　to　repeat　itself。　It　is　to　the　critical　instinct　that　we　owe　each　new　school　that　springs　up；　each　new　mould　that　art　finds　ready　to　its　hand。　　There　is　really　not　a　single　form　that　art　now　uses　that　does　not　come　to　us　from　the　critical　spirit　of　Alexandria；　where　these　forms　were　either　stereotyped　or　invented　or　made　perfect。　　I　say　Alexandria；　not　merely　because　it　was　there　that　the　Greek　spirit　became　most　self…conscious；　and　indeed　ultimately　expired　in　scepticism　and　theology；　but　because　it　was　to　that　city；　and　not　to　Athens；　that　Rome　turned　for　her　models；　and　it　was　through　the　survival；　such　as　it　was；　of　the　Latin　language　that　culture　lived　at　all。　　When；　at　the　Renaissance；　Greek　literature　dawned　upon　Europe；　the　soil　had　been　in　some　measure　prepared　for　it。　　But；　to　get　rid　of　the　details　of　history；　which　are　always　wearisome　and　usually　inaccurate；　let　us　say　generally；　that　the　forms　of　art　have　been　due　to　the　Greek　critical　spirit。　　To　it　we　owe　the　epic；　the　lyric；　the　entire　drama　in　every　one　of　its　developments；　including　burlesque；　the　idyll；　the　romantic　novel；　the　novel　of　adventure；　the　essay；　the　dialogue；　the　oration；　the　lecture；　for　which　perhaps　we　should　not　forgive　them；　and　the　epigram；　in　all　the　wide　meaning　of　that　word。　　In　fact；　we　owe　it　everything；　except　the　sonnet；　to　which；　however；　some　curious　parallels　of　thought…　movement　may　be　traced　in　the　Anthology；　American　journalism；　to　which　no　parallel　can　be　found　anywhere；　and　the　ballad　in　sham　Scotch　dialect；　which　one　of　our　most　industrious　writers　has　recently　proposed　should　be　made　the　basis　for　a　final　and　unanimous　effort　on　the　part　of　our　second…rate　poets　to　make　themselves　really　romantic。　　Each　new　school；　as　it　appears；　cries　out　against　criticism；　but　it　is　to　the　critical　faculty　in　man　that　it　owes　its　origin。　　The　mere　creative　instinct　does　not　innovate；　but　reproduces。

ERNEST。　　You　have　been　talking　of　criticism　as　an　essential　part　of　the　creative　spirit；　and　I　now　fully　accept　your　theory。　　But　what　of　criticism　outside　creation？　　I　have　a　foolish　habit　of　reading　periodicals；　and　it　seems　to　me　that　most　modern　criticism　is　perfectly　valueless。

GILBERT。　　So　is　most　modern　creative　work　also。　　Mediocrity　weighing　mediocrity　in　the　balance；　and　incompetence　applauding　its　brother　…　that　is　the　spectacle　which　the　artistic　activity　of　England　affords　us　from　time　to　time。　　And　yet；　I　feel　I　am　a　little　unfair　in　this　matter。　　As　a　rule；　the　critics　…　I　speak；　of　course；　of　the　higher　class；　of　those　in　fact　who　write　for　the　sixpenny　papers　…　are　far　more　cultured　than　the　people　whose　work　they　are　called　upon　to　review。　　This　is；　indeed；　only　what　one　would　expect；　for　criticism　demands　infinitely　more　cultivation　than　creation　does。

ERNEST。　　Really？

GILBERT。　　Certainly。　　Anybody　can　write　a　three…volumed　novel。　　It　merely　requires　a　complete　ignorance　of　both　life　and　literature。　The　difficulty　that　I　should　fancy　the　reviewer　feels　is　the　difficulty　of　sustaining　any　standard。　　Where　there　is　no　style　a　standard　must　be　impossible。　　The　poor　reviewers　are　apparently　reduced　to　be　the　reporters　of　the　police…court　of　literature；　the　chroniclers　of　the　doings　of　the　habitual　criminals　of　art。　　It　is　sometimes　said　of　them　that　they　do　not　read　all　through　the　works　they　are　called　upon　to　criticise。　　They　do　not。　　Or　at　least　they　should　not。　　If　they　did　so；　they　would　become　confirmed　misanthropes；　or　if　I　may　borrow　a　phrase　from　one　of　the　pretty　Newnham　graduates；　confirmed　womanthropes　for　the　rest　of　their　lives。　　Nor　is　it　necessary。　　To　know　the　vintage　and　quality　of　a　wine　one　need　not　drink　the　whole　cask。　　It　must　be　perfectly　easy　in　half　an　hour　to　say　whether　a　book　is　worth　anything　or　worth　nothing。　　Ten　minutes　are　really　sufficient；　if　one　has　the　instinct　for　form。　　Who　wants　to　wade　through　a　dull　volume？　　One　tastes　it；　and　that　is　quite　enough　…　more　than　enough；　I　should　imagine。　　I　am　aware　that　there　are　many　honest　workers　in　painting　as　well　as　in　literature　who　object　to　criticism　entirely。　　They　are　quite　right。　　Their　work　stands　in　no　intellectual　relation　to　their　age。　　It　brings　us　no　new　element　of　pleasure。　　It　suggests　no　fresh　departure　of　thought；　or　passion；　or　beauty。　　It　should　not　be　spoken　of。　　It　should　be　left　to　the　oblivion　that　it　deserves。

ERNEST。　　But；　my　dear　fellow　…　excuse　me　for　interrupting　you　…　you　seem　to　me　to　be　allowing　your　passion　for　criticism　to　lead　you　a　great　deal　too　far。　　For；　after　all；　even　you　must　admit　that　it　is　much　more　difficult　to　do　a　thing　than　to　talk　about　it。

GILBERT。　　More　difficult　to　do　a　thing　than　to　talk　about　it？　　Not　at　all。　　That　is　a　gross　popular　error。　　It　is　very　much　more　difficult　to　talk　about　a　thing　than　to　do　it。　　In　the　sphere　of　actual　life　that　is　of　course　obvious。　　Anybody　can　make　history。　Only　a　great　man　can　write　it。　　There　is　no　mode　of　action；　no　form　of　emotion；　that　we　do　not　share　with　the　lower　animals。　　It　is　only　by　language　that　we　rise　above　them；　or　above　each　other　…　by　language；　which　is　the　parent；　and　not　the　child；　of　thought。　Action；　indeed；　is　always　easy；　and　when　presented　to　us　in　its　most　aggravated；　because　most　continuous　form；　which　I　take　to　be　that　of　real　industry；　becomes　simply　the　refuge　of　people　who　have　nothing　whatsoever　to　do。　　No；　Ernest；　don't　talk　about　action。　　It　is　a　blind　thing　dependent　on　external　influences；　and　moved　by　an　impulse　of　whose　nature　it　is　unconscious。　　It　is　a　thing　incomplete　in　its　essence；　because　limited　by　accident；　and　ignorant　of　its　direction；　being　always　at　variance　with　its　aim。　Its　basis　is　the　lack　of　imagination。　　It　is　the　last　resource　of　those　who　know　not　how　to　dream。

ERNEST。　　Gilbert；　you　treat　the　world　as　if　it　were　a　crystal　ball。　You　hold　it　in　your　hand；　and　reverse　it　to　please　a　wilful　fancy。　You　do　nothing　but　re…write　history。

GILBERT。　　The　one　duty　we　owe　to　history　is　to　re…write　it。　　That　is　not　the　least　of　the　tasks　in　store　for　the　critical　spirit。　When　we　have　fully　discovered　the　scientific　laws　that　govern　life；　we　shall　realise　that　the　one　person　who　has　more　illusions　than　the　dreamer　is　the　man　of　action。　　He；　indeed；　knows　neither　the　origin　of　his　deeds　nor　their　results。　　From　the　field　in　which　he　thought　that　he　had　sown　thorns；　we　have　gathered　our　vintage；　and　the　fig…tree　that　he　planted　for　our　pleasure　is　as　barren　as　the　thistle；　and　more　bitter。　　It　is　because　Humanity　has　never　known　where　it　was　going　that　it　has　been　able　to　find　its　way。

ERNEST。　　You　think；　then；　that　in　the　sphere　of　action　a　conscious　aim　is　a　delusion？

GILBERT。　　It　is　worse　than　a　delusion。　　If　we　lived　long　enough　to　see　the　results　of　our　actions　it　may　be　that　those　who　call　themselves　good　would　be　sickened　with　a　dull　remorse；　and　those　whom　the　world　calls　evil　stirred　by　a　noble　joy。　　Each　little　thing　that　we　do　passes　into　the　great　machine　of　life　which　may　grind　our　virtues　to　powder　and　make　them　worthless；　or　transform　our　sins　into　elements　of　a　new　civilisation；　more　marvellous　and　more　splendid　than　any　that　has　gone　before。　　But　men　are　the　slaves　of　words。　　They　rage　against　Materialism；　as　they　call　it；　forgetting　that　there　has　been　no　material　improvement　that　has　not　spiritualised　the　world；　and　that　there　have　been　few；　if　any；　spiritual　awakenings　that　have　not　was