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itual　awakenings　that　have　not　wasted　the　world's　faculties　in　barren　hopes；　and　fruitless　aspirations；　and　empty　or　trammelling　creeds。　　What　is　termed　Sin　is　an　essential　element　of　progress。　Without　it　the　world　would　stagnate；　or　grow　old；　or　become　colourless。　　By　its　curiosity　Sin　increases　the　experience　of　the　race。　　Through　its　intensified　assertion　of　individualism；　it　saves　us　from　monotony　of　type。　　In　its　rejection　of　the　current　notions　about　morality；　it　is　one　with　the　higher　ethics。　　And　as　for　the　virtues！　　What　are　the　virtues？　　Nature；　M。　Renan　tells　us；　cares　little　about　chastity；　and　it　may　be　that　it　is　to　the　shame　of　the　Magdalen；　and　not　to　their　own　purity；　that　the　Lucretias　of　modern　life　owe　their　freedom　from　stain。　　Charity；　as　even　those　of　whose　religion　it　makes　a　formal　part　have　been　compelled　to　acknowledge；　creates　a　multitude　of　evils。　　The　mere　existence　of　conscience；　that　faculty　of　which　people　prate　so　much　nowadays；　and　are　so　ignorantly　proud；　is　a　sign　of　our　imperfect　development。　　It　must　be　merged　in　instinct　before　we　become　fine。　　Self…denial　is　simply　a　method　by　which　man　arrests　his　progress；　and　self…sacrifice　a　survival　of　the　mutilation　of　the　savage；　part　of　that　old　worship　of　pain　which　is　so　terrible　a　factor　in　the　history　of　the　world；　and　which　even　now　makes　its　victims　day　by　day；　and　has　its　altars　in　the　land。　　Virtues！　　Who　knows　what　the　virtues　are？　　Not　you。　Not　I。　　Not　any　one。　　It　is　well　for　our　vanity　that　we　slay　the　criminal；　for　if　we　suffered　him　to　live　he　might　show　us　what　we　had　gained　by　his　crime。　　It　is　well　for　his　peace　that　the　saint　goes　to　his　martyrdom。　　He　is　spared　the　sight　of　the　horror　of　his　harvest。

ERNEST。　　Gilbert；　you　sound　too　harsh　a　note。　　Let　us　go　back　to　the　more　gracious　fields　of　literature。　　What　was　it　you　said？　That　it　was　more　difficult　to　talk　about　a　thing　than　to　do　it？

GILBERT　（after　a　pause）。　　Yes：　　I　believe　I　ventured　upon　that　simple　truth。　　Surely　you　see　now　that　I　am　right？　　When　man　acts　he　is　a　puppet。　　When　he　describes　he　is　a　poet。　　The　whole　secret　lies　in　that。　　It　was　easy　enough　on　the　sandy　plains　by　windy　Ilion　to　send　the　notched　arrow　from　the　painted　bow；　or　to　hurl　against　the　shield　of　hide　and　flamelike　brass　the　long　ash…handled　spear。　　It　was　easy　for　the　adulterous　queen　to　spread　the　Tyrian　carpets　for　her　lord；　and　then；　as　he　lay　couched　in　the　marble　bath；　to　throw　over　his　head　the　purple　net；　and　call　to　her　smooth…faced　lover　to　stab　through　the　meshes　at　the　heart　that　should　have　broken　at　Aulis。　　For　Antigone　even；　with　Death　waiting　for　her　as　her　bridegroom；　it　was　easy　to　pass　through　the　tainted　air　at　noon；　and　climb　the　hill；　and　strew　with　kindly　earth　the　wretched　naked　corse　that　had　no　tomb。　　But　what　of　those　who　wrote　about　these　things？　　What　of　those　who　gave　them　reality；　and　made　them　live　for　ever？　　Are　they　not　greater　than　the　men　and　women　they　sing　of？　　'Hector　that　sweet　knight　is　dead；'　and　Lucian　tells　us　how　in　the　dim　under…world　Menippus　saw　the　bleaching　skull　of　Helen；　and　marvelled　that　it　was　for　so　grim　a　favour　that　all　those　horned　ships　were　launched；　those　beautiful　mailed　men　laid　low；　those　towered　cities　brought　to　dust。　　Yet；　every　day　the　swanlike　daughter　of　Leda　comes　out　on　the　battlements；　and　looks　down　at　the　tide　of　war。　　The　greybeards　wonder　at　her　loveliness；　and　she　stands　by　the　side　of　the　king。　　In　his　chamber　of　stained　ivory　lies　her　leman。　　He　is　polishing　his　dainty　armour；　and　combing　the　scarlet　plume。　　With　squire　and　page；　her　husband　passes　from　tent　to　tent。　　She　can　see　his　bright　hair；　and　hears；　or　fancies　that　she　hears；　that　clear　cold　voice。　　In　the　courtyard　below；　the　son　of　Priam　is　buckling　on　his　brazen　cuirass。　　The　white　arms　of　Andromache　are　around　his　neck。　　He　sets　his　helmet　on　the　ground；　lest　their　babe　should　be　frightened。　　Behind　the　embroidered　curtains　of　his　pavilion　sits　Achilles；　in　perfumed　raiment；　while　in　harness　of　gilt　and　silver　the　friend　of　his　soul　arrays　himself　to　go　forth　to　the　fight。　　From　a　curiously　carven　chest　that　his　mother　Thetis　had　brought　to　his　ship…side；　the　Lord　of　the　Myrmidons　takes　out　that　mystic　chalice　that　the　lip　of　man　had　never　touched；　and　cleanses　it　with　brimstone；　and　with　fresh　water　cools　it；　and；　having　washed　his　hands；　fills　with　black　wine　its　burnished　hollow；　and　spills　the　thick　grape…blood　upon　the　ground　in　honour　of　Him　whom　at　Dodona　barefooted　prophets　worshipped；　and　prays　to　Him；　and　knows　not　that　he　prays　in　vain；　and　that　by　the　hands　of　two　knights　from　Troy；　Panthous'　son；　Euphorbus；　whose　love…locks　were　looped　with　gold；　and　the　Priamid；　the　lion…hearted；　Patroklus；　the　comrade　of　comrades；　must　meet　his　doom。　　Phantoms；　are　they？　　Heroes　of　mist　and　mountain？　　Shadows　in　a　song？　　No：　　they　are　real。　　Action！　　What　is　action？　　It　dies　at　the　moment　of　its　energy。　　It　is　a　base　concession　to　fact。　　The　world　is　made　by　the　singer　for　the　dreamer。

ERNEST。　　While　you　talk　it　seems　to　me　to　be　so。

GILBERT。　　It　is　so　in　truth。　　On　the　mouldering　citadel　of　Troy　lies　the　lizard　like　a　thing　of　green　bronze。　　The　owl　has　built　her　nest　in　the　palace　of　Priam。　　Over　the　empty　plain　wander　shepherd　and　goatherd　with　their　flocks；　and　where；　on　the　wine…　surfaced；　oily　sea；　＇Greek　text　which　cannot　be　reproduced＇；　as　Homer　calls　it；　copper…prowed　and　streaked　with　vermilion；　the　great　galleys　of　the　Danaoi　came　in　their　gleaming　crescent；　the　lonely　tunny…fisher　sits　in　his　little　boat　and　watches　the　bobbing　corks　of　his　net。　　Yet；　every　morning　the　doors　of　the　city　are　thrown　open；　and　on　foot；　or　in　horse…drawn　chariot；　the　warriors　go　forth　to　battle；　and　mock　their　enemies　from　behind　their　iron　masks。　　All　day　long　the　fight　rages；　and　when　night　comes　the　torches　gleam　by　the　tents；　and　the　cresset　burns　in　the　hall。　Those　who　live　in　marble　or　on　painted　panel；　know　of　life　but　a　single　exquisite　instant；　eternal　indeed　in　its　beauty；　but　limited　to　one　note　of　passion　or　one　mood　of　calm。　　Those　whom　the　poet　makes　live　have　their　myriad　emotions　of　joy　and　terror；　of　courage　and　despair；　of　pleasure　and　of　suffering。　　The　seasons　come　and　go　in　glad　or　saddening　pageant；　and　with　winged　or　leaden　feet　the　years　pass　by　before　them。　　They　have　their　youth　and　their　manhood；　they　are　children；　and　they　grow　old。　　It　is　always　dawn　for　St。　Helena；　as　Veronese　saw　her　at　the　window。　　Through　the　still　morning　air　the　angels　bring　her　the　symbol　of　God's　pain。　The　cool　breezes　of　the　morning　lift　the　gilt　threads　from　her　brow。　　On　that　little　hill　by　the　city　of　Florence；　where　the　lovers　of　Giorgione　are　lying；　it　is　always　the　solstice　of　noon；　of　noon　made　so　languorous　by　summer　suns　that　hardly　can　the　slim　naked　girl　dip　into　the　marble　tank　the　round　bubble　of　clear　glass；　and　the　long　fingers　of　the　lute…player　rest　idly　upon　the　chords。　　It　is　twilight　always　for　the　dancing　nymphs　whom　Corot　set　free　among　the　silver　poplars　of　France。　　In　eternal　twilight　they　move；　those　frail　diaphanous　figures；　whose　tremulous　white　feet　seem　not　to　touch　the　dew…drenched　grass　they　tread　on。　　But　those　who　walk　in　epos；　drama；　or　romance；　see　through　the　labouring　months　the　young　moons　wax　and　wane；　and　watch　the　night　from　evening　unto　morning　star；　and　from　sunrise　unto　sunsetting　can　note　the　shifting　day　with　all　its　gold　and　shadow。　　For　them；　as　for　us；　the　flowers　bloom　and　wither；　and　the　Earth；　that　Green…　tressed　Goddess　as　Coleridge　calls　her；　alters　her　raiment　for　their　pleasure。　　The　statue　is　concentrated　to　one　moment　of　perfection。　　The　image　stained　upon　the　canvas　possesses　no　spiritual　element　of　growth　or　change。　　If　they　know　nothing　of　death；　it　is　because　they　know　little　of　life；　for　the　secrets　of　life　and　death　belong　to　those；　and　those　only；　whom　the　sequence　of　time　affects；　and　who　possess　not　merely　the　present　but　the　future；　and　can　rise　or　fall　from　a　past　of　glory　or　of　shame。　Movement；　that　problem　of　the　visible　arts；　can　be　truly　realised　by　Literature　alone。　　It　is　Literature　that　shows　us　the　body　in　its　swiftness　and　the　soul　in　its　unrest。

ERNEST。　　Yes；　I　see　now　what　you　mean。　　But；　surely；　the　higher　you　place　the　creative　artist；　the　lower　must　the　critic　rank。

GILBERT。　　Why　so？

ERNEST。　　Because　the　best　that　he　can　give　us　will　be　but　an　echo　of　rich　music；　a　dim　shadow　of　clear…outlined　form。　　It　may；　indeed；　be　that　life　is　chaos；　as　you　tell　me　that　it　is；　that　its　martyrdoms　are　mean　and　its　heroisms　ignoble；　and　that　it　is　the　function　of　Literature　to　create；　from　the　rough　material　of　actual　existence；　a　new　world　that　will　be　more　marvellous；　more　enduring；　and　more　true　than　the　world　that　common　eyes　look　upon；　and　through　which　common　natures　seek　to　realise　their　perfection。　　But　surely；　if　this　new　world　has　been　made　by　the　spirit　and　touch　of　a　great　artist；　it　will　be　a　thing　so　complete　and　perfect　that　there　will　be　nothing　left　for　the　critic　to　do。　　I　quite　understand　now；　and　indeed　admit　most　readily；　that　it　is　far　more　difficult　to　talk　about　a　thing　than　to　do　it。　　But　it　seems　to　me　that　this　sound　and　sensible　maxim；　which　is　really　extre