THE　CRITIC　AS　ARTIST　…　WITH　SOME　REMARKS　UPON　THE　IMPORTANCE　OF　DOING　NOTHING
  A　DIALOGUE。　　Part　I。　　Persons：　　Gilbert　and　Ernest。　　Scene：　　the　library　of　a　house　in　Piccadilly；　overlooking　the　Green　Park。
  GILBERT　（at　the　Piano）。　　My　dear　Ernest；　what　are　you　laughing　at？
  ERNEST　（looking　up）。　　At　a　capital　story　that　I　have　just　come　across　in　this　volume　of　Reminiscences　that　I　have　found　on　your　table。
  GILBERT。　　What　is　the　book？　　Ah！　I　see。　　I　have　not　read　it　yet。　Is　it　good？
  ERNEST。　　Well；　while　you　have　been　playing；　I　have　been　turning　over　the　pages　with　some　amusement；　though；　as　a　rule；　I　dislike　modern　memoirs。　　They　are　generally　written　by　people　who　have　either　entirely　lost　their　memories；　or　have　never　done　anything　worth　remembering；　which；　however；　is；　no　doubt；　the　true　explanation　of　their　popularity；　as　the　English　public　always　feels　perfectly　at　its　ease　when　a　mediocrity　is　talking　to　it。
  GILBERT。　　Yes：　　the　public　is　wonderfully　tolerant。　　It　forgives　everything　except　genius。　　But　I　must　confess　that　I　like　all　memoirs。　　I　like　them　for　their　form；　just　as　much　as　for　their　matter。　　In　literature　mere　egotism　is　delightful。　　It　is　what　fascinates　us　in　the　letters　of　personalities　so　different　as　Cicero　and　Balzac；　Flaubert　and　Berlioz；　Byron　and　Madame　de　Sevigne。　　Whenever　we　come　across　it；　and；　strangely　enough；　it　is　rather　rare；　we　cannot　but　welcome　it；　and　do　not　easily　forget　it。　Humanity　will　always　love　Rousseau　for　having　confessed　his　sins；　not　to　a　priest；　but　to　the　world；　and　the　couchant　nymphs　that　Cellini　wrought　in　bronze　for　the　castle　of　King　Francis；　the　green　and　gold　Perseus；　even；　that　in　the　open　Loggia　at　Florence　shows　the　moon　the　dead　terror　that　once　turned　life　to　stone；　have　not　given　it　more　pleasure　than　has　that　autobiography　in　which　the　supreme　scoundrel　of　the　Renaissance　relates　the　story　of　his　splendour　and　his　shame。　　The　opinions；　the　character；　the　achievements　of　the　man；　matter　very　little。　　He　may　be　a　sceptic　like　the　gentle　Sieur　de　Montaigne；　or　a　saint　like　the　bitter　son　of　Monica；　but　when　he　tells　us　his　own　secrets　he　can　always　charm　our　ears　to　listening　and　our　lips　to　silence。　　The　mode　of　thought　that　Cardinal　Newman　represented　…　if　that　can　be　called　a　mode　of　thought　which　seeks　to　solve　intellectual　problems　by　a　denial　of　the　supremacy　of　the　intellect　…　may　not；　cannot；　I　think；　survive。　But　the　world　will　never　weary　of　watching　that　troubled　soul　in　its　progress　from　darkness　to　darkness。　　The　lonely　church　at　Littlemore；　where　'the　breath　of　the　morning　is　damp；　and　worshippers　are　few；'　will　always　be　dear　to　it；　and　whenever　men　see　the　yellow　snapdragon　blossoming　on　the　wall　of　Trinity　they　will　think　of　that　gracious　undergraduate　who　saw　in　the　flower's　sure　recurrence　a　prophecy　that　he　would　abide　for　ever　with　the　Benign　Mother　of　his　days　…　a　prophecy　that　Faith；　in　her　wisdom　or　her　folly；　suffered　not　to　be　fulfilled。　　Yes；　autobiography　is　irresistible。　　Poor；　silly；　conceited　Mr。　Secretary　Pepys　has　chattered　his　way　into　the　circle　of　the　Immortals；　and；　conscious　that　indiscretion　is　the　better　part　of　valour；　bustles　about　among　them　in　that　'shaggy　purple　gown　with　gold　buttons　and　looped　lace'　which　he　is　so　fond　of　describing　to　us；　perfectly　at　his　ease；　and　prattling；　to　his　own　and　our　infinite　pleasure；　of　the　Indian　blue　petticoat　that　he　bought　for　his　wife；　of　the　'good　hog's　hars…　let；'　and　the　'pleasant　French　fricassee　of　veal'　that　he　loved　to　eat；　of　his　game　of　bowls　with　Will　Joyce；　and　his　'gadding　after　beauties；'　and　his　reciting　of　HAMLET　on　a　Sunday；　and　his　playing　of　the　viol　on　week　days；　and　other　wicked　or　trivial　things。　　Even　in　actual　life　egotism　is　not　without　its　attractions。　　When　people　talk　to　us　about　others　they　are　usually　dull。　　When　they　talk　to　us　about　themselves　they　are　nearly　always　interesting；　and　if　one　could　shut　them　up；　when　they　become　wearisome；　as　easily　as　one　can　shut　up　a　book　of　which　one　has　grown　wearied；　they　would　be　perfect　absolutely。
  ERNEST。　　There　is　much　virtue　in　that　If；　as　Touchstone　would　say。　But　do　you　seriously　propose　that　every　man　should　become　his　own　Boswell？　　What　would　become　of　our　industrious　compilers　of　Lives　and　Recollections　in　that　case？
  GILBERT。　　What　has　become　of　them？　　They　are　the　pest　of　the　age；　nothing　more　and　nothing　less。　　Every　great　man　nowadays　has　his　disciples；　and　it　is　always　Judas　who　writes　the　biography。
  ERNEST。　　My　dear　fellow！
  GILBERT。　　I　am　afraid　it　is　true。　　Formerly　we　used　to　canonise　our　heroes。　　The　modern　method　is　to　vulgarise　them。　　Cheap　editions　of　great　books　may　be　delightful；　but　cheap　editions　of　great　men　are　absolutely　detestable。
  ERNEST。　　May　I　ask；　Gilbert；　to　whom　you　allude？
  GILBERT。　　Oh！　to　all　our　second…rate　LITTERATEURS。　　We　are　overrun　by　a　set　of　people　who；　when　poet　or　painter　passes　away；　arrive　at　the　house　along　with　the　undertaker；　and　forget　that　their　one　duty　is　to　behave　as　mutes。　　But　we　won't　talk　about　them。　　They　are　the　mere　body…snatchers　of　literature。　　The　dust　is　given　to　one；　and　the　ashes　to　another；　and　the　soul　is　out　of　their　reach。　　And　now；　let　me　play　Chopin　to　you；　or　Dvorek？　　Shall　I　play　you　a　fantasy　by　Dvorek？　　He　writes　passionate；　curiously…coloured　things。
  ERNEST。　　No；　I　don't　want　music　just　at　present。　　It　is　far　too　indefinite。　　Besides；　I　took　the　Baroness　Bernstein　down　to　dinner　last　night；　and；　though　absolutely　charming　in　every　other　respect；　she　insisted　on　discussing　music　as　if　it　were　actually　written　in　the　German　language。　　Now；　whatever　music　sounds　like　I　am　glad　to　say　that　it　does　not　sound　in　the　smallest　degree　like　German。　There　are　forms　of　patriotism　that　are　really　quite　degrading。　　No；　Gilbert；　don't　play　any　more。　　Turn　round　and　talk　to　me。　　Talk　to　me　till　the　white…horned　day　comes　into　the　room。　　There　is　something　in　your　voice　that　is　wonderful。
  GILBERT　（rising　from　the　piano）。　　I　am　not　in　a　mood　for　talking　to…night。　　I　really　am　not。　　How　horrid　of　you　to　smile！　　Where　are　the　cigarettes？　　Thanks。　　How　exquisite　these　single　daffodils　are！　They　seem　to　be　made　of　amber　and　cool　ivory。　　They　are　like　Greek　things　of　the　best　period。　　What　was　the　story　in　the　confessions　of　the　remorseful　Academician　that　made　you　laugh？　　Tell　it　to　me。　After　playing　Chopin；　I　feel　as　if　I　had　been　weeping　over　sins　that　I　had　never　committed；　and　mourning　over　tragedies　that　were　not　my　own。　　Music　always　seems　to　me　to　produce　that　effect。　　It　creates　for　one　a　past　of　which　one　has　been　ignorant；　and　fills　one　with　a　sense　of　sorrows　that　have　been　hidden　from　one's　tears。　I　can　fancy　a　man　who　had　led　a　perfectly　commonplace　life；　hearing　by　chance　some　curious　piece　of　music；　and　suddenly　discovering　that　his　soul；　without　his　being　conscious　of　it；　had　passed　through　terrible　experiences；　and　known　fearful　joys；　or　wild　romantic　loves；　or　great　renunciations。　　And　so　tell　me　this　story；　Ernest。　　I　want　to　be　amused。
  ERNEST。　　Oh！　　I　don't　know　that　it　is　of　any　importance。　　But　I　thought　it　a　really　admirable　illustration　of　the　true　value　of　ordinary　art…criticism。　　It　seems　that　a　lady　once　gravely　asked　the　remorseful　Academician；　as　you　call　him；　if　his　celebrated　picture　of　'A　Spring…Day　at　Whiteley's；'　or；　'Waiting　for　the　Last　Omnibus；'　or　some　subject　of　that　kind；　was　all　painted　by　hand？
  GILBERT。　　And　was　it？
  ERNEST。　　You　are　quite　incorrigible。　　But；　seriously　speaking；　what　is　the　use　of　art…criticism？　　Why　cannot　the　artist　be　left　alone；　to　create　a　new　world　if　he　wishes　it；　or；　if　not；　to　shadow　forth　the　world　which　we　already　know；　and　of　which；　I　fancy；　we　would　each　one　of　us　be　wearied　if　Art；　with　her　fine　spirit　of　choice　and　delicate　instinct　of　selection；　did　not；　as　it　were；　purify　it　for　us；　and　give　to　it　a　momentary　perfection。　　It　seems　to　me　that　the　imagination　spreads；　or　should　spread；　a　solitude　around　it；　and　works　best　in　silence　and　in　isolation。　　Why　should　the　artist　be　troubled　by　the　shrill　clamour　of　criticism？　　Why　should　those　who　cannot　create　take　upon　themselves　to　estimate　the　value　of　creative　work？　　What　can　they　know　about　it？　　If　a　man's　work　is　easy　to　understand；　an　explanation　is　unnecessary。　。　。　。
  GILBERT。　　And　if　his　work　is　incomprehensible；　an　explanation　is　wicked。
  ERNEST。　　I　did　not　say　that。
  GILBERT。　　Ah！　but　you　should　have。　　Nowadays；　we　have　so　few　mysteries　left　to　us　that　we　cannot　afford　to　part　with　one　of　them。　　The　members　of　the　Browning　Society；　like　the　theologians　of　the　Broad　Church　Party；　or　the　authors　of　Mr。　Walter　Scott's　Great　Writers　Series；　seem　to　me　to　spend　their　time　in　trying　to　explain　their　divinity　away。　　Where　one　had　hoped　that　Browning　was　a　mystic　they　have　sought　to　show　that　he　was　simply　inarticulate。　Where　one　had　fancied　that　he　had　something　to　conceal；　they　have　proved　that　he　had　but　little　to　reveal。　　But　I　speak　merely　of　his　incoherent　work。　　Taken　as　a　whole　the　man　was　great。　　He　did　not　belong　to　the　Olympians；　and　had　all　the　incompleteness　of　the　Titan。　　He　did　not　survey；　and　it　was　but　rarely　that　he　could　sing。　　His　work　is　marred　by　struggle；　violence　a