eliness。　　Ultimately；　in　its　due　course；　this　taste　is　to　become　critical　and　self…conscious；　but　at　first　it　is　to　exist　purely　as　a　cultivated　instinct；　and　'he　who　has　received　this　true　culture　of　the　inner　man　will　with　clear　and　certain　vision　perceive　the　omissions　and　faults　in　art　or　nature；　and　with　a　taste　that　cannot　err；　while　he　praises；　and　finds　his　pleasure　in　what　is　good；　and　receives　it　into　his　soul；　and　so　becomes　good　and　noble；　he　will　rightly　blame　and　hate　the　bad；　now　in　the　days　of　his　youth；　even　before　he　is　able　to　know　the　reason　why'：　　and　so；　when；　later　on；　the　critical　and　self…conscious　spirit　develops　in　him；　he　'will　recognise　and　salute　it　as　a　friend　with　whom　his　education　has　made　him　long　familiar。'　　I　need　hardly　say；　Ernest；　how　far　we　in　England　have　fallen　short　of　this　ideal；　and　I　can　imagine　the　smile　that　would　illuminate　the　glossy　face　of　the　Philistine　if　one　ventured　to　suggest　to　him　that　the　true　aim　of　education　was　the　love　of　beauty；　and　that　the　methods　by　which　education　should　work　were　the　development　of　temperament；　the　cultivation　of　taste；　and　the　creation　of　the　critical　spirit。
  Yet；　even　for　us；　there　is　left　some　loveliness　of　environment；　and　the　dulness　of　tutors　and　professors　matters　very　little　when　one　can　loiter　in　the　grey　cloisters　at　Magdalen；　and　listen　to　some　flute…like　voice　singing　in　Waynfleete's　chapel；　or　lie　in　the　green　meadow；　among　the　strange　snake…spotted　fritillaries；　and　watch　the　sunburnt　noon　smite　to　a　finer　gold　the　tower's　gilded　vanes；　or　wander　up　the　Christ　Church　staircase　beneath　the　vaulted　ceiling's　shadowy　fans；　or　pass　through　the　sculptured　gateway　of　Laud's　building　in　the　College　of　St。　John。　　Nor　is　it　merely　at　Oxford；　or　Cambridge；　that　the　sense　of　beauty　can　be　formed　and　trained　and　perfected。　　All　over　England　there　is　a　Renaissance　of　the　decorative　Arts。　　Ugliness　has　had　its　day。　　Even　in　the　houses　of　the　rich　there　is　taste；　and　the　houses　of　those　who　are　not　rich　have　been　made　gracious　and　comely　and　sweet　to　live　in。　Caliban；　poor　noisy　Caliban；　thinks　that　when　he　has　ceased　to　make　mows　at　a　thing；　the　thing　ceases　to　exist。　　But　if　he　mocks　no　longer；　it　is　because　he　has　been　met　with　mockery；　swifter　and　keener　than　his　own；　and　for　a　moment　has　been　bitterly　schooled　into　that　silence　which　should　seal　for　ever　his　uncouth　distorted　lips。　　What　has　been　done　up　to　now；　has　been　chiefly　in　the　clearing　of　the　way。　　It　is　always　more　difficult　to　destroy　than　it　is　to　create；　and　when　what　one　has　to　destroy　is　vulgarity　and　stupidity；　the　task　of　destruction　needs　not　merely　courage　but　also　contempt。　　Yet　it　seems　to　me　to　have　been；　in　a　measure；　done。　　We　have　got　rid　of　what　was　bad。　　We　have　now　to　make　what　is　beautiful。　　And　though　the　mission　of　the　aesthetic　movement　is　to　lure　people　to　contemplate；　not　to　lead　them　to　create；　yet；　as　the　creative　instinct　is　strong　in　the　Celt；　and　it　is　the　Celt　who　leads　in　art；　there　is　no　reason　why　in　future　years　this　strange　Renaissance　should　not　become　almost　as　mighty　in　its　way　as　was　that　new　birth　of　Art　that　woke　many　centuries　ago　in　the　cities　of　Italy。
  Certainly；　for　the　cultivation　of　temperament；　we　must　turn　to　the　decorative　arts：　　to　the　arts　that　touch　us；　not　to　the　arts　that　teach　us。　　Modern　pictures　are；　no　doubt；　delightful　to　look　at。　At　least；　some　of　them　are。　　But　they　are　quite　impossible　to　live　with；　they　are　too　clever；　too　assertive；　too　intellectual。　　Their　meaning　is　too　obvious；　and　their　method　too　clearly　defined。　　One　exhausts　what　they　have　to　say　in　a　very　short　time；　and　then　they　become　as　tedious　as　one's　relations。　　I　am　very　fond　of　the　work　of　many　of　the　Impressionist　painters　of　Paris　and　London。　Subtlety　and　distinction　have　not　yet　left　the　school。　　Some　of　their　arrangements　and　harmonies　serve　to　remind　one　of　the　unapproachable　beauty　of　Gautier's　immortal　SYMPHONIE　EN　BLANC　MAJEUR；　that　flawless　masterpiece　of　colour　and　music　which　may　have　suggested　the　type　as　well　as　the　titles　of　many　of　their　best　pictures。　　For　a　class　that　welcomes　the　incompetent　with　sympathetic　eagerness；　and　that　confuses　the　bizarre　with　the　beautiful；　and　vulgarity　with　truth；　they　are　extremely　accomplished。　　They　can　do　etchings　that　have　the　brilliancy　of　epigrams；　pastels　that　are　as　fascinating　as　paradoxes；　and　as　for　their　portraits；　whatever　the　commonplace　may　say　against　them；　no　one　can　deny　that　they　possess　that　unique　and　wonderful　charm　which　belongs　to　works　of　pure　fiction。　　But　even　the　Impressionists；　earnest　and　industrious　as　they　are；　will　not　do。　I　like　them。　　Their　white　keynote；　with　its　variations　in　lilac；　was　an　era　in　colour。　　Though　the　moment　does　not　make　the　man；　the　moment　certainly　makes　the　Impressionist；　and　for　the　moment　in　art；　and　the　'moment's　monument；'　as　Rossetti　phrased　it；　what　may　not　be　said？　　They　are　suggestive　also。　　If　they　have　not　opened　the　eyes　of　the　blind；　they　have　at　least　given　great　encouragement　to　the　short…sighted；　and　while　their　leaders　may　have　all　the　inexperience　of　old　age；　their　young　men　are　far　too　wise　to　be　ever　sensible。　　Yet　they　will　insist　on　treating　painting　as　if　it　were　a　mode　of　autobiography　invented　for　the　use　of　the　illiterate；　and　are　always　prating　to　us　on　their　coarse　gritty　canvases　of　their　unnecessary　selves　and　their　unnecessary　opinions；　and　spoiling　by　a　vulgar　over…emphasis　that　fine　contempt　of　nature　which　is　the　best　and　only　modest　thing　about　them。　　One　tires；　at　the　end；　of　the　work　of　individuals　whose　individuality　is　always　noisy；　and　generally　uninteresting。　　There　is　far　more　to　be　said　in　favour　of　that　newer　school　at　Paris；　the　ARCHAICISTES；　as　they　call　themselves；　who；　refusing　to　leave　the　artist　entirely　at　the　mercy　of　the　weather；　do　not　find　the　ideal　of　art　in　mere　atmospheric　effect；　but　seek　rather　for　the　imaginative　beauty　of　design　and　the　loveliness　of　fair　colour；　and　rejecting　the　tedious　realism　of　those　who　merely　paint　what　they　see；　try　to　see　something　worth　seeing；　and　to　see　it　not　merely　with　actual　and　physical　vision；　but　with　that　nobler　vision　of　the　soul　which　is　as　far　wider　in　spiritual　scope　as　it　is　far　more　splendid　in　artistic　purpose。　　They；　at　any　rate；　work　under　those　decorative　conditions　that　each　art　requires　for　its　perfection；　and　have　sufficient　aesthetic　instinct　to　regret　those　sordid　and　stupid　limitations　of　absolute　modernity　of　form　which　have　proved　the　ruin　of　so　many　of　the　Impressionists。　　Still；　the　art　that　is　frankly　decorative　is　the　art　to　live　with。　　It　is；　of　all　our　visible　arts；　the　one　art　that　creates　in　us　both　mood　and　temperament。　　Mere　colour；　unspoiled　by　meaning；　and　unallied　with　definite　form；　can　speak　to　the　soul　in　a　thousand　different　ways。　The　harmony　that　resides　in　the　delicate　proportions　of　lines　and　masses　becomes　mirrored　in　the　mind。　　The　repetitions　of　pattern　give　us　rest。　　The　marvels　of　design　stir　the　imagination。　　In　the　mere　loveliness　of　the　materials　employed　there　are　latent　elements　of　culture。　　Nor　is　this　all。　　By　its　deliberate　rejection　of　Nature　as　the　ideal　of　beauty；　as　well　as　of　the　imitative　method　of　the　ordinary　painter；　decorative　art　not　merely　prepares　the　soul　for　the　reception　of　true　imaginative　work；　but　develops　in　it　that　sense　of　form　which　is　the　basis　of　creative　no　less　than　of　critical　achievement。　　For　the　real　artist　is　he　who　proceeds；　not　from　feeling　to　form；　but　from　form　to　thought　and　passion。　　He　does　not　first　conceive　an　idea；　and　then　say　to　himself；　'I　will　put　my　idea　into　a　complex　metre　of　fourteen　lines；'　but；　realising　the　beauty　of　the　sonnet…scheme；　he　conceives　certain　modes　of　music　and　methods　of　rhyme；　and　the　mere　form　suggests　what　is　to　fill　it　and　make　it　intellectually　and　emotionally　complete。　　From　time　to　time　the　world　cries　out　against　some　charming　artistic　poet；　because；　to　use　its　hackneyed　and　silly　phrase；　he　has　'nothing　to　say。'　　But　if　he　had　something　to　say；　he　would　probably　say　it；　and　the　result　would　be　tedious。　　It　is　just　because　he　has　no　new　message；　that　he　can　do　beautiful　work。　　He　gains　his　inspiration　from　form；　and　from　form　purely；　as　an　artist　should。　　A　real　passion　would　ruin　him。　　Whatever　actually　occurs　is　spoiled　for　art。　　All　bad　poetry　springs　from　genuine　feeling。　To　be　natural　is　to　be　obvious；　and　to　be　obvious　is　to　be　inartistic。
  ERNEST。　　I　wonder　do　you　really　believe　what　you　say？
  GILBERT。　　Why　should　you　wonder？　　It　is　not　merely　in　art　that　the　body　is　the　soul。　　In　every　sphere　of　life　Form　is　the　beginning　of　things。　　The　rhythmic　harmonious　gestures　of　dancing　convey；　Plato　tells　us；　both　rhythm　and　harmony　into　the　mind。　　Forms　are　the　food　of　faith；　cried　Newman　in　one　of　those　great　moments　of　sincerity　that　make　us　admire　and　know　the　man。　　He　was　right；　though　he　may　not　have　known　how　terribly　right　he　was。　　The　Creeds　are　believed；　not　because　they　are　rational；　but　because　they　are　repeated。　　Yes：　　Form　is　everything。　　It　is　the　secret　of　life。　Find　expression　for　a　sorrow；　and　it　will　become　dear　to　you。　　Find　expression　for　a　joy；　and　you　intensify　its　ecstasy。　　Do　you　wish　to　love？　　Use　Lo