ear　to　you。　　Find　expression　for　a　joy；　and　you　intensify　its　ecstasy。　　Do　you　wish　to　love？　　Use　Love's　Litany；　and　the　words　will　create　the　yearning　from　which　the　world　fancies　that　they　spring。　　Have　you　a　grief　that　corrodes　your　heart？　　Steep　yourself　in　the　Language　of　grief；　learn　its　utterance　from　Prince　Hamlet　and　Queen　Constance；　and　you　will　find　that　mere　expression　is　a　mode　of　consolation；　and　that　Form；　which　is　the　birth　of　passion；　is　also　the　death　of　pain。　And　so；　to　return　to　the　sphere　of　Art；　it　is　Form　that　creates　not　merely　the　critical　temperament；　but　also　the　aesthetic　instinct；　that　unerring　instinct　that　reveals　to　one　all　things　under　their　conditions　of　beauty。　　Start　with　the　worship　of　form；　and　there　is　no　secret　in　art　that　will　not　be　revealed　to　you；　and　remember　that　in　criticism；　as　in　creation；　temperament　is　everything；　and　that　it　is；　not　by　the　time　of　their　production；　but　by　the　temperaments　to　which　they　appeal；　that　the　schools　of　art　should　be　historically　grouped。
  ERNEST。　　Your　theory　of　education　is　delightful。　　But　what　influence　will　your　critic；　brought　up　in　these　exquisite　surroundings；　possess？　　Do　you　really　think　that　any　artist　is　ever　affected　by　criticism？
  GILBERT。　　The　influence　of　the　critic　will　be　the　mere　fact　of　his　own　existence。　　He　will　represent　the　flawless　type。　　In　him　the　culture　of　the　century　will　see　itself　realised。　　You　must　not　ask　of　him　to　have　any　aim　other　than　the　perfecting　of　himself。　　The　demand　of　the　intellect；　as　has　been　well　said；　is　simply　to　feel　itself　alive。　　The　critic　may；　indeed；　desire　to　exercise　influence；　but；　if　so；　he　will　concern　himself　not　with　the　individual；　but　with　the　age；　which　he　will　seek　to　wake　into　consciousness；　and　to　make　responsive；　creating　in　it　new　desires　and　appetites；　and　lending　it　his　larger　vision　and　his　nobler　moods。　　The　actual　art　of　to…day　will　occupy　him　less　than　the　art　of　to…morrow；　far　less　than　the　art　of　yesterday；　and　as　for　this　or　that　person　at　present　toiling　away；　what　do　the　industrious　matter？　　They　do　their　best；　no　doubt；　and　consequently　we　get　the　worst　from　them。　　It　is　always　with　the　best　intentions　that　the　worst　work　is　done。　　And　besides；　my　dear　Ernest；　when　a　man　reaches　the　age　of　forty；　or　becomes　a　Royal　Academician；　or　is　elected　a　member　of　the　Athenaeum　Club；　or　is　recognised　as　a　popular　novelist；　whose　books　are　in　great　demand　at　suburban　railway　stations；　one　may　have　the　amusement　of　exposing　him；　but　one　cannot　have　the　pleasure　of　reforming　him。　　And　this　is；　I　dare　say；　very　fortunate　for　him；　for　I　have　no　doubt　that　reformation　is　a　much　more　painful　process　than　punishment；　is　indeed　punishment　in　its　most　aggravated　and　moral　form　…　a　fact　which　accounts　for　our　entire　failure　as　a　community　to　reclaim　that　interesting　phenomenon　who　is　called　the　confirmed　criminal。
  ERNEST。　　But　may　it　not　be　that　the　poet　is　the　best　judge　of　poetry；　and　the　painter　of　painting？　　Each　art　must　appeal　primarily　to　the　artist　who　works　in　it。　　His　judgment　will　surely　be　the　most　valuable？
  GILBERT。　　The　appeal　of　all　art　is　simply　to　the　artistic　temperament。　　Art　does　not　address　herself　to　the　specialist。　　Her　claim　is　that　she　is　universal；　and　that　in　all　her　manifestations　she　is　one。　　Indeed；　so　far　from　its　being　true　that　the　artist　is　the　best　judge　of　art；　a　really　great　artist　can　never　judge　of　other　people's　work　at　all；　and　can　hardly；　in　fact；　judge　of　his　own。　　That　very　concentration　of　vision　that　makes　a　man　an　artist；　limits　by　its　sheer　intensity　his　faculty　of　fine　appreciation。　The　energy　of　creation　hurries　him　blindly　on　to　his　own　goal。　　The　wheels　of　his　chariot　raise　the　dust　as　a　cloud　around　him。　　The　gods　are　hidden　from　each　other。　　They　can　recognise　their　worshippers。　　That　is　all。
  ERNEST。　　You　say　that　a　great　artist　cannot　recognise　the　beauty　of　work　different　from　his　own。
  GILBERT。　　It　is　impossible　for　him　to　do　so。　　Wordsworth　saw　in　ENDYMION　merely　a　pretty　piece　of　Paganism；　and　Shelley；　with　his　dislike　of　actuality；　was　deaf　to　Wordsworth's　message；　being　repelled　by　its　form；　and　Byron；　that　great　passionate　human　incomplete　creature；　could　appreciate　neither　the　poet　of　the　cloud　nor　the　poet　of　the　lake；　and　the　wonder　of　Keats　was　hidden　from　him。　　The　realism　of　Euripides　was　hateful　to　Sophokles。　　Those　droppings　of　warm　tears　had　no　music　for　him。　　Milton；　with　his　sense　of　the　grand　style；　could　not　understand　the　method　of　Shakespeare；　any　more　than　could　Sir　Joshua　the　method　of　Gainsborough。　　Bad　artists　always　admire　each　other's　work。　　They　call　it　being　large…minded　and　free　from　prejudice。　　But　a　truly　great　artist　cannot　conceive　of　life　being　shown；　or　beauty　fashioned；　under　any　conditions　other　than　those　that　he　has　selected。　　Creation　employs　all　its　critical　faculty　within　its　own　sphere。　　It　may　not　use　it　in　the　sphere　that　belongs　to　others。　It　is　exactly　because　a　man　cannot　do　a　thing　that　he　is　the　proper　judge　of　it。
  ERNEST。　　Do　you　really　mean　that？
  GILBERT。　　Yes；　for　creation　limits；　while　contemplation　widens；　the　vision。
  ERNEST。　　But　what　about　technique？　　Surely　each　art　has　its　separate　technique？
  GILBERT。　　Certainly：　　each　art　has　its　grammar　and　its　materials。　There　is　no　mystery　about　either；　and　the　incompetent　can　always　be　correct。　　But；　while　the　laws　upon　which　Art　rests　may　be　fixed　and　certain；　to　find　their　true　realisation　they　must　be　touched　by　the　imagination　into　such　beauty　that　they　will　seem　an　exception；　each　one　of　them。　　Technique　is　really　personality。　　That　is　the　reason　why　the　artist　cannot　teach　it；　why　the　pupil　cannot　learn　it；　and　why　the　aesthetic　critic　can　understand　it。　　To　the　great　poet；　there　is　only　one　method　of　music　…　his　own。　　To　the　great　painter；　there　is　only　one　manner　of　painting　…　that　which　he　himself　employs。　　The　aesthetic　critic；　and　the　aesthetic　critic　alone；　can　appreciate　all　forms　and　modes。　　It　is　to　him　that　Art　makes　her　appeal。
  ERNEST。　　Well；　I　think　I　have　put　all　my　questions　to　you。　　And　now　I　must　admit　…
  GILBERT。　　Ah！　don't　say　that　you　agree　with　me。　　When　people　agree　with　me　I　always　feel　that　I　must　be　wrong。
  ERNEST。　　In　that　case　I　certainly　won't　tell　you　whether　I　agree　with　you　or　not。　　But　I　will　put　another　question。　　You　have　explained　to　me　that　criticism　is　a　creative　art。　　What　future　has　it？
  GILBERT。　　It　is　to　criticism　that　the　future　belongs。　　The　subject…　matter　at　the　disposal　of　creation　becomes　every　day　more　limited　in　extent　and　variety。　　Providence　and　Mr。　Walter　Besant　have　exhausted　the　obvious。　　If　creation　is　to　last　at　all；　it　can　only　do　so　on　the　condition　of　becoming　far　more　critical　than　it　is　at　present。　　The　old　roads　and　dusty　highways　have　been　traversed　too　often。　　Their　charm　has　been　worn　away　by　plodding　feet；　and　they　have　lost　that　element　of　novelty　or　surprise　which　is　so　essential　for　romance。　　He　who　would　stir　us　now　by　fiction　must　either　give　us　an　entirely　new　background；　or　reveal　to　us　the　soul　of　man　in　its　innermost　workings。　　The　first　is　for　the　moment　being　done　for　us　by　Mr。　Rudyard　Kipling。　　As　one　turns　over　the　pages　of　his　PLAIN　TALES　FROM　THE　HILLS；　one　feels　as　if　one　were　seated　under　a　palm…tree　reading　life　by　superb　flashes　of　vulgarity。　　The　bright　colours　of　the　bazaars　dazzle　one's　eyes。　　The　jaded；　second…rate　Anglo…Indians　are　in　exquisite　incongruity　with　their　surroundings。　The　mere　lack　of　style　in　the　story…teller　gives　an　odd　journalistic　realism　to　what　he　tells　us。　　From　the　point　of　view　of　literature　Mr。　Kipling　is　a　genius　who　drops　his　aspirates。　From　the　point　of　view　of　life；　he　is　a　reporter　who　knows　vulgarity　better　than　any　one　has　ever　known　it。　　Dickens　knew　its　clothes　and　its　comedy。　　Mr。　Kipling　knows　its　essence　and　its　seriousness。　　He　is　our　first　authority　on　the　second…rate；　and　has　seen　marvellous　things　through　keyholes；　and　his　backgrounds　are　real　works　of　art。　　As　for　the　second　condition；　we　have　had　Browning；　and　Meredith　is　with　us。　　But　there　is　still　much　to　be　done　in　the　sphere　of　introspection。　　People　sometimes　say　that　fiction　is　getting　too　morbid。　　As　far　as　psychology　is　concerned；　it　has　never　been　morbid　enough。　　We　have　merely　touched　the　surface　of　the　soul；　that　is　all。　　In　one　single　ivory　cell　of　the　brain　there　are　stored　away　things　more　marvellous　and　more　terrible　than　even　they　have　dreamed　of；　who；　like　the　author　of　LE　ROUGE　ET　LE　NOIR；　have　sought　to　track　the　soul　into　its　most　secret　places；　and　to　make　life　confess　its　dearest　sins。　　Still；　there　is　a　limit　even　to　the　number　of　untried　backgrounds；　and　it　is　possible　that　a　further　development　of　the　habit　of　introspection　may　prove　fatal　to　that　creative　faculty　to　which　it　seeks　to　supply　fresh　material。　　I　myself　am　inclined　to　think　that　creation　is　doomed。　　It　springs　from　too　primitive；　too　natural　an　impulse。　　However　this　may　be；　it　is　certain　that　the　subject…　matter　at　the　disposal　of　creation　is　always　diminishing；　while　the　subject…matter　of　criticism　increases　daily。　　There　are　always　new　attitudes　for　the　mind；　and　new　points　of　view。　　The　duty　of　imposing　form　upon　chaos　does　not　grow　l