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All subtle arts belonged to him also。 He held the gem against the revolving disk； and the amethyst became the purple couch for Adonis； and across the veined sardonyx sped Artemis with her hounds。 He beat out the gold into roses； and strung them together for necklace or armlet。 He beat out the gold into wreaths for the conqueror's helmet； or into palmates for the Tyrian robe； or into masks for the royal dead。 On the back of the silver mirror he graved Thetis borne by her Nereids； or love…sick Phaedra with her nurse； or Persephone； weary of memory； putting poppies in her hair。 The potter sat in his shed； and； flower…like from the silent wheel； the vase rose up beneath his hands。 He decorated the base and stem and ears with pattern of dainty olive…leaf； or foliated acanthus； or curved and crested wave。 Then in black or red he painted lads wrestling； or in the race： knights in full armour； with strange heraldic shields and curious visors； leaning from shell…shaped chariot over rearing steeds： the gods seated at the feast or working their miracles： the heroes in their victory or in their pain。 Sometimes he would etch in thin vermilion lines upon a ground of white the languid bridegroom and his bride； with Eros hovering round them … an Eros like one of Donatello's angels； a little laughing thing with gilded or with azure wings。 On the curved side he would write the name of his friend。 ＇Greek text which cannot be reproduced＇ tells us the story of his days。 Again； on the rim of the wide flat cup he would draw the stag browsing； or the lion at rest； as his fancy willed it。 From the tiny perfume… bottle laughed Aphrodite at her toilet； and； with bare…limbed Maenads in his train； Dionysus danced round the wine…jar on naked must…stained feet； while； satyr…like； the old Silenus sprawled upon the bloated skins； or shook that magic spear which was tipped with a fretted fir…cone； and wreathed with dark ivy。 And no one came to trouble the artist at his work。 No irresponsible chatter disturbed him。 He was not worried by opinions。 By the Ilyssus； says Arnold somewhere； there was no Higginbotham。 By the Ilyssus； my dear Gilbert； there were no silly art congresses bringing provincialism to the provinces and teaching the mediocrity how to mouth。 By the Ilyssus there were no tedious magazines about art； in which the industrious prattle of what they do not understand。 On the reed… grown banks of that little stream strutted no ridiculous journalism monopolising the seat of judgment when it should be apologising in the dock。 The Greeks had no art…critics。
GILBERT。 Ernest； you are quite delightful； but your views are terribly unsound。 I am afraid that you have been listening to the conversation of some one older than yourself。 That is always a dangerous thing to do； and if you allow it to degenerate into a habit you will find it absolutely fatal to any intellectual development。 As for modern journalism； it is not my business to defend it。 It justifies its own existence by the great Darwinian principle of the survival of the vulgarest。 I have merely to do with literature。
ERNEST。 But what is the difference between literature and journalism？
GILBERT。 Oh！ journalism is unreadable； and literature is not read。 That is all。 But with regard to your statement that the Greeks had no art…critics； I assure you that is quite absurd。 It would be more just to say that the Greeks were a nation of art…critics。
ERNEST。 Really？
GILBERT。 Yes； a nation of art…critics。 But I don't wish to destroy the delightfully unreal picture that you have drawn of the relation of the Hellenic artist to the intellectual spirit of his age。 To give an accurate description of what has never occurred is not merely the proper occupation of the historian； but the inalienable privilege of any man of parts and culture。 Still less do I desire to talk learnedly。 Learned conversation is either the affectation of the ignorant or the profession of the mentally unemployed。 And； as for what is called improving conversation； that is merely the foolish method by which the still more foolish philanthropist feebly tries to disarm the just rancour of the criminal classes。 No： let me play to you some mad scarlet thing by Dvorek。 The pallid figures on the tapestry are smiling at us； and the heavy eyelids of my bronze Narcissus are folded in sleep。 Don't let us discuss anything solemnly。 I am but too conscious of the fact that we are born in an age when only the dull are treated seriously； and I live in terror of not being misunderstood。 Don't degrade me into the position of giving you useful information。 Education is an admirable thing； but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught。 Through the parted curtains of the window I see the moon like a clipped piece of silver。 Like gilded bees the stars cluster round her。 The sky is a hard hollow sapphire。 Let us go out into the night。 Thought is wonderful； but adventure is more wonderful still。 Who knows but we may meet Prince Florizel of Bohemia； and hear the fair Cuban tell us that she is not what she seems？
ERNEST。 You are horribly wilful。 I insist on your discussing this matter with me。 You have said that the Greeks were a nation of art…critics。 What art…criticism have they left us？
GILBERT。 My dear Ernest； even if not a single fragment of art… criticism had come down to us from Hellenic or Hellenistic days； it would be none the less true that the Greeks were a nation of art… critics； and that they invented the criticism of art just as they invented the criticism of everything else。 For； after all； what is our primary debt to the Greeks？ Simply the critical spirit。 And； this spirit； which they exercised on questions of religion and science； of ethics and metaphysics； of politics and education； they exercised on questions of art also； and； indeed； of the two supreme and highest arts； they have left us the most flawless system of criticism that the world has ever seen。
ERNEST。 But what are the two supreme and highest arts？
GILBERT。 Life and Literature； life and the perfect expression of life。 The principles of the former； as laid down by the Greeks； we may not realise in an age so marred by false ideals as our own。 The principles of the latter； as they laid them down； are； in many cases； so subtle that we can hardly understand them。 Recognising that the most perfect art is that which most fully mirrors man in all his infinite variety； they elaborated the criticism of language； considered in the light of the mere material of that art； to a point to which we； with our accentual system of reasonable or emotional emphasis； can barely if at all attain； studying； for instance； the metrical movements of a prose as scientifically as a modern musician studies harmony and counterpoint； and； I need hardly say； with much keener aesthetic instinct。 In this they were right； as they were right in all things。 Since the introduction of printing； and the fatal development of the habit of reading amongst the middle and lower classes of this country； there has been a tendency in literature to appeal more and more to the eye； and less and less to the ear which is really the sense which； from the standpoint of pure art； it should seek to please； and by whose canons of pleasure it should abide always。 Even the work of Mr。 Pater； who is； on the whole； the most perfect master of English prose now creating amongst us； is often far more like a piece of mosaic than a passage in music； and seems； here and there； to lack the true rhythmical life of words and the fine freedom and richness of effect that such rhythmical life produces。 We； in fact； have made writing a definite mode of composition； and have treated it as a form of elaborate design。 The Greeks； upon the other hand； regarded writing simply as a method of chronicling。 Their test was always the spoken word in its musical and metrical relations。 The voice was the medium； and the ear the critic。 I have sometimes thought that the story of Homer's blindness might be really an artistic myth； created in critical days； and serving to remind us； not merely that the great poet is always a seer； seeing les