pale with envy, when he reflects that he missed saying it, where it belongs, in his clever, truthful, ill-natured paper on "Mummer-Worship."
The significance and the charm of Mr. Wilde's book are centred in its opening chapter, "The Decay of Lying," reprinted from The Nineteenth Century, and in the long two-part essay, entitled "The Critic as Artist," which embodies some of his most thoughtful, serious, and scholarly work. My own ineffable content rests with "The Decay of Lying," because, under its transparent mask of cynicism, its wit, its satire, its languid mocking humor, lies clearly outlined a great truth that is slipping fast away from us—the absolute independence of art—art nourished by imagination and revealing beauty. This is the hand that gilds the grayness of the world; this is the voice that sings in flute tones through the silence of the ages. To degrade this shining vision into a handmaid of nature, to maintain that she should give us photographic pictures of an unlovely life, is a heresy that arouses in
