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He said that； if so； he should advise me to leave it out。 Not that it
was altogether bad； but that the interpolation of a modern thought among
so unique a collection of passages from the ancients seemed to spoil the
scheme。
And he enumerated the various dead…and…buried gentlemen from
whom he appeared to think I had collated my article。
〃But；〃 I replied； when I had recovered my astonishment sufficiently to
speak； 〃it isn't a collection at all。 It is all original。 I wrote the thoughts
down as they came to me。 I have never read any of these people you
mention； except Shakespeare。〃
Of course Shakespeare was bound to be among them。 I am getting to
dislike that man so。 He is always being held up before us young authors
as a model； and I do hate models。 There was a model boy at our school； I
remember； Henry Summers； and it was just the same there。 It was
continually； 〃Look at Henry Summers！ he doesn't put the preposition
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before the verb； and spell business b…i…z！〃 or； 〃Why can't you write like
Henry Summers？ He doesn't get the ink all over the copy…book and half…
way up his back！〃 We got tired of this everlasting 〃Look at Henry
Summers！〃 after a while； and so； one afternoon； on the way home； a few
of us lured Henry Summers up a dark court； and when he came out again
he was not worth looking at。
Now it is perpetually； 〃Look at Shakespeare！〃 〃Why don't you write
like Shakespeare？〃 〃Shakespeare never made that joke。 Why don't you
joke like Shakespeare？〃
If you are in the play…writing line it is still worse for you。 〃Why don't
you write plays like Shakespeare's？〃 they indignantly say。 〃Shakespeare
never made his comic man a penny steamboat captain。〃 〃Shakespeare
never made his hero address the girl as 'ducky。' Why don't you copy
Shakespeare？〃 If you do try to copy Shakespeare； they tell you that you
must be a fool to attempt to imitate Shakespeare。
Oh； shouldn't I like to get Shakespeare up our street； and punch him！
〃I cannot help that；〃 replied my critical friendto return to our
previous question〃the germ of every thought and idea you have got in
that article can be traced back to the writers I have named。 If you doubt
it； I will get down the books； and show you the passages for yourself。〃
But I declined the offer。 I said I would take his word for it； and
would rather not see the passages referred to。 I felt indignant。 〃If；〃 as I
said； 〃these menthese Platos and Socrateses and Ciceros and
Sophocleses and Aristophaneses and Aristotles and the rest of them had
been taking advantage of my absence to go about the world spoiling my
business for me； I would rather not hear any more about them。〃
And I put on my hat and came out； and I have never tried to write
anything original since。
I dreamed a dream once。 （It is the sort of thing a man would dream。
You cannot very well dream anything else； I know。 But the phrase
sounds poetical and biblical； and so I use it。） I dreamed that I was in a
strange countryindeed； one might say an extraordinary country。 It was
ruled entirely by critics。
The people in this strange land had a very high opinion of critics
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nearly as high an opinion of critics as the critics themselves had； but not；
of course； quitethat not being practicableand they had agreed to be
guided in all things by the critics。 I stayed some years in that land。 But
it was not a cheerful place to live in； so I dreamed。
There were authors in this country； at first； and they wrote books。 But
the critics could find nothing original in the books whatever； and said it
was a pity that men； who might be usefully employed hoeing potatoes；
should waste their time and the time of the critics； which was of still more
importance； in stringing together a collection of platitudes； familiar to
every school…boy； and dishing up old plots and stories that had already
been cooked and recooked for the public until everybody had been
surfeited with them。
And the writers read what the critics said and sighed； and gave up
writing books； and went off and hoed potatoes； as advised。 They had had
no experience in hoeing potatoes； and they hoed very badly； and the
people whose potatoes they hoed strongly recommended them to leave
hoeing potatoes； and to go back and write books。 But you can't do what
everybody advises。
There were artists also in this strange world； at first； and they painted
pictures； which the critics came and looked at through eyeglasses。
〃Nothing whatever original in them；〃 said the critics； 〃same old colors；
same old perspective and form； same old sunset； same old sea and land；
and sky and figures。 Why do these poor men waste their time； painting
pictures； when they might be so much more satisfactorily employed on
ladders painting houses？〃
Nothing； by the by； you may have noticed； troubles your critic more
than the idea that the artist is wasting his time。 It is the waste of time that
vexes the critic； he has such an exalted idea of the value of other people's
time。 〃Dear； dear me！〃 he says to himself； 〃why； in the time the man
must have taken to paint this picture or to write this book； he might have
blacked fifteen thousand pairs of boots； or have carried fifteen thousand
hods of mortar up a ladder。 This is how the time of the world is lost！〃
It never occurs to him that； but for that picture or book； the artist
would； in all probability； have been mouching about with a pipe in his
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mouth； getting into trouble。
It reminds me of the way people used to talk to me when I was a boy。 I
would be sitting； as good as gold； reading 〃The Pirate's Lair；〃 when some
cultured relative would look over my shoulder and say： 〃Bah！ what are
you wasting your time with rubbish for？ Why don't you go and do
something useful？〃 and would take the book away from me。 Upon which
I would get up； and go out to 〃do something useful；〃 and would come
home an hour afterward； looking like a bit out of a battle picture； having
tumbled through the roof of Farmer Bate's greenhouse and killed a cactus；
though totally unable to explain how I came to be on the roof of Farmer
Bate's greenhouse。 They had much better have left me alone； lost in 〃The
Pirate's Lair！〃
The artists in this land of which I dreamed left off painting pictures；
after hearing what the critics said； and purchased ladders； and went off and
painted houses。
Because； you see； this country of which I dreamed was not one of
those vulgar； ordinary countries； such as exist in the waking world； where
people let the critics talk as much as ever they like； and nobody pays the
slightest attention to what they say。 Here； in this strange land； the critics
were taken seriously； and their advice followed。
As for the poets and sculptors； they were very soon shut up。 The idea
of any educated person wanting to read modern poetry when he could
obtain Homer； or caring to look at any other statue while there was still
some of the Venus de Medicis left； was too absurd。 Poets and sculptors
were only wasting their time
What new occupation they were recommended to adopt； I forget。
Some calling they knew nothing whatever about； and that they were totally
unfitted for； of course。
The musicians t