imaginary characters as though they were real persons, with independent biographies of their own. He obliges us with conjectural fragments of their biographies. “Doubtless in happier days he (Hamlet) was a close and constant observer of men and manners.” “All his life he had believed in her (Gertrude), we may be sure, as such a son would.” Shakespearian superstition again, you see, not merely alongside but actually growing out of artistic appreciation. Literary critics, as a rule, have suffered less than so-called literary “creators” from perverted reputations. The reason is plain. The man in the back street has never heard of criticism. But what, it will be asked, about the strange case of Aristotle? Well, I submit that in his case the perversion arose from the second cause I have indicated—not from the ignorance of the multitude but from the superstitious veneration of the few. Who was it who began the game by calling Aristotle “the master of those who know”? A poet who was also a scholar. Who declared Aristotle’s authority in philosophy to equal St. Paul’s in theology? Roger Bacon (they say; I have not myself asked for this author at Mudie’s or _The Times_ Book Club). Who said there could be no possible contradiction between the Poetics and Holy Writ? Dacier, an eminent Hellenist. Who declared the rules of Aristotle to have the same certainty for him as the axioms of Euclid? Lessing, an esteemed “highbrow.” The gradual process, then, by which the real Aristotle, pure thinker, critic investigating and co-ordinating the facts of the actual drama of his time, was perverted into the spurious Aristotle, Mumbo Jumbo of criticism, mysteriarch, depositary of the Tables of the Law, was the same process that we have seen at work in the case of Shakespeare—enthusiastic appreciation toppling over into superstition. But none of us can afford to put on airs about it. _Mutato nomine de te._ For, after all, what are these various cases but extreme instances of the “personal equation” that enters into every, even the sanest opinion? Can any one of us do anything else towards appreciating a work of art than remake it within himself? So, if we are to avoid these absurd extremes, let us look to ourselves, do our best to get ourselves into harmony with the artist, and “clear our minds of cant.” THE SECRET OF GREEK ART Mathematics may be great fun. Even simple arithmetic is not without its comic side, as when it enables you to find, with a little management, the Number of the Beast in the name of any one you dislike. Then there is “the low cunning of algebra.” It became low cunning indeed when Euler drove (so the anecdotist relates) Diderot out of Russia with a sham algebraical formula. “Monsieur,” said Euler gravely, “_(a + bⁿ)/n = x, donc Dieu existe; répondez_.” Diderot, no algebraist, could not answer, and left.