and all attempts to make it otherwise are due
to the eloquence of the ignorant, the zeal of the conceited.

The boundary line is clear. Far from me to propose to bridge it
over--that the pestered people be pushed across. No! I would save them
from further fatigue. I would come to their relief, and would lift
from their shoulders this incubus of Art.

Why, after centuries of freedom from it, and indifference to it,
should it now be thrust upon them by the blind--until wearied and
puzzled, they know no longer how they shall eat or drink--how they
shall sit or stand--or wherewithal they shall clothe themselves--without
afflicting Art.

But, lo! there is much talk without!

Triumphantly they cry, "Beware! This matter does indeed concern us. We
also have our part in all true Art!--for, remember the 'one touch of
Nature' that 'makes the whole world kin.'"

True, indeed. But let not the unwary jauntily suppose that Shakespeare
herewith hands him his passport to Paradise, and thus permits him speech
among the chosen. Rather, learn that, in this very sentence, he
is condemned to remain without--to continue with the common.

This one chord that vibrates with all--this "one touch of Nature" that
calls aloud to the response of each--that explains the popularity of
the "Bull" of Paul Potter--that excuses the price of Murillo's
"Conception"--this one unspoken sympathy that pervades humanity,
is--Vulgarity!

Vulgarity--under whose fascinating influence "the many" have elbowed
"the few," and the gentle circle of Art swarms with the intoxicated
mob of mediocrity, whose leaders prate and counsel, and call aloud,
where the Gods once spoke in whisper!

And now from their midst the Dilettante stalks abroad. The amateur is
loosed. The voice of the aesthete is heard in the land, and catastrophe
is upon us.

The meddler beckons the vengeance of the Gods, and ridicule threatens
the fair daughters of the land.

And there are curious converts to a weird _culte_, in which all
instinct for attractiveness--all freshness and sparkle--all woman's
winsomeness--is to give way to a strange vocation for the
unlovely--and this desecration in the name of the Graces!

Shall this gaunt, ill-at-ease, distressed, abashed mixture of
_mauvaise honte_ and desperate assertion call itself artistic, and
claim cousinship with the artist--who delights in the dainty, the
sharp, bright gaiety of beauty?

No!--a thousand times no! Here are no connectio