ty find himself. If he does not
mean to say this, what he means to say is exactly as well worth
saying, as valuable and as important a piece of information, as the
news that Queen Anne is no more, or that two and two are not generally
supposed to make five.

[Sidenote: _REFLECTION:_

Je reviens donc de Pontoise!

[Illustration]]

But if the light and glittering bark of this brilliant amateur in the
art of letters is not invariably steered with equal dexterity of hand
between the Scylla and Charybdis of paradox and platitude, it is
impossible that in its course it should not once and again touch
upon some point worth notice, if not exploration. Even that
miserable animal the "unattached writer" may gratefully and
respectfully recognize his accurate apprehension and his felicitous
application of well-nigh the most hackneyed verse in all the range of
Shakespeare's--which yet is almost invariably misconstrued and
misapplied--"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin;" and this,
as the poet goes on to explain, is that all, with one consent, prefer
worthless but showy novelties to precious but familiar possessions.
"This one chord that vibrates with all," says Mr. Whistler, who
proceeds to cite artistic examples of the lamentable fact, "this one
unspoken sympathy that pervades humanity, is--Vulgarity." But the
consequence which he proceeds to indicate and to deplore is calculated
to strike his readers with a sense of mild if hilarious astonishment.
It is that men of sound judgment and pure taste, quick feelings and
clear perceptions, most unfortunately and most inexplicably begin to
make their voices "heard in the land." Porson, as all the world knows,
observed of the Germans of his day that "in Greek" they were "sadly to
seek." It is no discredit to Mr. Whistler if this is his case also;
but then he would do well to eschew the use of a Greek term lying so
far out of the common way as the word "aesthete." Not merely the only
accurate meaning, but the only possible meaning, of that word is
nothing more, but nothing less, than this--an intelligent,
appreciative, quick-witted person; in a word, as the lexicon has it,
"one who perceives." The man who is no aesthete stands confessed,
by the logic of language and the necessity of the case, as a
thick-witted, tasteless, senseless, and impenetrable blockhead. I do
not wish to insult Mr. Whistler, but I feel bound to avow my
impress