 fogs, coelum
crebris imbribus ac nebulis foedum, the comic and other perceptions are
dependent on the stirring of the gastric juices. And such a revival by any of us
would be impolitic, were it a possible attempt, before our systems shall have
been fortified by philosophy. Then may it be allowed to the Diarist simply to
relate, and we can copy from him.
    Then, ah! then, moreover, will the novelist's Art, now neither blushless
infant nor executive man, have attained its majority. We can then be voraciously
historical, honestly transcriptive. Rose-pink and dirty drab will alike have
passed away. Philosophy is the foe of both, and their silly cancelling contest,
perpetually renewed in a shuffle of extremes, as it always is where a phantasm
falseness reigns, will no longer baffle the contemplation of natural flesh,
smother no longer the soul issuing out of our incessant strife. Philosophy bids
us to see that we are not so pretty as rose-pink, not so repulsive as dirty
drab; and that instead of everlastingly shifting those barren aspects, the sight
of ourselves is wholesome, bearable, fructifying, finally a delight. Do but
perceive that we are coming to philosophy, the stride toward it will be a
giant's - a century a day. And imagine the celestial refreshment of having a
pure decency in the place of sham; real flesh; a soul born active, wind-beaten,
but ascending. Honourable will fiction then appear; honourable, a fount of life,
an aid to life, quick with our blood. Why, when you behold it you love it - and
you will not encourage it? - or only when presented by dead hands? Worse than
that alternative dirty drab, your recurring rose-pink is rebuked by hideous
revelations of the filthy foul; for nature will force her way, and if you try to
stifle her by drowning, she comes up, not the fairest part of her uppermost!
Peruse your Realists - really your castigators for not having yet embraced
Philosophy. As she grows in the flesh when discreetly tended, nature is
unimpeachable, flower-like, yet not too decoratively a flower; you must have her
with the stem, the thorns, the roots, and the fat bedding of roses. In this
fashion she grew, says historical fiction; thus does she flourish now, would say
the modern transcript, reading the inner as well as exhibiting the outer.
    And how may you know that you have reached to Philosophy? You touch her
skirts when you share her hatred of the sham decent, her derision of
