Some other fellow, in the P.M.G., has been beforehand with us in spotting "A Preface to Dorian Gray," by our OSCAR WILDE-r than ever, in this month's Fortnightly. Dorian Gray was published some considerable time ago, so it belongs to ancient history, and now, after this lapse of time, out comes the preface. And this "preface" occupies the better part, I use this expression in all courtesy, of two pages; which two pages represent a literary flowerbed, where rows of bright asterisks are planted between lines of brilliant aphorisms. The rule of the arrangement seems to be.—"when in doubt, plant asterisks." Sic itur ad astra. The garden is open to all, let us cull; here one and there one. "To reveal Art and conceal the Artist, is Art's aim." Is there not in this the scent of "Ars est celare artem"? "Art" includes "the Artist," of course. Then "Puris omnia pura" is to be found in two other full-blown aphorisms, if I mistake not. St. PAUL's advice to TIMOTHY is engrafted on to the stalk of another aphorism. "Why lug in TIMOTHY?" Well, to "adapt" Scripture to one's purpose is not to quote it. Vade retro! Do we not recognise something familiar in "When Critics disagree the Artist is in accord with himself?"
But after it is all done, and the little flower-show is over, then arises the despairing cry of our own cherished OSCAR. It is in the Last of the Aphorisms; after which, exhausted, he can only sign his name, fling away the goose-quill, and then sink back in his luxurious arm-chair exhausted with the mental efforts of years concentrated into the work of one short hour. Ah! "La plupart des livres d'à présent ont l'air d'avoir été faits en un jour avec des livres lus de la veille." Ask Messrs. ROCHEFOUCAULD, CHAMFORT, RIVAROL, and JEAN MORLÉ. "Ai! Ai! Papai! Papai! Phillaloo! Murther in Irish!" Let us be natural, or shut up shop. Yet there is a chance,—to be supernatural. The great Pan is dead, so there is a seat vacant among the gods, open to any aspirant for immortality. "All Art is quite useless!" cries OSCAR WILDE-ly. And has it come to this? "Is this the Hend?" Yes, this is his last word—for the present. Pan is dead! Vive Pannikin!
"CES AUTRES."
Captain Bergamot. "ARE ANY OF YOUR BROTHERS IN THE SERVICE, MISS DE BULLION?"
Miss de Bullion. "YES; ONE IN THE GUARDS, AND—A—" (with disgust)—"THE REST IN THE COMMON ARMY, YOU KNOW."