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 veraciously 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.