oeck, 'is a
clothes-wearing man, a man whose trade, office, and existence consists
in the wearing of clothes. Every faculty of his soul, spirit, purse,
and person is heroically consecrated to this one object, the wearing of
clothes wisely and well.' Those are true words. They are, perhaps, the
only true words in Sartor Resartus. And I speak with some authority.
For I found the key to that empty book, long ago, in the lock of the
author's empty wardrobe. His hat, that is still preserved in Chelsea,
formed an important clue.

But (behold!) as we repeat the true words of Teufelsdroeck, there comes
Monsieur Barbey D'Aurevilly, that gentle moqueur, drawling, with a wave
of his hand, 'Les esprits qui ne voient pas les choses que par leur plus
petit cote, ont imagine que le Dandysme etait surtout l'art de la mise,
une heureuse et audacieuse dictature en fait de toilette et d'elegance
exterieure. Tres-certainement c'est cela aussi, mais c'est bien
d'avantage. Le Dandysme est toute une maniere d'etre et l'on n'est
pas que par la cote materiellement visible. C'est une maniere d'etre
entierement composee de nuances, comme il arrive toujours dans les
societes tres-vieilles et tres-civilisees.' It is a pleasure to argue
with so suave a subtlist, and we say to him that this comprehensive
definition does not please us. We say we think he errs.

Not that Monsieur's analysis of the dandiacal mind is worthless by any
means. Nor, when he declares that George Brummell was the supreme king
of the dandies and fut le dandysme meme, can I but piously lay one
hand upon the brim of my hat, the other upon my heart. But it is as an
artist, and for his supremacy in the art of costume, and for all he did
to gain the recognition of costume as in itself an art, and for that
superb taste and subtle simplicity of mode whereby he was able to expel,
at length, the Byzantine spirit of exuberance which had possessed St.
James's and wherefore he is justly called the Father of Modern Costume,
that I do most deeply revere him. It is not a little strange that
Monsieur D'Aurevilly, the biographer who, in many ways, does seem most
perfectly to have understood Mr. Brummell, should belittle to a mere
phase that which was indeed the very core of his existence. To analyse
the temperament of a great artist and then to declare that his art was
but a part--a little part--of his temperament, is a foolish proceeding.
It is as though a man should say that he finds, on ana