  or what is closer to the truth, when I look at that of which I may regard myself as the imaginary possessor, I fix upon that which would give me pleasure in my average moments: the satire upon curiosity, in which no more is discernible than the intensity of the mood; or quite the opposite—the old thing, the medi- Æval decorated hat box, in which there are hounds with waists diminishing like the waist of the hour-glass and deer, both white and brown, and birds and seated people; it may be no more than a square of parquetry; the literal biography perhaps—in letters stand- ing well apart upon a parchment-like expanse; or that which is better without words, which means just as much or just as little as it is understood to mean by the observer—the grave of Adam, prefigured by himself; a bed of beans or artichokes in six varieties of blue; the snipe-legged hiero— glyphic in three parts; it may be anything. Too stern an intellectual emphasis, i- ronic or other—upon this quality or that, detracts from one’s enjoyment; it must not wish to disarm anything; nor may the approved tri- umph easily be honoured—that which is great because something else is small. It comes to this: of whatever sort it is, it must make known the fact that it has been displayed to acknowledge the spiritual forces which have made it; and it must admit that it is the work of X, if X produced it; of Y, if made by Y. It must be a voluntary gift with the name written on it. |
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