re exalt each other, and--I beg your pardon again!--in
short, exalt each other--"

Here Valentine broke down at the end of a paragraph; and the gardener
made an abortive effort to get back to the doorway.

"Capital, Blyth!" cried Lady Brambledown. "Liberal, comprehensive,
progressive, profound. Gardener, don't fidget!"

"The true philosophy of art--the true philosophy of art, my lady," added
Mr. Gimble, the picture-dealer.

"Crude?" said Mr. Hemlock, the critic, appealing confidentially to Mr.
Bullivant, the sculptor.

"What?" inquired that gentleman.

"Blyth's principles of criticism," answered Mr. Hemlock.

"Oh, yes! extremely so," said Mr. Bullivant.

"Having glanced at Art Pastoral, as attempted in the 'Golden Age,'"
pursued Valentine, turning over a leaf, "I will now, with your
permission, proceed to Art Mystic and 'Columbus.' Art Mystic, I would
briefly endeavor to define, as aiming at the illustration of fact on
the highest imaginative principles. It takes a scene, for instance, from
history, and represents that scene as exactly and naturally as possible.
And here the ordinary thinker might be apt to say, Art Mystic has done
enough." ("So it has," muttered Mr. Hemlock.) "On the contrary, Art
Mystic has only begun. Besides the representation of the scene itself,
the spirit of the age"--("Ah! quite right," said Lady Brambledown; "yes,
yes, the spirit of the age.")--"the spirit of the age which produced
that scene, must also be indicated, mystically, by the introduction of
those angelic or infernal winged forms--those cherubs and airy
female geniuses--those demons and dragons of darkness--which so
many illustrious painters have long since taught us to recognize as
impersonating to the eye the good and evil influences, Virtue and
Vice, Glory and Shame, Success and Failure, Past and Future, Heaven
and Earth--all on the same canvas." Here Mr. Blyth stopped again:
this passage had cost him some trouble, and he was proud of having got
smoothly to the end of it.

"Glorious!" cried enthusiastic Mr. Gimble.

"Turgid," muttered critical Mr. Hemlock.

"Very," assented compliant Mr. Bullivant.

"Go on--get to the picture--don't stop so often," said Lady Brambledown.
"Bless my soul, how the man does fidget!" This was not directed at
Valentine (who, however, richly deserved it), but at the unhappy
gardener, who had made a second attempt to escape to the sheltering
obscurity of the doorway, and had been betrayed