be gained without these intellectual frills. Is my 

 crude, perhaps, but keen enjoyment of the fra- 

 grance floating from a rose bower any less than 

 that of the professional perfumer? I dare say that it 

 is time this nonsense anent the superior refinement 

 in taste of the few for what is truly artistic, should 

 end; that the honest capacity of the many be rec- 

 ognized and given the credence which is its due. 



On this account, therefore — my being of the 

 opinion of the multitude in the matter of the sea- 

 horse — Hippocampus as a source of study in the 

 field of natural science will probably never over- 

 shadow itself in interest as a source of inspiration 

 in the field of art; for me it will ever be an orna- 

 ment rather than an object, a form for graphic re- 

 production rather than a subject for research, a 

 model for the brush and pencil rather than a speci- 

 men for the lens or knife. 



One! . . . Again the laboratory clock recalls 

 the time. Reluctantly I rise and prepare to clear 

 the bench. A swifter and more fruitful half-hour 

 has never passed. And were it not for the remind- 

 ing bell, my absorption would have continued well 

 into the remainder of the long winter night. Still, 

 the demands of the brain, if not of the heart, re- 



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