46 ABOUT ORCHIDS. 
nearly two generations since is in the air now. 
Those who own a collection of art, those who have 
paid a great sum for pictures, will not allow it, 
naturally. Asa rule, indeed, a man looks at his 
fine things no more than at his chairs and tables, 
But he who is best able to appreciate good work, 
and loves it best when he sees it, is the one who 
crows restless when it stands constantly before him. 
“Oh, that those lips had language!” cried 
Cowper. “Oh, that those lovely figures would 
combine anew—change their light—do anything, 
anything !” cries the esthete after awhile. “Oh, 
that the wind would rise upon that glorious sea ; 
the summer green would fade to autumn yellow ; 
that night would turn to day, clouds to sunshine, 
or sunshine to clouds.” But the “ttera scripta 
manet—the stroke of the brush is everlasting. 
Apollo always bends the bow in marble. One 
may read a poem till it is known by heart, and in 
another second the familiar words strike fresh upon 
the ear. Painters lay a canvas aside, and pre- 
sently come to it, as they say, with a new eye; but 
a purchaser once seized with this desperate malady 
has no such refuge. After putting his treasure 
away for years, at the first glance all his satiety 
returns. I myself have diagnosed a case where a 
fine drawing by Gerdme grew to be a veritable 
