Jane Admires 



five bewigged and becurled heads, faces of people 



who have never seen, never heard, never thought, 



never felt anything, and always lived as people did 



in those days — (Do they still ? . . . I wonder) — on 



imitation emotions, imitation joys, imitation hopes, 



imitation sorrows, so that they are angry and hurt, 



as such people always are, at the reality and delight 



of the two yutti of Correggio scratching inscriptions 



with their arrows. They are hurt and bewildered, 



just as Sacred Love is hurt in the Titian picture in 



the Villa Borghese, by what the Profane Lady is 



telling her of life. They like the coy maternity of 



" The Duchess of Devonshire " better, and they 



have no difficulty in pretending that the nurse is 



round the corner, scowling, and fearful of the harm 



that the Duchess may do " The Rt. Honble. Lady 



Georgiana Cavendish " before Sir Joshua has 



finished. And what they can make of the modern 



Italian impressionist etching is more than I can 



imagine. They live there, posing and smirking and 



quite content to ignore everything but their own 



beautiful selves ! . . . Unfortunately, they cannot 



see the sampler in the corner by the fireplace. It 



is by : 



Mary Fleetwood. 



Aged 12. 



And her old school dame burst into poetry in 

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