It is a common error to confuse the archaeologist with the mere collector
of ignoble trifles, equally pleased with an unusual postage stamp or a
scarce example of an Italian primitive. Nor should the impertinent
curiosity of local antiquaries, which sees in every disused chalk-pit
traces of Roman civilisation, be compared with the rare predilection
requisite for a nobler pursuit. The archaeologist preserves for us those
objects which time has forgotten and passing fashion rejected; in the
museums he buries our ancient eikons, where they become impervious to
neglect, praise, or criticism; while the collector--a malicious atavist
unless he possess accidental perceptions--merely rescues the mistakes of
his forefathers, to crowd public galleries with an inconsequent lumber
which a better taste has taught as to despise.

In the magic of escaped conventions surely none is more powerful than the
Greek, and even now, though we yawn over the enthusiasm of the
Renaissance mirrored in our more cadenced prose, there are some who can
still catch the delightful contagion which seized the princes and
philosophers of Europe in that Martin's Summer of Middle Age.

Of the New Learning already become old, Professor Lachsyrma is reputed a
master. Scarcely any one in England holds a like position. He is sixty,
and, though his youth is said to have been eventful, he hardly looks his
age. He speaks English with a delightful accent, and there always hangs
about his presence a melancholy halo of mystery and Italy. His quiet
unassumed familiarity with every museum and library on the Continent
astonishes even the most erudite Teuton. Among archaeologists he is
thought a pre-eminent palaeographer, among palaeographers a great
archaeologist. I have heard him called the Furtwangler of Britain. His