reasons for most things in a gentleman's house being in it at all;
from the paper on the walls, and the drapery of the curtains, even
to the books in the library, of which the most essential part is
the appearance of the back.

REV. DR. FOLLIOTT. Very true, sir. As great philosophers hold
that the esse of things is percipi, so a gentleman's furniture
exists to be looked at. Nevertheless, sir, there are some things
more fit to be looked at than others; for instance, there is
nothing more fit to be looked at than the outside of a book. It
is, as I may say, from repeated experience, a pure and unmixed
pleasure to have a goodly volume lying before you, and to know that
you may open it if you please, and need not open it unless you
please. It is a resource against ennui, if ennui should come upon
you. To have the resource and not to feel the ennui, to enjoy your
bottle in the present, and your book in the indefinite future, is a
delightful condition of human existence. There is no place, in
which a man can move or sit, in which the outside of a book can be
otherwise than an innocent and becoming spectacle. Touching this
matter, there cannot, I think, be two opinions. But with respect
to your Venuses there can be, and indeed there are, two very
distinct opinions. Now, Sir, that little figure in the centre of
the mantelpiece--as a grave paterfamilias, Mr. Crotchet, with a
fair nubile daughter, whose eyes are like the fish-pools of
Heshbon--I would ask you if you hold that figure to be altogether
delicate?

MR. CROTCHET. The sleeping Venus, sir? Nothing can be more
delicate than the entire contour of the figure, the flow of the
hair on the shoulders and neck, the form of the feet and fingers.