long ago a much esteemed writer informed the world that he felt "disposed
to cry out with delight" before a figure by Michael Angelo. I wonder
whether he would feel disposed to cry out before a real Michael Angelo,
if the critics had decided that it was not genuine, or before a reputed
Michael Angelo which was really by someone else. But I suppose that a
prig with more money than brains was much the same sixty or seventy years
ago as he is now.

Look at Mendelssohn again about this same Tribune on which Mr Pontifex
felt so safe in staking his reputation as a man of taste and culture. He
feels no less safe and writes, "I then went to the Tribune. This room is
so delightfully small you can traverse it in fifteen paces, yet it
contains a world of art. I again sought out my favourite arm chair which
stands under the statue of the 'Slave whetting his knife' (L'Arrotino),
and taking possession of it I enjoyed myself for a couple of hours; for
here at one glance I had the 'Madonna del Cardellino,' Pope Julius II., a
female portrait by Raphael, and above it a lovely Holy Family by
Perugino; and so close to me that I could have touched it with my hand
the Venus de' Medici; beyond, that of Titian . . . The space between is
occupied by other pictures of Raphael's, a portrait by Titian, a
Domenichino, etc., etc., all these within the circumference of a small
semi-circle no larger than one of your own rooms. This is a spot where a
man feels his own insignificance and may well learn to be humble." The
Tribune is a slippery place for people like Mendelssohn to study humility
in. They generally take two steps away from it for one they take towards
it. I wonder how many chalks Mendelssohn gave himself for having sat two
hours on that chair. I wonder how often he looked at his watch to see if
his two hours were up. I wonder how often he told himself that he was
quite as big a gun, if the truth were known, as any of the men whose
works he saw before him, how often he wondered whether any of the