“Having glanced at Art Pastoral, as attempted in the ‘Golden Age,’” pursued Valentine, turning over a leaf, “I will now, with your permission, proceed to Art Mystic and ‘Columbus.’ Art Mystic, I would briefly endeavor to define, as aiming at the illustration of fact on the highest imaginative principles. It takes a scene, for instance, from history, and represents that scene as exactly and naturally as possible. And here the ordinary thinker might be apt to say, Art Mystic has done enough.” (“So it has,” muttered Mr. Hemlock.) “On the contrary, Art Mystic has only begun. Besides the representation of the scene itself, the spirit of the age”--(“Ah! quite right,” said Lady Brambledown; “yes, yes, the spirit of the age.”)--“the spirit of the age which produced that scene, must also be indicated, mystically, by the introduction of those angelic or infernal winged forms--those cherubs and airy female geniuses--those demons and dragons of darkness--which so many illustrious painters have long since taught us to recognize as impersonating to the eye the good and evil influences, Virtue and Vice, Glory and Shame, Success and Failure, Past and Future, Heaven and Earth--all on the same canvas.” Here Mr. Blyth stopped again: this passage had cost him some trouble, and he was proud of having got smoothly to the end of it. “Glorious!” cried enthusiastic Mr. Gimble. “Turgid,” muttered critical Mr. Hemlock. “Very,” assented compliant Mr. Bullivant. “Go on--get to the picture--don’t stop so often,” said Lady Brambledown. “Bless my soul, how the man does fidget!” This was not directed at Valentine (who, however, richly deserved it), but at the unhappy gardener, who had made a second attempt to escape to the sheltering obscurity of the doorway, and had been betrayed by his boots.