There are hundreds of such pictures stored in my mind, each stamped
upon some sensitive particle of the brain, that cannot be
obliterated, and each of which the mind can recall at will. And
that, too, is a fact of surpassing wonder: what is the delicate
instrument that registers, with no seeming volition, these amazing
pictures, and preserves them thus with so fantastic a care,
retouching them, fashioning them anew, detaching from the picture
every sordid detail, till each is as a lyric, inexpressible,
exquisite, too fine for words to touch?
Now it is useless to dictate to others the aims and methods of
travel: each must follow his own taste. To myself the acquisition
of knowledge and information is in these matters an entirely
negligible thing. To me the one and supreme object is the gathering
of a gallery of pictures; and yet that is not a definite object
either, for the whimsical and stubborn spirit refuses to be bound
by any regulations in the matter. It will garner up with the most
poignant care a single vignette, a tiny detail.
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