By “eye” the collector means a faculty of discerning a fine object quickly and instinctively.  And, in fact, the trained eye becomes a magically fine instrument.  It detects the fractions of a millimetre by which a copy belies its original.  In colours it distinguishes nuances that a moderately trained vision will declare non-existent.  Nor is the trained collector bound by the evidence of the eye alone.  Of certain things he knows the taste or adhesiveness.  His ear grasps the true ring of certain potteries, porcelains, or qualities of beaten metal.  I know an expert on Japanese pottery who, when a sixth sense tells him that two pots apparently identical come really from different kilns, puts them behind his back and refers the matter from his retina to his finger-tips.  Thus alternately challenged and trusted, the eye should become extraordinarily expert.  A Florentine collector once saw in a junk-shop a marble head of beautiful workmanship.  Ninety-nine amateurs out of a hundred would have said.  “What a beautiful copy!” for the same head is exhibited in a famous museum and is reproduced in pasteboard, clay, metal, and stone ad nauseam.  But this collector gave the apparent copy a second look and a third.  He reflected that the example in the museum was itself no original, but a school-piece, and as he gazed the conviction grew that here was the original.  Since it was closing time, and the marble heavy, a bargain was struck for the morrow.  After an anxious night, this fortunate amateur returned in a cab to bring home what criticism now admits is a superb Desiderio da Settignano.  The incident illustrates capitally the combination of keenness and patience that goes to make the collector’s eye.

We may divide collectors into those who play the game and those who do not.  The wealthy gentleman who gives carte blanche to his dealers and agents is merely a spoilsport.  He makes what should be a matter of adroitness simply an issue of brute force.  He robs of all delicacy what from the first glow of discovery to actual possession should be a fine transaction.  Not only does he lose the real pleasures of the chase, but he raises up a special clan of sycophants to part him and his money.  A mere handful of such—­amassers, let us say—­have demoralised the art market.  According to the length of their purses, collectors may also be divided into those who seek and those who are sought.  Wisdom lies in making the most of either condition.  The seekers unquestionably get more pleasure; the sought achieve the more imposing results.  The seekers depend chiefly on their own judgment, buying preferably of those who know less than themselves; the sought depend upon the judgment of those who know more than themselves, and, naturally, must pay for such vicarious expertise.  And, rightly, they pay dear.  Let no one who buys of a great dealer imagine that he pays simply the cost of an object plus a generous percentage of profit.  No, much-sought