pilgrimage for European amateurs and experts.  One recalls the mouse-like activities of the Brothers Dutuit, unearthing here a gorgeous enamel, retrieving there a Rembrandt drawing, fetching out a Gothic ivory from a junk-shop.  One sighs for those days, and declares that they are forever past.  Does not the sage M. Eudel warn us that there are no more finds—­"Surtout ne comptez plus sur les trouvailles." Yet not so long ago I mildly chid a seeker, him of the Desiderio, for not having one of his rare pictures photographed for the use of students.  He smiled and admitted that I was perfectly right, but added pleadingly, “You know a negative costs about twenty francs, and for that one may often get an original.”  Why, even I who write—­but I have promised that this essay shall not exceed reasonable bounds.

For the poor collector, however, the money consideration remains a source of manifold embarrassment, morally and otherwise.  How many an enthusiast has justified an extravagant purchase by a flattering prevision of profits accruing to his widow and orphans?  Let the recording angel reply.  And such hopes are at times justified.  There have been instances of men refused by the life insurance companies who have deliberately adopted the alternative of collecting for investment, and have done so successfully.  Obviously, such persons fall into the class which the French call charitably the marchand-amateur.  Note, however, that the merchant comes first.  Now, to be a poor yet reasonably successful collector without becoming a marchand-amateur requires moral tact and resolution.  The seeker of the short purse naturally becomes a sort of expert in prices.  As he prowls he sees many fine things which he neither covets nor could afford to keep, but which are offered at prices temptingly below their value in the great shops.  The temptation is strong to buy and resell.  Naturally, one profitable transaction of this sort leads to another, and soon the amateur is in the attitude of “making the collection pay for itself.”  The inducement is so insidious that I presume there are rather few persistent collectors not wealthy who are not in a measure dealers.  Now, to deal or not to deal might seem purely a matter of social and business expediency.  But the issue really lies deeper.  The difficulty is that of not letting your left hand know what your right hand does.  A morally ambidextrous person may do what he pleases.  He keeps the dealer and collector apart, and subject to his will one or the other emerges.  The feat is too difficult for average humanity.  In nearly every case a prolonged struggle will end in favour of the commercial self.  I have followed the course of many collector-dealers, and I know very few instances in which the collection has not averaged down to the level of a shop—­a fine shop, perhaps, but still a shop.  I blame no man for following the wide road, but I feel more kinship with him who walks scrupulously in the narrow path of strict amateurism.