“And then I came into the room. They were discussing botany. I said how I’d seen a flower growing on a dust heap on the site of an old house in Kingsway. The seed， I said， must have been sown in the reign of Charles the First. What flowers grew in the reign of Charles the First？” I asked—（but， I don’t remember the answer）. Tall flowers with purple tassels to them perhaps. And so it goes on. All the time I’m dressing up the figure of myself in my own mind， lovingly， stealthily， not openly adoring it， for if I did that， I should catch myself out， and stretch my hand at once for a book in self-protection. Indeed， it is curious how instinctively one protects the image of oneself from idolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous， or too unlike the original to be believed in any longer. Or is it not so very curious after all？ It is a matter of great importance. Suppose the looking glass smashes， the image disappears， and the romantic figure with the green of forest depths all about it is there no longer， but only that shell of a person which is seen by other people—what an airless， shallow， bald， prominent world it becomes！ A world not to be lived in. As we face each other in omnibuses and underground railways we are looking into the mirror that accounts for the vagueness， the gleam of glassiness， in our eyes. And the novelists in future will realize more and more the importance of these reflections， for of course there is not one reflection but an almost infinite number； those are the depths they will explore， those the phantoms they will pursue， leaving the description of reality more and more out of their stories， taking a knowledge of it for granted， as the Greeks did and Shakespeare perhaps—but these generalizations are very worthless. The military sound of the word is enough. It recalls leading articles， cabinet ministers—a whole class of things indeed which as a child one thought the thing itself， the standard thing， the real thing， from which one could not depart save at the risk of nameless damnation. Generalizations bring back somehow Sunday in London， Sunday afternoon walks， Sunday luncheons， and also ways of speaking of the dead， clothes， and habits— like the habit of sitting all together in one room until a certain hour，although nobody liked it. There was a rule for everything. The rule for tablecloths at that particular period was that they should be made of tapestry with little yellow compartments marked upon them， such as you may see in photographs of the carpets in the corridors of the royal palaces. Tablecloths of a different kind were not real tablecloths. How shocking， and yet how wonderful it was to discover that these real things， Sunday luncheons， Sunday walks， country houses， and tablecloths were not entirely real， were indeed half phantoms， and the damnation which visited the disbeliever in them was only a sense of illegitimate freedom. What now takes the place of those things I wonder， those real standard things？ Men perhaps， should you be a woman； the masculine point of view which governs our lives， which sets the standard， which establishes Whitaker’s Table of Precedency， which has become， I suppose， since the war half a phantom to many men and women， which soon—one may hope， will be laughed into the dustbin where the phantoms go， the mahogany sideboards and the Landseer prints， Gods and Devils， Hell and so forth， leaving us all with an intoxicating sense of illegitimate freedom— if freedom exists…In certain lights that mark on the wall seems actually to project from the wall. Nor is it entirely circular. I cannot be sure， but it seems to cast a perceptible shadow， suggesting that if I ran my finger down that strip of the wall it would， at a certain point， mount and descend a small tumulus， a smooth tumulus like those barrows on the South Downs which are， they say， either tombs or camps. Of the two I should prefer them to be tombs， desiring melancholy like most English people， and finding it natural at the end of a walk to think of the bones stretched beneath the turf… There must be some book about it. Some antiquary must have dug up those bones and given them a name… What sort of a man is an antiquary， I wonder？ Retired Colonels for the most part， I daresay， leading parties of aged labourers to the top here， examining clods of earth and stone， and getting into correspondence with the neighbouring clergy， which，being opened at breakfast time， gives them a feeling of importance， and the comparison of arrow-heads necessitates cross-country journeys to the county towns， an agreeable necessity both to them and to their elderly wives， who wish to make plum jam or to clean out the study， and have every reason for keeping that great question of the camp or the tomb in perpetual suspension， while the Colonel himself feels agreeably philosophic in accumulating evidence on both sides of the question. It is true that he does finally incline to believe in the camp； and， being opposed， indites a pamphlet which he is about to read at the quarterly meeting of the local society when a stroke lays him low， and his last conscious thoughts are not of wife or child， but of the camp and that arrowhead there， which is now in the case at the local museum， together with the foot of a Chinese murderess， a handful of Elizabethan nails， a great many Tudor clay pipes， a piece of Roman pottery， and the wine-glass that Nelson drank out of— proving I really don’t know what.
