Immoral, licentious, anarchical, unscientific--call them by what names
you will--yet, from an aesthetic point of view, those ancient days
of the Colour Revolt were the glorious childhood of Art in Flatland--
a childhood, alas, that never ripened into manhood, nor even reached
the blossom of youth. To live then in itself a delight, because living
implied seeing. Even at a small party, the company was a pleasure to behold;
the richly varied hues of the assembly in a church or theatre are said
to have more than once proved too distracting from our greatest teachers
and actors; but most ravishing of all is said to have been the unspeakable
magnificence of a military review.
The sight of a line of battle of twenty thousand Isosceles suddenly
facing about, and exchanging the sombre black of their bases for the
orange of the two sides including their acute angle; the militia
of the Equilateral Triangles tricoloured in red, white, and blue;
the mauve, ultra-marine, gamboge, and burnt umber of the Square
artillerymen rapidly rotating near their vermillion guns;
the dashing and flashing of the five-coloured and six-coloured
Pentagons and Hexagons careering across the field in their
offices of surgeons, geometricians and aides-de-camp--all
these may well have been sufficient to render credible the
famous story how an illustrious Circle, overcome by the artistic
beauty of the forces under his command, threw aside
his marshal's baton and his royal crown, exclaiming
that he henceforth exchanged them for the artist's pencil.
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