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 was 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 for 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 and purple 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 vermilion 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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