ry acme of sculpture, and certainly the
Parisians so regard her or they would not pay her such a high tribute
in the way of space and position. She is the focus of that whole
wonderful gallery. No one has ever had the boldness to give her a
place in the market quotations, but I can regale myself with her
beauty for a mere pittance. This pittance does not at all cancel my
indebtedness, and I come away feeling that I still owe something to
somebody, without in the least knowing who it is or how I am to pay.
I can't even have the poor satisfaction of making proper
acknowledgment to the sculptor.

I can acknowledge my obligation to Michael Angelo for the Sistine
ceiling, but that doesn't cancel my indebtedness by any means. It
took me fifteen years to find the Cumaean Sibyl. I had seen a
reproduction of this lady in some book, and had become much
interested in her generous physique, her brawny arms, her
wide-spreading toes, and her look of concentration as she delves into
the mysteries of the massive volume before her. Naturally I became
curious as to the original, and wondered if I should ever meet her
face to face. Then one day I was lying on my back on a wooden bench
in the Sistine Chapel, having duly apologized for my violation of the
conventions, when, wonder of wonders, there was the Cumaean Sibyl in
full glory right before my eyes, and the quest of all those years was
ended in triumph. True, the Sibyl does not compare in greatness with
the "Creation of Adam" in one of the central panels, but for all that
I was glad to have her definitely localized.

I have never got it clearly figured out just how the letters of the
alphabet were evolved, nor who did the work, but I go right on using
them as if I had evolved them myself. They seem to be my own
personal property, and I jostle them about quite careless of the fact
that some one gave them to me. I can't see how I could get on
without them, and yet I have never admitted any obligation to their
author. The same is true of the digits. I make constant use of
them, and sometimes even abuse them, as if I had a clear title to
them. I have often wondered who worked out the table of logarithms,
and have thought how much more agreeable life has been for many
people because of his work. I know my own debt to him is large, and
I dare say many others have a like feeling. Even the eighth-grade
boys in the Castle Road school, London, share this feeling,
doubtless, fo