Old China
查尔斯·兰姆 / Charles Lamb
I have an almost feminine partiality for old china. When I go to see any great house， I inquire for the china closet， and next for the picture gallery. I cannot defend the order of preference， but by saying that we have all some taste or other， of too ancient a date to admit of our remembering distinctly that it was an acquired one. I can call to mind the f？irst play， and the f？irst exhibition， that I was taken to； but I am not conscious of a time when china jars and saucers were introduced into my imagination.
I had no repugnance then—why should I now have？—to those little， lawless， azure-tinctured grotesques， that under the notion of men and women f？loat about， uncircumscribed by any element， in that world before perspective—a china teacup.
I like to see my old friends—whom distance cannot diminish—f？iguring up in the air (so they appear to our optics)， yet on terra f？irma still—for so we must in courtesy interpret that speck of deeper blue， which the decorous artist， to prevent absurdity， had made to spring up beneath their sandals.
I love the men with women’s faces， and the women， if possible， with still more womanish expressions.
Here is a young and courtly mandarin， handing tea to a lady from a salver—two miles off. See how distance seems to set off respect！ And here the same lady， or another—for likeness is identity on teacups—is stepping into a little fairy boat， moored on the hither side of this calm garden river， with a dainty mincing foot， which in a right angle of incidence(as angles go in our world) must infallibly land her in the midst of a f？lowery mead—furlong off on the other side of the same strange stream！
Farther on—if far or near can be predicated of their world—see horses， trees， pagodas， dancing the hays.
Here—a cow and rabbit couchant， and coextensive—so objects show， seen through the lucid atmosphere of f？ine Cathay.