50 FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 



gainvillea drapes your doorway ; royal 

 palms wave over your path ; the loveliest 

 maiden-hair ferns hangs a curtain at the 

 roadside ; under the pearly waves the corals 

 blossom, and around you stretches a waste 

 of waters a million square miles with 

 out solid land so much that a fly could rest 

 his foot upon it. And as you listen to the 

 wind blowing against your upper window at 

 the Hamilton, you momentarily expect the 

 whole mysterious structure to sink beneath 

 you : 



And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 

 Leave not a rack behind. 



But this, you will think, is not that tem 

 perance of which I spoke. Ah ! but it is 

 the spice, the nectar, the little touch of 

 pure colour among the neutral tints which 

 brings the whole together and makes every 

 most insignificant part as essential as every 

 other. Do 1 want Burgundy every day ? 

 Must I go from birds of paradise to night 

 ingales tongues ; seek for turbot in the 

 pools in the intervale, and gather manna 

 from the top of Rattlesnake Mountain ? 

 Nay. Tartarin may go hunt his lions in the 

 desert or creep upward upon the arete of 

 the Weisshorn or the Matterhorn, but I I 



