FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 129 



of the long journey which our race has 

 travelled, and the races which preceded it, 

 since time began. Modern music and the 

 ear to which it commends itself are but a 

 few hundred years old, but far back of this 

 period, the ear that was not pleased with 

 concord of sweet sounds, was doubtless 

 already fit for treasons, stratagems, and 

 spoils, although the sounds which were 

 sweet then, might not now so seem to us. 

 And farther still in the distance, we should 

 reach the tom-tom and its contemporaries. 

 Hut this is still in modern times. Away, 

 far, far beyond, the thought is carried, 

 back to the dawn of that which we call 

 life, to the point where the inorganic (who 

 shall dare to say that it has not life ?) 

 merges indistinguishably and by slow de 

 grees into the organic. 



We talk of the five senses, but how many 

 senses there may be we do not know. ID 

 this early dawn of which I dream, hearing 

 was not, nor sight, taste was not, nor smell, 

 and feeling was but about to be born. 



Have you ever lived with a microscope 

 of high power, watching those infinitesimal 

 vegetable specks, the diatoms, travelling 

 around in the vast waste of the minutest 

 drop of water that you could lift upon the 

 K 



