FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 265 



LII. 



A DARK and sombre room, only lighted 

 by a lamp which stands upon a table at one 

 side covered with books, crucibles, alem 

 bics, retorts, and vessels of various kinds. 

 Books arranged in cases along the walls. Sit 

 ting by the table, bowed over the books, a 

 little old man with long grey hair and beard. 

 Music by the orchestra ; it is Gounod s. 

 Then the old man sings, and in the melody 

 and harmony the story of Dr. Faustus is 

 unfolded. 



You can paint in high key or in low, in 

 black and white or in colour; tell your 

 story in prose or in poetry, in a monotone 

 or in melodious phrases ; given the medium 

 and keynote, and all falls into its place. 

 We do not, it is true, usually sing our solil 

 oquies with gesticulations, but this does not 

 make the opera untrue. We have been 

 transported to the kingdom of the muses, 

 where this is the universal custom, that is 

 all. And so it does not disturb us in the 

 least that as memory retraces the days that 



