THE AMERICAN WHALEMAN. Ill 



growing lines on its marbles, a tourist's ear caught the tiny 

 clink of a sculptor's hammer behind a frieze in the lofty in- 

 terior. Searching for the sound, he mounted upward until 

 he stood before the wondrously graceful stone wrought by' 

 genius seemingly superhuman. In the increasing gloom of 

 the back galleries, his ear alone became his guide as the 

 louder clink of the hammer invited him on. At length, by 

 the feeble glimmer of a lamp suspended from the sculptured 

 stone, he discovered an old, bearded man, patiently drawing 

 and perfecting curves of beauty in yielding marble. The 

 worker was partly hidden behind the frieze, where human eye 

 might never see or be instructed by his labor. The tourist 

 drew near the solitary artist, all the reverence of his nature 

 stirred by the scene. Uncovering his head to the courteous 

 salutation of the old man, he inquired, " Wherefore ?" " For 

 the love of God," responded the old worshiper. So, it may 

 be, the poor misshapen terrapin sang his untuneful, unheard 

 song from the mysterious love which dwells in his cold 

 heart; the love of God may be even there. Who knows? 

 Who dare say nay ? 



