24 I GO A- FISHING. 



posing tribes of spirits. On the one side a grand old 

 piece of flesh representing Paul, the first hermit, by Ribe- 

 ra, and on the other side a Flora, by an unknown artist, 

 very beautiful and very breezy, with flowers abundant, the 

 very light of spring beaming out of her eyes. In Novem- 

 ber and December the Spagnoletto has the advantage. 

 The dark but loving old eyes, the massive yet delicate 

 features, the profound expression of devotion, all seem in 

 keeping with the winter, and with one's own humor. It 

 indeed speaks of the country, but of the desert of the 

 Thebaid, where among rocks and yellow sand the raven 

 fed the saint, and Anthony found and buried him. So, as 

 the evenings pass, one may read or work, looking up at 

 the hermit's face, and catching now and then an inspira- 

 tion like that of the old ages, breathing in the atmosphere 

 of the early times. But as March passes into April, and 

 April yields to May, Flora grows glorious in her beauty, 

 and laughs triumphantly across at Paul, who has kept her 

 quiet for so long. Now she wields her power. Every 

 look out of her eyes is a command — " Meet me in the up- 

 country." It is astonishing, the manner in which these 

 two pictures keep up this annual contest, and it has been 

 so often repeated that they now seem to take it as a mat- 

 ter of course, and each keeps within its own domain of 

 time. Is the secret in the pictures, or in the man who in- 

 habits the room ? 



If the angler be not impelled by the command of a 

 visible queen of May, he always feels the unconquerable 

 necessity of going a-fishing when the spring comes. It 

 can't be resisted. He might as well try to shake off the 

 impulse of waking up in the morning, and resolve to 

 sleep on forever. Thus it happened that I was driven off, 

 drawn off, tempted off, call it what you will, to visit an old 



