FOOTPATHS 217 
not a stroke of this inscription was ever cut, 
and now the young chestnut boughs droop into 
the uncovered interior, and shy forest-birds sing 
fearlessly among them, having learned that this 
house belongs to God, not man.!_ As if to re- 
assure them, and perhaps in allusion to his 
own vegetarian habits, the architect has spread 
some rough plaster at the head of the apart- 
ment and marked on it in bold characters, 
“Thou shalt not kill.”’ Two slabs outside, a 
little way from the walls, bear these inscrip- 
tions, “ Peace on Earth,” “ Good-Will to Men.” 
When I visited it, the path was rough and so 
obstructed with bushes that it was hard to com- 
prehend how it had afforded passage for these 
various materials; it seemed more as if some 
strange architectural boulder had drifted from 
some Runic period and been stranded there. 
It was as apt a confessional as any of Words- 
worth’s nooks among the Trosachs; and when 
one thinks how many men are wearing out their 
souls in trying to conform to the traditional 
mythologies of others, it seems nobler in this 
man to have reared upon that lonely hill the 
unfinished memorial of his own. 
1 Since this sketch was written, Solomon Parsons has died, 
having previously caused the deed to be carved on the stone, 
conveying the property to God. He tried several times, be- 
fore his death, to have the inscription formally recorded at 
the registry of deeds. 
