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Etched by E. A. Fowle--From Painting by Samuel Lawrence]
Boston and New York Colonial Press Company Publishers
NOTES ON POLITICAL ECONOMY OF PRUSSIA, 435
V. TOMB OF THE DOGES JACOPO AND LORENZO TIEPOLO, 333
VI. ARCHAIC ATHENA OF ATHENS AND CORINTH, 334
VII. ARCHAIC, CENTRAL AND DECLINING ART OF GREECE, 355
VIII. THE APOLLO OF SYRACUSE AND THE SELF-MADE MAN, 366
X. MARBLE MASONRY IN THE DUOMO OF VERONA, 381
XII. BRANCH OF PHILLYREA. DARK PURPLE, 390
XIII. GREEK FLAT RELIEF AND SCULPTURE BY EDGED INCISION, 392
XIV. APOLLO AND THE PYTHON. HERACLES AND THE NEMEAN LION, 400
XVI. DEMETER OF MESSENE. HERA OF CROSSUS, 402
XVII. ATHENA OF THURIUM. SEREIE LIGEIA OF TERINA, 402
XVIII. ARTEMIS OF SYRACUSE. HERA OF LACINIAN CAPE, 404
Twenty years ago, there was no lovelier piece of lowland scenery in South England, nor any more pathetic in the world, by its expression of sweet human character and life, than that immediately bordering on the sources of the Wandle, and including the lower moors of Addington, and the villages of Beddington and Carshalton, with all their pools and streams. No clearer or diviner waters ever sang with constant lips of the hand which 'giveth rain from heaven;' no pastures ever lightened in spring time with more passionate blossoming; no sweeter homes ever hallowed the heart of the passer-by with their pride of peaceful gladness--fain-hidden--yet full-confessed. The place remains, or, until a few months ago, remained, nearly unchanged in its larger features; but, with deliberate mind I say, that I have never seen anything so ghastly in its inner tragic meaning,--not in Pisan Maremma--not by Campagna tomb,--not by the sand-isles of the Torcellan shore,--as the slow stealing of aspects of reckless, indolent, animal neglect, over the delicate sweetness of that English scene: nor is any blasphemy or impiety--any frantic saying or godless thought--more appalling to me, using the best power of judgment I have to discern its sense and scope, than the insolent defilings of those springs by the human herds that drink of them. Just where the welling of stainless water, trembling and pure, like a body of light, enters the pool of Carshalton, cutting itself a radiant channel down to the gravel, through warp of feathery weeds, all waving, which it traverses with its deep threads of clearness, like the chalcedony in moss-agate, starred here and there with white grenouillette; just in the very rush and murmur of the first spreading currents, the human wretches of the place cast their street and house foulness; heaps of dust and slime, and broken shreds of old metal, and rags of putrid clothes; they having neither energy to cart it away, nor decency enough to dig it into the ground, thus shed into the stream, to diffuse what venom of it will float and melt, far away, in all places where God meant those waters to bring joy and health. And, in a little pool, behind some houses farther in the village, where another spring rises, the shattered stones of the well, and of the little fretted channel which was long ago built and traced for it by gentler hands, lie scattered, each from each, under a ragged bank of mortar, and scoria; and brick-layers' refuse, on one side, which the clean water nevertheless chastises to purity; but it cannot conquer the dead earth beyond; and there, circled and coiled under festering scum, the stagnant edge of the pool effaces itself into a slope of black slime, the accumulation of indolent years. Half-a-dozen men, with one day's work, could cleanse those pools, and trim the flowers about their banks, and make every breath of summer air above them rich with cool balm; and every glittering wave medicinal, as if it ran, troubled of angels, from the porch of Bethesda. But that day's work is never given, nor will be; nor will any joy be possible to heart of man, for evermore, about those wells of English waters.