istry, such, I conceive, is the most equitable rule in all similar
conjunctures.

XIII. ZENOBIA'S LEGEND

The illustrious Society of Blithedale, though it toiled in downright
earnest for the good of mankind, yet not unfrequently illuminated its
laborious life with an afternoon or evening of pastime. Picnics under
the trees were considerably in vogue; and, within doors, fragmentary
bits of theatrical performance, such as single acts of tragedy or
comedy, or dramatic proverbs and charades. Zenobia, besides, was fond
of giving us readings from Shakespeare, and often with a depth of
tragic power, or breadth of comic effect, that made one feel it an
intolerable wrong to the world that she did not at once go upon the
stage. Tableaux vivants were another of our occasional modes of
amusement, in which scarlet shawls, old silken robes, ruffs, velvets,
furs, and all kinds of miscellaneous trumpery converted our familiar
companions into the people of a pictorial world. We had been thus
engaged on the evening after the incident narrated in the last chapter.
Several splendid works of art--either arranged after engravings from
the old masters, or original illustrations of scenes in history or
romance--had been presented, and we were earnestly entreating Zenobia
for more.

She stood with a meditative air, holding a large piece of gauze, or
some such ethereal stuff, as if considering what picture should next
occupy the frame; while at her feet lay a heap of many-colored
garments, which her quick fancy and magic skill could so easily convert
into gorgeous draperies for heroes and princesses.

"I am getting weary of this," said she, after a moment's thought. "Our
own features, and our own figures and airs, show a little too
intrusively through all the characters we assume. We have so much
familiarity with one another's realities, that we cannot remove
ourselves, at pleasure, into an imaginary sphere. Let us have no more
pictures to-night; but, to make you what poor amends I can, how would
you like to have me trump up a wild, spectral legend, on the spur of
the moment?"

Zenobia had the gift of telling a fanciful little story, off-hand, in a
way that made it greatly more effective than it was usually found to be
when she afterwards elaborated the same production with her pen. Her
proposal, therefore, was greeted with acclamation.

"Oh, a story, a story, by all means!" cried the young girls. "No
matter how marvellous; we