mselves the word of life. I know it is not pleasant to our ministers
upon the stage to hear such things; but is the whole moral sense of the
world to hush its voice, the whole missionary spirit of Christianity to
be restrained, because it is disagreeable for us to be reminded of our
national sins? At least, let the moral atmosphere of the world be kept
pure, though it should be too stimulating for our diseased lungs. If
oral instruction will do for three million slaves in America, it will do
equally well in Austria, Italy, and Spain, and the powers that be,
there, are just of the opinion that they are in America--that it is
dangerous to have the people read the Bible for themselves. Thoughts of
this kind were very ably set forth in some of the speeches. On the stage
I noticed Rev. Samuel R. Ward, from Toronto in Canada, a full blooded
African of fine personal presence. He was received and treated with much
cordiality by the ministerial brethren who surrounded him. I was sorry
that I could not stay through the speeches, for they were quite
interesting. C. thought they were the best he ever heard at an
anniversary. I was obliged to leave after a little. Mr. Sherman very
kindly came for us in his carriage, and took us a little ride into the
country.

Mrs. B. says that to-morrow morning we shall go out to see the Dulwich
Gallery, a fine collection of paintings by the old masters. Now, I
confess unto you that I have great suspicions of these old masters. Why,
I wish to know, should none but _old_ masters be thought any thing of?
Is not nature ever springing, ever new? Is it not fair to conclude that
all the mechanical assistants of painting are improved with the advance
of society, as much as of all arts? May not the magical tints, which are
said to be a secret with the old masters, be the effect of time in part?
or may not modern artists have their secrets, as well, for future ages
to study and admire? Then, besides, how are we to know that our
admiration of old masters is genuine, since we can bring our taste to
any thing, if we only know we must, and try long enough? People never
like olives the first time they eat them. In fact, I must confess, I
have some partialities towards young masters, and a sort of suspicion
that we are passing over better paintings at our side, to get at those
which, though the best of their day, are not so good as the best of
ours. I certainly do not worship the old English poets. With the
excep