s valleys, have maintained, for dateless ages, their faiths
and liberties--there the unchecked Alpine rivers yet run wild in
devastation; and the marshes, which a few hundred men could redeem
with a year's labour, still blast their helpless inhabitants into
fevered idiotism. That is so, in the centre of Europe! While, on the
near coast of Africa, once the Garden of the Hesperides, an Arab
woman, but a few sunsets since, ate her child, for famine. And, with
all the treasures of the East at our feet, we, in our own dominion,
could not find a few grains of rice, for a people that asked of us no
more; but stood by, and saw five hundred thousand of them perish of
hunger.[241]

Then, after agriculture, the art of kings, take the next head of
human arts--weaving; the art of queens, honoured of all noble
Heathen women, in the person of their virgin goddess[242]--honoured
of all Hebrew women, by the word of their wisest king--"She layeth
her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff; she
stretcheth out her hand to the poor. She is not afraid of the snow
for her household, for all her household are clothed with scarlet.
She maketh herself covering of tapestry; her clothing is silk and
purple. She maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and delivereth
girdles unto the merchant."[243] What have we done in all these
thousands of years with this bright art of Greek maid and Christian
matron? Six thousand years of weaving, and have we learned to weave?
Might not every naked wall have been purple with tapestry, and every
feeble breast fenced with sweet colours from the cold? What have we
done? Our fingers are too few, it seems, to twist together some poor
covering for our bodies. We set our streams to work for us, and
choke the air with fire, to turn our pinning-wheels--and,--_are we
yet clothed_? Are not the streets of the capitals of Europe foul
with the sale of cast clouts and rotten rags?[244] Is not the beauty
of your sweet children left in wretchedness of disgrace, while, with
better honour, nature clothes the brood of the bird in its nest, and
the suckling of the wolf in her den? And does not every winter's
snow robe what you have not robed, and shroud what you have not
shrouded; and every winter's wind bear up to heaven its wasted
souls, to witness against you hereafter, by the voice of their
Christ,--"I was naked, and ye clothed me not"?[245]

Lastly--take the Art of Building--the strongest--proudest--most
orderly--mo