tin hymn. He knew he had taken
great pains over the work, and that it was well done, and being still a
young man he expected praise. He found that in this hard world there was
a lack of appreciation; a critical spirit seemed abroad. If he could have
been scientifically observed as he writhed and smarted under the
strictures of "the old fool," as he rudely called his cousin, the
spectacle would have been extremely diverting. Little boys sometimes
enjoy a very similar entertainment; either with their tiny fingers or
with mamma's nail scissors they gradually deprive a fly of its wings and
legs. The odd gyrations and queer thin buzzings of the creature as it
spins comically round and round never fail to provide a fund of harmless
amusement. Lucian, indeed, fancied himself a very ill-used individual;
but he should have tried to imitate the nervous organization of the
flies, which, as mamma says, "can't really feel."

But now, as he prepared the vellum leaves, he remembered his art with
joy; he had not labored to do beautiful work in vain. He read over his
manuscript once more, and thought of the designing of the pages. He made
sketches on furtive sheets of paper, and hunted up books in his father's
library for suggestions. There were books about architecture, and
medieval iron work, and brasses which contributed hints for adornment;
and not content with mere pictures he sought in the woods and hedges,
scanning the strange forms of trees, and the poisonous growth of great
water-plants, and the parasite twining of honeysuckle and briony. In one
of these rambles he discovered a red earth which he made into a pigment,
and he found in the unctuous juice of a certain fern an ingredient which
he thought made his black ink still more glossy. His book was written all
in symbols, and in the same spirit of symbolism he decorated it, causing
wonderful foliage to creep about the text, and showing the blossom of
certain mystical flowers, with emblems of strange creatures, caught and
bound in rose thickets. All was dedicated to love and a lover's madness,
and there were songs in it which haunted him with their lilt and refrain.
When the book was finished it replaced the loose leaves as his constant
companion by day and night. Three times a day he repeated his ritual to
himself, seeking out the loneliest places in the woods, or going up to
his room; and from the fixed intentness and rapture of his gaze, the
father thought him still severely