his house; but
it is nevertheless an example of an educating influence withdrawn and
appropriated to narrow uses. But the engraver comes, and, by his
mediating art, transfers it to a thousand sheets, and scatters its sweet
influence far abroad. All the world, in its toil, its hunger, its
sordidness, pauses a moment to look on it--that gray seacoast, the
receding Mayflower, the two young Pilgrims in the foreground regarding
it, with tender thoughts of the far home--all the world looks on it
perhaps for a moment thoughtfully, perhaps tearfully, and is touched with
the sentiment of it, is kindled into a glow of nobleness by the sight of
that faith and love and resolute devotion which have tinged our early
history with the faint light of romance. So art is no longer the
enjoyment of the few, but the help and solace of the many.

The scholar who is cultured by books, reflection, travel, by a refined
society, consorts with his kind, and more and more removes himself from
the sympathies of common life. I know how almost inevitable this is, how
almost impossible it is to resist the segregation of classes according to
the affinities of taste. But by what mediation shall the culture that is
now the possession of the few be made to leaven the world and to elevate
and sweeten ordinary life? By books? Yes. By the newspaper? Yes. By the
diffusion of works of art? Yes. But when all is done that can be done by
such letters-missive from one class to another, there remains the need of
more personal contact, of a human sympathy, diffused and living. The
world has had enough of charities. It wants respect and consideration. We
desire no longer to be legislated for, it says; we want to be legislated
with. Why do you never come to see me but you bring me something? asks
the sensitive and poor seamstress. Do you always give some charity to
your friends? I want companionship, and not cold pieces; I want to be
treated like a human being who has nerves and feelings, and tears too,
and as much interest in the sunset, and in the birth of Christ, perhaps
as you. And the mass of uncared-for ignorance and brutality, finding a
voice at length, bitterly repels the condescensions of charity; you have
your culture, your libraries, your fine houses, your church, your
religion, and your God, too; let us alone, we want none of them. In the
bear-pit at Berne, the occupants, who are the wards of the city, have had
meat thrown to them daily for I know not how l