ssions and to keep the published
promise of a park, the owner thereof should be a lover of long seclusion
or of a very life of loneliness. He should have gained the state of
solitariness which is a condition of life quite unlike any other. The
traveller who may have gone astray in countries where an almost life-long
solitude is possible knows how invincibly apart are the lonely figures he
has seen in desert places there. Their loneliness is broken by his
passage, it is true, but hardly so to them. They look at him, but they
are not aware that he looks at them. Nay, they look at him as though
they were invisible. Their un-self-consciousness is absolute; it is in
the wild degree. They are solitaries, body and soul; even when they are
curious, and turn to watch the passer-by, they are essentially alone.
Now, no one ever found that attitude in a squire's figure, or that look
in any country gentleman's eyes. The squire is not a life-long solitary.
He never bore himself as though he were invisible. He never had the
impersonal ways of a herdsman in the remoter Apennines, with a blind,
blank hut in the rocks for his dwelling. Millet would not even have
taken him as a model for a solitary in the briefer and milder sylvan
solitudes of France. And yet nothing but a life-long, habitual, and wild
solitariness would be quite proportionate to a park of any magnitude.

If there is a look of human eyes that tells of perpetual loneliness, so
there is also the familiar look that is the sign of perpetual crowds. It
is the London expression, and, in its way, the Paris expression. It is
the quickly caught, though not interested, look, the dull but ready
glance of those who do not know of their forfeited place apart; who have
neither the open secret nor the close; no reserve, no need of refuge, no
flight nor impulse of flight; no moods but what they may brave out in the
street, no hope of news from solitary counsels.

DECIVILIZED

The difficulty of dealing--in the course of any critical duty--with
decivilized man lies in this: when you accuse him of vulgarity--sparing
him no doubt the word--he defends himself against the charge of
barbarism. Especially from new soil--remote, colonial--he faces you,
bronzed, with a half conviction of savagery, partly persuaded of his own
youthfulness of race. He writes, and recites, poems about ranches and
canyons; they are designed to betray the recklessness of his nature and
to revea