om from the form of one lady visitor. Not
one, but twenty-five thousand Robert Bruces inspired the Scottish
spider to that homely instance of perseverance, which served for an
example for a king. As he hangs his drapery from one cornice to
another, the prismatic scenes that come before him serve to lengthen
that life which might seem to be cut off before its time. It is not
one, but twenty-five thousand brooms which advance to destroy his
airy home; to invade his household gods, and bring to the ground
that row of bluebottles which his magnifying power of vision has
transformed from one to twenty-five thousand! nay, more, perhaps!

Out in the air, as he swings his delicate cordage from one tree to
another, he does not need to wear a gorgeous plumage; this old dusty
coat and uncomely figure, that make a child shrink and cry out, these
may well be forgotten by him who looks into life through prismatic
glasses. Every drop of rain wears for him its Iris drapery; the dew on
the flowers becomes a jewelled circlet; and the dazzling pictures
brought by the sunbeams outshine and transform for him his own dusky
garment.

I thought of my friend, the spider, as into my web of thought came
such numerous images. They were not alike in form--and so were more
distracting. More than I can mention or number had visited me there;
had excited my interest for a moment, and been crowded out by another
new image. Yes, it was like looking into a kaleidoscope where there
were infinite repetitions. In all were the same master-colors and
forms. All were swayed by passions that made an under-current beneath
a great outward calm. All were wearing an outward form that strove
each to resemble the other; not to appear strange or odd. So they
flitted before me, coming into shape, and departing from it as they
came within and left my reach.

I only roused myself to see the various characters, that had
presented themselves on the stage of my mind, return again into their
everyday costumes. They passed out of the focus of my observation into
their several forms in which they walk through common life. Putting on
their opera-cloaks, their paletots, they put on, for me, that mark
that hides the inner life, and the veil that conceals all hidden
passions.

It is said that there is, no longer, romance in real life. But the
truth is that we live the romance that former ages told and sang. The
magic carpet of the Arabian tales, the mirror that brought to vie