he soft wind richer--as the notes
Had been dissolved and mingled with the air.
Pawtucket almost slumbered, for his waves
Were lulled by their own chanting: breathing low,
With a just audible murmur, as the soul
Is stirred in visions with a thought of love,
He whispered back the whisper tenderly
Of the fair willows bending over him,
With a light hush upon their stirring leaves,
Blest watchers o'er his day-dreams. Not a sign
Of man or his abode met ear or eye,
But one great wilderness of living wood,
O'er hill, and cliff, and valley, swelled and waved,
An ocean of deep verdure. By the rock
Which bound and strengthen'd all their massive roots
Stood the great oak and giant sycamore;
Along the water-courses and the glades
Rose the fair maple and the hickory;
And on the loftier heights the towering pine--
Strong guardians of the forest--standing there,
On the old ramparts, sentinels of time,
To watch the flight of ages.[C]

These verses are pretty, perhaps very pretty. They give nature a
charming appearance,--too much like the "everlasting spring" of Ovid. Do
you not seem to lie in the shade of a European forest? Here are the same
trees, the same flowers, the same animals. But the trees are more
abundant of leaves, the grass is thicker, the sun is brighter, the
waters warmer. But there is no profoundly original painting, no broad
description by a few great outlines.

The sentiment of the beautiful and ideal is expressed in this collection
of poetry, in an uncolored, abstract, and metaphysical manner. We are
not sure that all these women love and understand the beautiful arts,
and particularly the plastic arts; the only one whose influence they
feel deeply, and which they seem to prefer, is music. And this
preference among the moderns for music is a curious fact. The
superiority given to it above painting and sculpture may be accounted
for in some degree by the fact that music accords more with woman's
instincts. Music is truly the art of the nineteenth century _par
excellence_; it is the art which expresses best incredible aspirations;
it is an art democratic in its essence. Appreciated by all living
beings, even the unintelligent tribes, to be felt, music demands neither
science nor long study--it makes every one happy, and tells to each the
story of his love.

To produce sculptors, poets, and painters, it is necessary that a
countr