masters, and compared them with the works of modern artists, and often the latter received the most flattering compliments as against the world-indorsed masterpiece of some great genius. The criticism of such is honest to say the least, and inasmuch as such honest critics are largely in the majority who shall say their opinion is not entitled to weight? That person who simply echoes public opinion shows that he is not capable of having an opinion of his own, and he is unworthy the name of critic. There is often greater interest in the history of a painting than in the painting itself. Under what circumstances was it painted? What was the incentive? If poets and painters are inspired, their works show it. They inspire the beholder. There is an inexpressible something which touches the heart and lifts us above ourselves. For the moment we forget ourselves to mingle with the artist in his own world. A painting without merit cannot so effect us. An inspired poem thrills the soul. We seem to feel what the poet felt, indorsing every line. Who that has read the sacred hymns of Doctor Watts has not felt that the writer was inspired? Not only Dr. Watts, but many other writers-Burns' beautiful poem, "To Mary in Heaven." The poet approached his lost love as nearly as possible. He seemed to converse with her, but he alone heard her responses. Moore and Byron live to-day in their beautiful lines. So with the whole line of poets from Homer down to Whittier, some portions of their writings bear the stamp of inspiration and they will live when the great mass of their labored writings shall be forgotten. The inspired poem outlives the poet. And so with the sculptor. Simply a beautiful figure does not stamp him as an artist. There must be consistency and expression. The soul must show in the marble as it was felt in the artist. One scratch of the chisel may make or unmake perfection; one cramped or awkward limb will ruin the whole. The artist must make the beholder feel what he felt, and see what he saw, or else his work is love's labor lost. Why is not a copy as good as the original? Simply because it lacks the soul which the original artist gave his work. Visit a gallery where a great painting is on exhibition, a painting which has run the gauntlet of critics and come out unscathed; it will attract a crowd, and all will be hushed and still, every beholder will be too busy with his own thoughts to break the charm by uttering a loud word. Men sometimes sit for hours contemplating a statue or a painting, measuring and comparing, looking for imperfections which do not exist, and stumbling upon those which were not thought of, and may not be imperfections at all, but the very counterpart of the artist's ideal, peculiarities which none but the artist ever saw and which are often discredited. How often we hear the critic say that the sunset is too brilliant or too sombre! Who saw the sunset as the artist saw it? He felt it in his soul and stamped it upon the canvas. How often it is said, "What a magnificent sunset!" If it were painted, it would be said to be overdrawn. We should remember that in nature there is nothing impossible; no sky too red and no clouds too black. The moon may be in the full or in the quarter; it is still the moon. The sun may dazzle us with his fiery rays or look softly through a dimming cloud. It is still the sun. And so with every freak of nature, it is nature still. Donald Kent was well calculated to travel. He was well read and observing, and very little escaped his observation; and Endura's eagerness to see and learn enthused him all the more. Her profession as a teacher made her familiar with the geography of the different countries through which they passed, and her knowledge of the history of these same countries was of the greatest importance. She knew what was to be seen and where to see it. Many things they could not help contrasting with similar things in their own country and always greatly in favor of home. Traveling under the most favorable circumstances is tiresome. The very thought wearies the mind, which, in turn, effects us physically. Going from place to place, staying for a few days, it may be, and then packing up and departing, hurrying to meet a train or a steamer, there is always anxiety and bustle until you are settled again and your baggage secured. When you reach your destination the same bustle and excitement must be gone through with again; and so on, until we finally anchor at home, when the relaxation is so great that we almost wish we were still going. So it is during quiet and rest; we look forward to excitement, amid which we long for rest. "Man never is but always to be blest." With Donald Kent it was an opportunity not to be neglected, as it could scarcely occur again, consequently, he determined to make the most of it. The summer and autumn soon passed, and Donald Kent and his wife and Mrs Ivers found themselves in Italy. They were enjoying the wonderful and the beautiful to their heart's content. Not satisfied to follow the beaten track of tourists, they ventured upon new routes and into strange by-ways. And they were always well repaid as they not unfrequently stumbled upon objects of interest, which those who followed the beaten track could know nothing of. They visited the mountains and the wildest portions of the country -those romantic haunts of which so much has been written, but so little really known. At one time the party had a narrow escape from the banditti who infest those regions; but they were admonished and became more careful. As the spring months approached they were ready to go north. They left sunny Italy, not without some regrets, but the hope of being soon in their own country made them willing to leave the land of song and sunshine. They remained a short time at the Chateau Vieux on their return from Italy. Donald disposed of a portion of the estate in subdivisions, and gave long leases of a part of the remainder. The rest he placed in charge of a worthy and competent man who as agent of the whole was to report directly to him. The chateau was to be in his charge, with the express understanding that his old friend should still and forever hold his place as keeper of the keys, with instructions to admit travelers, and especially Americans, whenever they made application, if they appeared respectable. Donald made the old man a handsome present, and the ladies were not forgetful of his many kind attentions to them and remembered him generously. When the affairs of the estate had been settled satisfactorily to all parties concerned, the trio gathered up their mementoes and a portion of the furniture of the chateau, and shipped them to America with many art treasures which they had secured during their sojourn abroad. All of these were intended for their new home which Donald contemplated building near Boston. Upon gathering their purchases together they found that they had accumulated far more than they expected, and they could scarcely believe that the scores of great boxes were full of articles which they had purchased during their stay in France and Italy. They were all shipped direct to Boston, in care of Stern, Strong & Kent. When everything had been packed and shipped, it was but the work of a few hours for the anxious travelers to be ready to follow them. How the exile's heart leaps at the word Home! The traveler who has had a surfeit of pleasure longs for home and rest. "Homeward bound "-there is a charm in the sound of the two words. It matters not if stormy seas are to be crossed, or if mountains and rivers lie between. The desert may lie before us trackless and barren. If home is beyond, we venture fearlessly upon the journey, buoyed and cheered by hope, impatient, it may be, at the camel's slow pace, or the breeze that wafts us onward. Even the speed of the iron horse is not sufficient for impatient man. "How fleet is the glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, And the swift winged arrows of light." THE CHAPTER XXXI. HOME AGAIN. "Bright is the beautiful land of our birth, The home of the homeless all over the earth." "I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft -Street's Poems. In life's morning march when my bosom was young; -Campbell. HE travelers have returned, welcomed by all. Beloved and honored by their many friends, may they find that peace and rest they have so well earned and so long hoped for ! Another year has gone by. Another joy has been added to the already over-flowing cup of Donald Kent. A son has been added to the circle. Walter Ivers lives again in his daughter's child. The three generations have matured, and the fourth, which shall do honor to the past, now enters upon the scene. The city of Boston proper is accredited with but about one half of its real population. The suburban towns and villages take up the rest. Every morning the influx is so great that conveyances are crowded to their utmost with those whose business call them thither; and so in the afternoon and evening, when the merchant, the professional man, the mechanic and the laborer turn their faces toward home. Beautiful villages invite the laborer to rest. Long, broad streets lined with snug, comfortable cottages, explain where a great part of the people of Boston live. Beautiful sites are selected by the wealthy, the merchant prince, the successful professional man, the fortunate speculator, the retired officer, the easy-going man who has inherited a fortune, the aged millionaire seeking quiet in life's decline-are all here. Every hill-top is crowned with a mansion; the sunny declevity has its beautiful garden and lawn; the highlands all |