fairy land. You look through an unpretending pane of glass, stained

yellow--the first thing you see is a mass of quivering foliage, ten short

steps before you, in the midst of which is a ragged opening like a

gateway-a thing that is common enough in nature, and not apt to excite

suspicions of a deep human design--and above the bottom of the gateway,

project, in the most careless way! a few broad tropic leaves and

brilliant flowers. All of a sudden, through this bright, bold gateway,

you catch a glimpse of the faintest, softest, richest picture that ever

graced the dream of a dying Saint, since John saw the New Jerusalem

glimmering above the clouds of Heaven. A broad sweep of sea, flecked

with careening sails; a sharp, jutting cape, and a lofty lighthouse on

it; a sloping lawn behind it; beyond, a portion of the old "city of

palaces," with its parks and hills and stately mansions; beyond these, a

prodigious mountain, with its strong outlines sharply cut against ocean

and sky; and over all, vagrant shreds and flakes of cloud, floating in a

sea of gold. The ocean is gold, the city is gold, the meadow, the

mountain, the sky--every thing is golden-rich, and mellow, and dreamy as

a vision of Paradise. No artist could put upon canvas, its entrancing

beauty, and yet, without the yellow glass, and the carefully contrived

accident of a framework that cast it into enchanted distance and shut out

from it all unattractive features, it was not a picture to fall into

ecstasies over. Such is life, and the trail of the serpent is over us

all.

There is nothing for it now but to come back to old Tabor, though the

subject is tiresome enough, and I can not stick to it for wandering off

593

The Innocents Abroad