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ment to create large decorative work is purposely kept as heavy as those in has been more or less engaged in de- the old glass, although a lead-line alsigning for or making stained glass. In ways makes itself evident enough, and addition to Mr. La Farge and Mr. Tif- we have to-day much lighter lead at fany, we have had Mr. F. D. Millet, Mr. our service-cut across an arm Francis Lathrop, Mr. E. H. Blashfield, fold of drapery where no actual need Mr. Elihu Vedder, Mr. G. W. Maynard, of construction calls for it. Mr. Robert Blum, and Mr. Kenyon Cox, To take an instance near at hand : in —to name a few of our foremost figure- the city of Boston, in Trinity Church, painters.

we have some of the best English winGiven the extreme variety and rich- dows that have come to this country, deness of our glass, it has been possible to signed by Mr. Burne Jones, and made in attempt subjects of such complexity of a nearly avowed competition with the effect that we have gone beyond the glass by Mr. La Farge, in the same limit by which the European glass-maker church. In the English work we have, is restricted. Herein lies the ground undoubtedly, elements of beauty, such for a reproach which is often aimed at as go with the design of Mr. Burne our glass, generally by men of strict ad- Jones, but little else. Considered as herence to ecclesiastical formulæ. The colors, they hardly exist, while by reproach, which affects only glass for their side the work of the American church purposes, is, in sum, that it is too artist has a depth and richness which vivid, too realistic, and has too great adds to the dignity and beauty of the similarity to mere decoration, irrespect design. That these English windows ive of the sacred character of the place are more in the character of old work, for which it is destined. While the as regards superficial features, such as same reproach could be applied with the archaism referred to above, is equal justice to the whole Venetian true enough ; but as old work has, as school of painting--to which our glass is its most essential characteristic, great somewhat allied—there is a foundation beauty of color, which is almost always for it in the fact that, from the limi- absent in English work, there seems tations which restriction in the manu- but little ground for a marked preffacture of glass imposed upon the old erence which certain of the clergy have makers of church windows, a more for English glass. There is in this a conventional treatment and greater au- question of design made in obedience sterity of effect was usual with them. to conventional law, which, with the But as Viollet le Duc has pointed out, freedom of men who feel called to do in the thirteenth century glass, where individual work, we upon this side perspective is often grossly violated, this of the water have neglected; but latwas not done in order to keep the terly attempts have been made, with window within the limits of mural success, to combine, in a design which decoration, but through sheer igno- is cognizant of ecclesiastical requirerance of the laws of perspective. In ments, the elements of color inherent to a similar vein, we may remark that in American glass, and the skill which we coming from the glowing windows of have acquired in its use. Santa Croce, in Florence, it is hard to An example of such a design is given believe that a thirteenth century glass- herewith, that of a window made by the stainer would have willingly resigned Tiffany Glass Company for the Church the opportunities which come with the of the Heavenly Rest of New York. It curious and beautifully variegated glass is of the familiar Gothic description, the which we have at our command, and design of which, while studiously conwhich enable us to approach somewhat ventional, is rendered interesting by a nearer to the glories of sun and shadow, certain personality in the character of of tinted cloud or far-reaching horizon. the figures, which were designed by Mr. The sad-colored harmonies of our Eng- Lyell Carr. This is as it should be, the lish cousins seem too arbitrarily re- windows by Mr. Burne Jones, for instrained, as does their deliberate ar- stance, being full of the characteristics chaism in making a lead-line—which of their designer while fulfilling the re

VOL. IV.-72

quirements of the church. But although ognition of our most truly national adherence to convention is common to achievement in the arts of design must the German and French glass-stainers, draw to a close. While it is not inthere has not, to my knowledge, come to tended to call attention to individual this country any window by them which is works in general, brief mention may be above the level of good mediocrity; nor, made of Mr. Francis Lathrop's dignified indeed, are there men in these countries figure of Christ in the window in Beof the same relative artistic importance thesda Church, Saratoga, of Mr. Maitland as the Americans who are engaged in de- Armstrong's window in Grace Church, signing and making stained glass. Providence, characterized, as is all Mr.

But it is as a means of expression of Armstrong's work, by good taste and a artistic qualities which could hardly find somewhat more strict adherence to aptheir vent in any other direction, that proved methods than some of his brother our stained glass rises to the height of artists, though the designs reproduced a defini

achievement. The windows here tell their own story. Excellent by Mr. La Farge in Trinity, that in the work has also been done by Mr. FredAmes Memorial at North Easton, and eric Crowninshield, Mr. John Johnston, the sumptuous windows adorning the Mr. Prentice Treadwell

, Mr. Frank Hill hall and stairway in the residence of Smith, and others, mere registration the late William H. Vanderbilt, could of this fact must suffice. But in cononly have been done by the fortuitous clusion I may say, as I commenced, that possession by a gifted artist of a mate- here is to-day an art practised with rial of surprising richness. In like much of that originality which our manner the design by Mr. Tiffany which foreign critics call for as a manifesta

ages was carried out much tion of the American spirit. That this as a painter working with color made should be fostered and encouraged by pulverizing gems might have done would appear to go without saying ; that it. This exceeding wealth of color, aid- it is properly so encouraged is not as yet ed by the network of the lead-lines, car- the case ; but if anyone of those interries with it, moreover, a certain solidity ested in the actual erection of a stainedof impression that keeps our most au- glass window will dispassionately study dacious experiments thoroughly within the subject, and learn what is being the realm of mural decoration ; so that, done here and elsewhere, the conclusion despite the lamentations of our pseudo- will be forced upon him that here is an archaic critics that we occasionally rep- art that is native, and that has taken resent too much distance, our glass root from a small beginning ; that even seems more on the plane of the wall into now the vigorous young trunk spreads which it is set than most of the thinner forth its blossoming branches to delight and clearer glass of foreign manufacture. and make proud the land where the arid

But this plea for greater public rec- waste has become the fair garden.

graces these

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AT THE STATION

By Rebecca Harding Davis.

N

OTHING could well be more commonplace or ignoble than the cor

ner of the world in which Miss Dilly now spent her life.

A wayside inn, near a station on the railway which runs from Salisbury, in North Carolina, up into the great Appalachian range of mountains ; two or three unpainted boxes of houses scattered along the track by the inn ; not a tree or blade of grass in the “clarin’;

a few gaunt, longlegged pigs and chickens grunting and cackling in the muddy clay yards ; beyond,

swampy tobacco fields stretching to the encircling pine woods. For Sevier Station lay on the lowland; the mountains rose far to the west, like a blue haze on the horizon. The railway ran like a black line across the plain, and stopped at their foot at a hamlet called Henry's; thence an occasional enterprising traveller took “the team "up the precipitous mountain road to Asheville, then a sleepy village unknown to tourists.

Nothing, too, could have been more commonplace or ignoble than Miss Dilly herself: a pudgy old woman of sixty, her shapeless body covered with a scant, blue homespun gown, with a big white apron tied about where the waist should have been ; a face like that of an exaggerated baby, and round, innocent blue eyes, which, when they met yours, you were sure were the friendliest in the world. Miss Dilly always wore a coarse white handkerchief (snowy white, and freshly ironed) pinned about her neck, and another tied over her ears, for she had occasionaliy a mysterious pain, commonly known to us as neuralgia, but which the Carolinian mountaineers declare is only caused by being "overlooked” by someone who has an evil eye.

“They tell me it must be so," Miss Dilly would say. But, of course, my dear, it was done by accident. Nobody would hurt a person thataway, meanin' it. _An' it's a mighty tarrible thing to have that kind of an eye! I hope the good Lord don't let any poor soul know that he has it.”

Miss Dilly had had this pain only since she had lived in the lowland. It had almost disabled her. She was born in the mountains—up on the Old Black—and she fancied if she would go back to them she would be cured. But her younger brother, James, owned this farm and inn, and when their mother died, twenty years ago, he had agreed with Preston Barr that he should have both, rent free, if he would give Dilly a home and the yield of one field of tobacco yearly. James then set off to the West to make his fortune. Letters at first came regularly. But it was ten years now since she had heard from him.

Nobody ever heard a groan from Miss Dilly when the attacks of pain came on. “When the good Lord gives you a load to cahry, I reckon 't ar’nt the clean thing to lay it on other folks' shoulders,” she would say, laughing. She shut herself up, therefore, in her own chamber, and would let nobody in, though everybody at the inn, from Squire Barr himself to Sam (the black cook, ostler, and chambermaid), besieged the door.

A gloom like that of a funeral overhung the whole clarin' when Miss Dilly had one of her spells. After the passing of the two trains a day it was the one topic of interest.

“I've knowed wimmen as was younger," old Colonel Royall would say,

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solemnly wagging his head and winking or knit in her own room, sitting at the his bleared eyes ;

'but Aunt Dilly is window where she could see the six men the jokingest and most agreeable of her of the village sitting in a row in the galsex in this part of Cahliny, to my think- lery of the inn, smoking. She called in'.”

them her boys, and when one chanced to “ Yes," Squire Barr would answer, have the rheumatism or tooth-ache or a nodding gravely. “And how any hu- snake-bite, clucked about him like an man fiend can lay the devil's look on old hen over an ailing chick. All the her, passes me!”

children in the hamlet were free of her When the attack was over she would room : there was always one at least come down, pale and pinched about the with her, listening to her old Bible jaws, but smiling, kissing and shaking stories. Neither they nor Miss Dilly hands all round as if she had come back were at all sure how far exactly Palestine from a long journey.

was from Carolina ; indeed, Dilly had a The Squire invariably addressed her dim conviction that the mountains on with ponderous gravity, after this fash- which her Lord walked and suffered and ion :

died as man were part of the mountains “ Ef it be so, Aunt Dilly, 's you think yonder, which were all the world that goin' back to yer home on th’ Old Black she knew. 'd give you ease, say the wohd. I cahn't There was no church near the stapay you rent in money, foh Godamity tion; there were not even the monthly knows, I've got none. But in traffic, “pra'ars " which keep up the religious tobacco, cohn, an'millet-it'll be all sent and social life of the mountains. Miss up reg'lar. Though what we'd do with- Dilly with her Bible and her incessant out you all, passes me!”

innocent talk of “the good Lord” was At which Mrs. Missouri Barr would all the pope or preacher known to these look at Miss Dilly with tears on her people, the only messenger sent to show gaunt cheeks, and the girls would hang them how to live or to die. about her, patting her, and the Colonel In the morning the train passed the would declare with an oath that “the station, going up to Henry's ; in the afwhole clarin' had been powerful inter- ternoon it came down ; it halted for five rupted while you all was gone."

or ten minutes each time. These brief These were the happiest moments of pauses were the end of life for the popuMiss Dilly's happy life. She would ex- lation of Sevier Station ; the whole twenplain carefully to them, for the thou- ty-four hours merely led up to them. sandth time, her feeling on the matter. When the train came in sight, the six “ 'T seems to me ef I was in the old men, the women, children, pigs, and place, facin' Old Craggy, 'n the Swan- chickens dropped the work they had in annoa a-runnin' past the door, 'n could hand and waited, breathless. It came go set by father 'n mother every mornin', up out of the great busy world and whar they're lyin' among the rowan swept down into it again—a perpetual trees, I'd get young agin ’n lose this miracle_leaving them in silence and torment. But then, what d James solitude. Miss Dilly was always at her think ef he'd come back hyar ready to post by the window to see it go by. The cabry me to his home in Colorado or conductor and engineer had learned to them furrin countries ? Me gone, after watch for the wondering old baby face, my promise to wait ? 'N it would go and often threw to her a little package hard too to leave you, Preston, ’n Mis- of candy or a newspaper.

Her heart soury, ’n the girls, 'n Sam, 'n all—very thumped with terror and delight as the hard!”

wonderful thing rushed past her. If she The girls always surprised Miss Dilly could only ride on the cars once, only with a good supper on these recoveries, for a mile! This was the one secret amand the Colonel and Squire Preston felt bition of her life. it their duty to go to bed drunker than Sometimes, but very rarely, the train usual, in sign of joy.

was belated and stopped long enough At other times, life at Sevier Station for the passengers to take supper.

Then was stagnant enough. Miss Dilly sewed excitement rose to fever height. Mrs.

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Barr, the girls, Preston, even the Colonel middle-aged man, with eyes like those of were busy in the kitchen, cooking and a stupid, affectionate dog, stooping forscolding Sam. Miss Dilly, who could ward, listening eagerly to its moans and do nothing, hurried to the parlor, in the advice of the crowd. fresh apron and handkerchiefs. It was a “Poor little kid !” he said, earnestly. stuffy little room with plaited rugs on “I reckon it's its head as is wrong. I had the floor, a chromo of the death-bed of a boy once. He only lived to be seven. Washington on the wall, and a red-hot It was the head as ailed him. The brain, stove in the middle. But the passen- sah. Enormous ! Ef that little fellah gers who were waiting for supper, to had lived he'd have made his mark in the Miss Dilly's mind, were all dear good world, alongside of Alick Stephens." folk who had come up from the world to Died at seven?” said his companion talk to her awhile. She took the keen- with an inarticulate murmur of symest interest in them all: nursed the pathy. “Well, sah. Him thet's above, babies, pulled out some candy from her He knows. It's all foh the best.” pocket for the children, ran for a drink “ Not foh me ; not foh me!” with a for the tired, dusty women, or sat listen- fierce grow], after which he was silent. ing eagerly to the talk of the men, now Presently he said: “ Captain, I used to and then asking a timid question. “And quiet my boy a-strokin' of his temples. you really been at New Yohk, sah ? Dear Êf they'd try it on the babyme! I doan know what anybody thet "I'm very sorry, Mr. Judson,” said has bin at New Yohk wants to come to the other man, with sudden gravity, the mountings foh. No, I never trav- "thet I cahn't let you try it yohself. elled. Much, that is. I was once at But duty, sahAsheville, foh two days. I reckon New

"I didn't think of doin' it myself !” Yohk is differint. But Asheville is a exclaimed Judson, angrily. “You don't vehy large town, sah. You suhtinly suspect me of a trick? Dy'e think I'm ought to visit it.”

a sneak?” It was singular to see how they all, God forbid! No, no, Mr. Judson. women, children, and men, seemed to un- I know a high-toned gentleman when I derstand Miss Dilly at once, and treated see him. When Sheriff Roylston give me her with a tender kind of respect. She this commission he says : *Treat Mr. usually felt quite intimate with them all Judson as a high-toned gentleman.' And before the evening was over, and when as such I reco’nized you. And as such they entered the train and were swept I treated you." out of sight would stand looking after Judson made no answer. He had them, the tears in her eyes.

dropped back into his seat and pulled “The dear friends hardly come till the wide-rimmed hat over his brows. they go again,” she would say to the The child by this time was asleep ; girls.

the passengers crept softly back to their One stormy night in winter the train places, and the train was again in mo was delayed two hours beyond its time. tion. As, an hour later, it rushed along A child of one of the passengers had through the gathering twilight, Judson been taken sick, near Henry's; the train glanced out of the windows from side was stopped, and a man who was said to side with a terrified apprehension on to have considerable skill in physic was

his face. sent for, two miles distant. The pas- “Isn't this the old Sevier plantation?" sengers waited willingly. They were in 6. Yes. Consid’able altered since the no hurry; nobody in Carolina was ever railway was laid.” in a hurry in those days. Everybody After a few minutes Judson again was anxious to help the baby, and pro- broke the silence. Thah was a house posed his own favorite remedy, brandy jest beyond the Branch hvah. "T used being the most popular.

to belong to a family named-Holmes." There were only two men in the car “ Yes. Station's nigh thah now. who did not join the group about the Holmes house's took as inn. Squire sick child. They sat side by side on a Barr's the proprietor, sah.' back seat; one of them, å swarthy, “ Any of the Holmeses livin' thah ?”

VOL. IV.-73

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