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itself into something so pygmy as to be scarcely worthy of consideration, or perhaps into mere nihilism. Such were my feelings when gazing on the stony tome, notwithstanding the fact that the people whose names it contained had established an empire unprecedented in richness, opened up unknown phases of life, and developed a literature as new as it was strange in incident and strong in contrast. My reverie over, I moved onward a few yards, and came suddenly upon the city. At a first glance it seemed to be a mere mass of granite crags huddled together without order or system, and certainly resembled, to my eyes, at least, anything but a city. After gazing at it steadily for a few minutes, I began to note its outline more in detail, and to separate its angles and curves into their proper positions, and by this means I was enabled to get a fair idea of its general character.

That the formation of the rocks is both quaint and picturesque was evident in a short time, but the striking resemblance which it is said to bear to a city did not impress me as quickly. By trying to make comparisons, I found that I could soon single out-or I thought I could-the towers, domes, minarets, and castellated ruins of a mediæval city, and the cabins, shanties, and tepées of the residents of the Western borders. The appearance of the place is certainly very striking, owing to the many-shaped outlines of the crags, and their arrangement and distribution. Yet I felt somewhat disappointed, owing to the highly gilded tales I had heard of its wonderful approach to the work of man. I could see no streets in any direction, except that indicated by a small rivulet whose course through the rocks was marked by a thin line of foliaceous shrubbery. Moving closer to it, I soon learned a lesson in optics, by being promptly made aware that reflected light from many objects produces a visual chaos that it is impossible to bring into order. What seemed to me a mere confused mass of crags at a distance, on nearer approach resolved themselves into the actual forms I had tried to depict by force of imagination, so that my surprise as well as my pleasure was by no means insignificant. While still inferior to the ideal I had formed in my mind, yet I certainly felt amply repaid for the labor and time I had expended in reaching this natural city.

The area of the city proper is perhaps two square miles. It occupies a niche in a mountain-side, and this causes the rocks to look quite small at a distance, owing to the altitude of the background; but when beside them their towering forms and massive foundation impress one immediately. I clambered through and over them in every direction, but I could find very few names impressed upon them, the pioneers evi

dently thinking them too far from the highway to be useful as monuments. While rambling among them I startled a large herd of antelopes, but, as I did not expect to meet any life in such a locality, they were lost among the numerous labyrinths before I could get a shot at them. I learned, subsequently, that large numbers of these animals frequent the city during the summer, as it affords them plenty of food and water, and a safe retreat from the wolves, which constantly harass them in more exposed situations. Even the young can escape their enemies in this spot, unless they are fairly hunted down by superior speed. Having exhausted the resources of the place, I moved to the granitoid mountain in the rear, and from its summit had a fine view of the panorama spread out below. The sun was now low, and his rays, glinting the top and struggling through the crevices of the crags, caused them to resemble more closely the old architectural structures of Italy, with their unexpected angles, curves, towers, and gables, which seem to have been hurled together in the most inextricable confusion.

Wearied with my day's rambling, I was returning to my hostelry in a listless manner, when, in passing out of the city by a new route, I was startled by the appearance of three men, who were digging a hole at the base of a huge crag. I certainly did not expect to meet any of the human family in this wild and lonely retreat, and, least of all, white men, so I was not a little surprised at the apparition. I looked around for their camp, but could see nothing resembling it except a roll of blankets, on which three revolvers, ready for prompt use, and three bowie knives in their scabbards were laid. Their work and accessories looked very suspicious, and this induced me to watch them with keen interest, to learn, if possible, what could be the motive for indulging in such seemingly strange proceedings. After carefully surveying my surroundings, I selected a large rock which overlooked their position, and, climbing with much difficulty to its summit, I laid my rifle on a line with their heads, and prepared to await developments. I supposed they were robbers, engaged either in digging for, or preparing to bury, some treasure; and this suspicion was heightened by their costume, and the fact that all wore Mexican spurs, although I could see no horses. I waited and watched for half an hour, but seeing them busy as ever I concluded they were miners engaged in prospecting for gold; and this induced me to descend from my hard perch and approach them, but not without taking the precaution to move cautiously, so as to make as little noise as possible, to keep between them and their weapons, and to have my rifle ready for instant use in case

my presence was considered an intrusion. By moving carefully, and taking advantage of every shelter afforded by rock and shrub, I was within ten yards of them ere I was detected; but that was no sooner done than the three jumped out simultaneously, and attempted to run for their pack. Receiving a peremptory command to halt or accept the consequences, they complied reluctantly, and a conversation ensued which, in less than five minutes, caused a suspension of all hostile intentions, and ended in our shaking hands, and laughing at the scare we had all enjoyed.

From their conversation I learned that they were prospecting for a large treasure said to have been buried somewhere near the city, about two years previously, by a party of highwaymen, who had robbed the Montana stage, which contained the mails, and Wells, Fargo & Co.'s express-box, said to hold many thousand dollars in gold-dust. The exact amount was supposed to be one hundred and sixty thousand dollars. The freebooters were subsequently caught, tried, and sent to the California Penitentiary for life; and while there, one of them, who did not expect to live long, told an official of the prison, who had shown him some kindness, where the treasure was buried. He sought it assiduously for several weeks, but could not find it. A company of capitalists in San Francisco then went to search for it, but after spending several thousand dollars, and two years' time, they were compelled to retire as unsuccessful as their predecessor. The party whom I met were the next to undertake its recovery, and, though they had been digging in every possible direction for two months, they had found no trace of it. They had tried divining-rods, throwing stones at random and digging where they fell, scattering water over the ground with a full sweep of the pail, and digging where it ended; they had even tried dreaming about it;

receiving the first moonbeams of the evening over their right shoulder and choosing the spot where they first struck the earth; and, as a last resource, had consulted a clairvoyant or spiritualist, and they were then digging in the spot which they supposed she recommended. They were very sanguine of success in their last effort; but it is needless to add that it proved a failure, so the treasure remains undiscovered to this day, though many have sought it. This incident was the only feature previously lacking in the picture to give it the air of wild romance which so readily accorded with the lonely landscape, so I was not a little pleased to encounter it for its artistic effect alone. Thanking the men for their very interesting tale, I bade them a good evening, and went on to the station. I left there the next morning, and wended my way into southern Utah, where I tarried a few months; and while there I heard that another expedition, with a capital of ten thousand dollars, and accompanied by a spiritualistic medium, had been organized to search for the treasure; but thus far its recovery has not been announced.

The tourist passing through Idaho will be repaid by a visit to this rude, wild, and rockbuilt city; but as it lacks grandeur, or beauty of surroundings, it will never be a Mecca for those lovers of nature whose tastes incline them to gentleness and warmth of color. Being devoid of any pleasing accessories of gorse or coppice, luxuriant verdure, or brilliant flowers, having nothing in reality to present, except eccentric masses of cold, gray, dull granite and whitish-green clumps of artemisia, it leaves an impression of weariness on the mind that is felt for some days after a visit. Its silence is oppressive, and this, combined with its tattered, dismantled look, causes one to associate it with wolves and bats and ghostly owls.

J. MURPHY.

DULCE EST DESIPERE.

POEMS.

A LATIN STUDENT'S SONG OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY.*

CAST aside dull books and thought!

Sweet is folly, sweet is play:
Take the pleasure spring hath brought
In youth's opening holiday!
Right it is that age should ponder

On grave matters fraught with care;
Tender youth is free to wander,
Free to frolic light as air.

* Translated from the "Carmina Burana," p. 137.

Like a dream our prime is flown, Prisoned in a study:

Sport and folly are youth's own, Tender youth and ruddy.

Lo, the spring of life slips by,
Frozen winter comes apace;
Strength is minished silently,

Care writes wrinkles on our face; Blood dries up and courage fails us,

Pleasure dwindles, joys decrease, Till old age at last assails us

With his troop of illnesses.

Like a dream our prime is flown,

Prisoned in a study; Sport and folly are youth's own, Tender youth and ruddy.

Live we like the gods above!

This is wisdom, this is truth:
Chase the joys of gentle love

In the leisure of our youth!
Keep the vows we swore together,
Lads, obey that ordinance;
Seek the fields in sunny weather,

Where the laughing maidens dance.

Like a dream our prime is flown,

Prisoned in a study;
Sport and folly are youth's own,
Tender youth and ruddy.

There the lad who lists may see
Which among the girls is kind:
There young limbs deliciously

Flashing through the dances wind: While the girls their arms are raising,

Moving, winding o'er the lea, Still I stand and gaze, and gazing

They have stolen the soul of me!

Like a dream our prime is flown,
Prisoned in a study;
Sport and folly are youth's own,
Tender youth and ruddy.

J. A. SYMONDS.

HER CUCKOO.

(She speaks.)

WE heard it calling, sweet and low, That tender April morn; we stood And listened in the quiet wood,

We heard it, ay some time ago.

It came, and with a strange, sweet cry,
A friend, and from a far-off land;
We stood and listened, hand in hand,

And heart to heart, my love and I.

In dreamland then we found our joy,
And so it seemed as 'twere the bird
That Helen in old times had heard
At noon beneath the oaks of Troy.
O time far off, and yet so near!

It came to her in that hushed grove,
It warbled while the wooing throve-
It sang the song she liked to hear.
Ay, sweet it is to hear and heed

The Wizard of the Woods in spring;

And oh ! it is a blessed thing To love the lips that fondly plead.

And now I hear its voice again,
And still its message is of peace,
Of fruitful days of still increase—
It sings of love that will not cease—
For me it never sings in vain.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

PORTENT.

I MUSE and read, from day to day,
Of human thought's far-widening sway :
Its gradual exodus I note

From shadowy periods remote.

I see false faiths in ruin lie,

Whose thronging towers once cleft the sky.
I mark, amid the past's renown,
Colossal bigotries flung down.

And yet from history's feeblest youth
I watch in joy how deathless Truth
Has striven to make, with Stoic breast,
Her immortality manifest!

And now, since they that love her strive
To strip the last barbaric gyve
Off limbs that such rude furrows mar-
A century's pain in every scar-

At length from her glad lips may fall
Some holy oracle to appall;
Some priceless utterance that shall cause
A world to tremble with applause!...

Moments are mine when heaven's blue scope
Seems throbbing with mysterious hope,
And earth's great circuit seems no less
Thrilled by miraculous presages!

I seem to hear, on each new breeze, Vague yet stupendous prophecies. . . . Deep awe possesses me. . . . I feel Stanch Reason impotently reel.

Where Science flies, with robes that shine,
Afar on embassies divine,

Dare we to dream her foot will press
Eternity's unknowableness?

Dare we to dream her hand will lay
Baffling finalities bare as day,
And bring, for all dark doubts that brood,
Some lovely and mighty certitude?

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THE NUDE IN ART ONCE MORE.

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UR readers may recall a few comments on nudity in art which were made in this department several months ago. We received, at the time the article was published, several communications from subscribers and others, both in approval and in condemnation of our utterances, but we did not think it worth while then to recur to the subject. Recently, however, the theme has been revived in several places, and, as it is obvious that a very radical difference of opinion exists as to the morality or immorality of the nude in art, we must solicit the attention of our readers while we attempt a little further elucidation of the question. One of the communications with which we were favored pronounced our former brief article a very extraordinary production, and considered it one which called for an earnest protest. "No one will dispute," the writer says, "that a delineation of a nude female figure may be as the artist wills-either the embodiment of innocence, 'clothed on with chastity,' or on the other hand suggestive in every feature and muscle of lewdness," and he thinks that many well-meaning persons confound the two classes. It is not clear how these two classes of pictures and statues can be confounded by well-meaning persons if one class is clothed with chastity and the other suggestive in every feature of lewdness. If classes of art-productions really indicated their moral or immoral quality as distinctly and effectually as our correspondent states, they would not, we should say, be confounded by any but ill-meaning persons. Our correspondent would not have "any one gaze

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upon that which is evil in its influence upon the mind," but declares it "a damaging admission for one to make who covers his eyes before the 'Venus with the Apple' or the 'Greek Slave,' and cries, 'Take them away lest my passions overcome me!' because this would indicate a morbid excess of sexual susceptibility"—as indeed beyond all doubt it would. He thinks that a sure criterion of pure art would be that when a picture or statue expresses no sensual emotion in itself it ought to excite none in the beholder. "Let one," he says, "in whom evil thoughts are engendered by the contemplation of a pure and chaste undraped figure take heed to himself at once, for he is in danger." This may be true, but the notion that only distinctly impure works of art are morally injurious can not be sustained by the facts. Lewd statues and paintings commonly furnish their own antidote, for they excite nothing but disgust in the mind of every spectator not hopelessly depraved. People are repelled by works of this kind, while the subtile fascinations of better productions often allure and stimulate the imagination.

But while this correspondent deplores our attitude, others warmly commend it. "I can not refrain," begins one note, which by the handwriting we should judge to be from a lady, "from sending an appreciative and grateful response to your article The Nude in Art,'" and then proceeds to declare that the presence of nude works of art in public galleries is an insult to those ladies who frequent them. “I speak in strong terms," the writer says, because I feel strong in my convictions. A few years since I was traveling in Europe, and with others visiting many of the famous art-buildings. I

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said to myself, 'Now, if there is any reason why I should bury such objections as I hold, I will strive to do so, for what I may learn while having this opportunity.' I tried to be brave and bold, and swallow my convictions; but, in spite of all heroic efforts, I was soon compelled to see that its effects are most emphatically dangerous and demoralizing. To convince myself, I often took a seat where I was unobserved, and not far from some one of the subjects in question; and, while apparently studying my catalogue, I watched carefully the manners and looks of the visitors. It was interesting to notice with what sudden haste mothers would turn and call the attention of their daughters to some other object, or how quickly the eyes of a young lady would drop, and she would turn and appear not to notice what had pained and mortified her. But this was not what convinced me most, for I think the natural modesty of most ladies impels them, for very shame, to pass such objects unnoticed. I was disgusted to see a certain indecent boldness with which many (gentlemen?) visitors would stay and comment, making coarse and lewd remarks-of course, not intended to be overheard, but they were, nevertheless-and putting themselves in a position to watch young ladies as they came near, and seeming to take a satanic delight in their uncomfortable and mortified position."

It will be promptly said by the defenders of nude art that the persons described by our correspondent were depraved, and to the depraved even innocent things become corrupt. But the communication is valuable as a contrast to the one which precedes it, and as evidence of how wholly apart many persons are in their convictions in this matter. This evidence, however, is at every hand. The Rev. Dr. Howard Crosby recently published, in "The Christian at Work," an essay in which he sharply condemns the prevalence of nude art. "Under a sickening cant about high art," he says, "Christians are filling their parlors with statuary and paintings calculated to excite the lowest passions of the young. There is a natural pruriency that is charmed with this dilettanteism among indecent things, as the polite distance to which refinement can go in licentiousness. It would be apposite to ask how many youth it is unable to restrain within these bounds, after having thus far inflamed their desires." It is not a question, the reverend doctor thinks, "whether it is possible to have a white-marble nudity that would be pure to every mind to this all will agreebut whether Christians can approve of nudities in every degree of color to represent life in every attitude of wantonness, whether in the name of Art they can meddle with such filthy subjects as Leda and the Swan, Danae, Venus and Adonis, etc., and not be defiled." This is very well, and perhaps the distinction here made will suit our correspondent first quoted in his classification of pure and lewd art. The reverend doctor has excited derision in one sentence. “God,” he says, “has clearly shown us that the human body is to be covered." This common clerical custom of dogmatically declaring the inten

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tions of the Almighty is always offensive to good taste, and at best is rather presumptuous; but in this instance the bad taste of the sentence is supplemented by bad logic. How came it that the human figure is covered? Are not clothes the sign and badge of the Fall, the stamp of the evil that is in us? The worthy doctor should not have so readily put in the hands of his opponents the means for retort.

Among the various replies Dr. Crosby's article has called forth is one in "The Home Journal," in which there is a lofty vein of that Higher Criticism at which "The Spectator" has recently leveled a few sharp shafts. The writer affirms not only "the right of the artist to set forth in marble or on canvas the form of man as originally created," but that in so doing he "is an efficient worker in the domain of moral culture." He assures us that "the lower and more sensual order of sentiments look chiefly to an alluring use of drapery," and that "the human figure does not readily lend itself to a low art-motive. The body of man, this symbol of the highest beauty of nature, this temple of the Holy Ghost, inspires by its simplicity, nobleness, and purity of line, a certain restraint and involuntary reverence even upon the sensualizing artist." "It is not," he goes on to say, "by debarring modern art from its highest domain, the representation of the human ideal in that purity of beauty which is its own garment, that genuine art-culture is to be fostered. The aim of this culture is to open the insight to that mystical unity of the spiritual, intellectual, and sensuous elements of our nature which is its divine ideal." Further we are told that because art "seeks to make imaginatively and sensuously present the ideal unity of the higher life; because it would realize the divine prototypes in their beautiful simplicity; because, therefore, it is privileged to display, in its unconcealed dignity and charm, without thought of shame, that human form which is made in the image of God-it is, therefore, that art holds a place, as an agency of spiritual culture, side by side and one with all pure and undefiled religion." All this is so magnificent that one is a little dazed, and is in mortal fear that he is in some way excluded by nature from comprehending the exalted ideals and purposes thus set forth. How spiritual culture is to be furthered by sensuous delineations of physical beauty, by the alluring fascinations of Venuses and Junos, it is hard to say-but this, of course, is because the questioner is wholly carnal-minded. He might point out that Venus, the goddess of beauty, is the most frequently chosen subject for delineation, and this distinctly because she is the ideal of voluptuous female beauty, but he would only be scoffed at. And yet it is the fact that not one nude work of art in a hundred has any thought of spiritual beauty or intellectual beauty, or springs from any desire to glorify the human body "as the temple of the Holy Ghost," but all are solely and wholly conceived and executed as portraits of physical, sensuous beauty, never as something ethereal, spiritual, or divine. "The Home Journal" in this matter is simply ec

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