In this and other pictures the water is like a bit of looking-glass stuck up in front,—­without perspective, without connection with the ground,—­the mere assertion of a reflection.  The conception embraced only the main figure; the rest was added like a label, for explanation only.  These men did not see the landscape as we see it, because the interest was wanting that combines it into a picture for our eyes.  Our “love of Nature” would have been incomprehensible and disgusting to a Greek; he would have called our artists “dirt-painters.”  And from his point of view he would be right.  Dirt it is, if we abide by the mere facts.  The interest of Art lies not in the facts, but in the truth,—­that is, in the facts organized, shown in their place.  It is not that we care more about stocks and stones than they did, but that we hold the key to an arrangement that gives these things a significance they have not of themselves.

* * * * *

SNOW.

  Lo, what wonders the day hath brought,
    Born of the soft and slumberous snow! 
  Gradual, silent, slowly wrought,—­
  Even as an artist, thought by thought,
    Writes expression on lip and brow.

  Hanging garlands the eaves o’erbrim,—­
    Deep drifts smother the paths below;
  The elms are shrouded, trunk and limb,
  And all the air is dizzy and dim
    With a whirl of dancing, dazzling snow.

  Dimly out of the baffled sight
    Houses and church-spires stretch away;
  The trees, all spectral and still and white,
  Stand up like ghosts in the failing light,
    And fade and faint with the blinded day.

  Down from the roofs in gusts are hurled
    The eddying drifts to the waste below;
  And still is the banner of storm unfurled,
  Till all the drowned and desolate world
    Lies dumb and white in a trance of snow.

  Slowly the shadows gather and fall,—­
    Still the whispering snow-flakes beat;
  Night and darkness are over all: 
  Rest, pale city, beneath their pall! 
    Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet!

  Clouds may thicken, and storm-winds breathe;
    On my wall is a glimpse of Rome,—­
  Land of my longing!—­and underneath
  Swings and trembles my olive-wreath;
    Peace and I are at home, at home!

* * * * *

HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS.

BY CHRISTOPHER CROWFIELD.

II.

I am a frank, open-hearted man, as, perhaps, you have by this time perceived, and you will not, therefore, be surprised to know that I read my last article on the carpet to my wife and the girls before I sent it to the “Atlantic,” and we had a hearty laugh over it together.  My wife and the girls, in fact, felt that they could afford to laugh, for they had carried their point, their reproach among