flowers have grown intelligent; and he almost fears to trust them with the secret which they seem to invite. Yet nature soothes and sympathizes. In the green solitude he finds a dearer home than with men: —

“Fountain-heads and pathless groves,

Places which pale passion loves,

Moonlight walks, when all the fowls

Are safely housed, save bats and owls,

A midnight bell, a passing groan, —

These are the sounds we feed upon.”

Behold there in the wood the fine madman!

He is a palace of sweet sounds and sights; he dilates; he is twice a man; he walks with arms