the smallest lodging. Sun and light are, as Mr. Toots says, of "no
consequence" to the moss family. But if one be above such trifles as
mosses, and with Young American loftiness aspire to full-grown trees,
there is still plenty to do in the most ordinary woodlands. After a
chapter of Mr. Ruskin upon Claude and Poussin and Turner, there is
nothing like going to the original documents. In default of the National
Gallery from London and the Pitti Palace from the other side of Arno,
which cannot be summoned into court at a moment's notice, we can solve
at least half the problem. Mr. Ruskin may or may not be right about the
Claudes; but it is very easy to see if he be right as to the trees. And
if we prove him right with his theory of branches and bark, we have a
fair presumption that he has eyes to see the alleged falsehoods in him
of Lorraine. Now here is a chance to do a little bit of Art-criticism
quite unexpensively. Discontented young gentlemen murmur about the
education of this people being too practical, unaesthetic, and all that,
and sigh for the culture which a foreign land only can give. But a man
who has no eye for Nature will hardly learn to love her at second-hand
through the mediation of canvas and colors. I should like very much to
be able to walk into a Turner Gallery once a week; but, for all that, I
would not give up a Connecticut Valley sunset, such as last summer could
be had for the looking at. Not Turner, even, could paint those level
shadows, all interfused with trembling light, that filled the hollows
of the hills across the river, and brought out their wavy contour, and
showed the depth and distance of the valley opening miles away. Could he
throw athwart the dark mirror of the sleeping water in the gorge, which
led the imprisoned river stealthily to the sea, the gliding snows of the
sails rosy-white that stole swan-like from behind the bluffs? Could he
bring down the rainbow till its hither abutment rested on the centre of
the stream in a transparent mist of driving rain, while its keystone was
lost in the stooping cloud above? Art is good, as well as long; but time