ature, as
those of the bed or the table. Imagination was a kind of sixth sense,
and its objects were as real as the objects of the other senses. This
sense he believed to exist, though latent, in every one, and to be
susceptible of development by cultivation. This is surely a very
different thing from madness. Neither is it the low superstition of
ghosts. He recounted no miracle, nothing supernatural. It was only that
by strenuous effort and untiring devotion he had penetrated beyond the
rank and file--but not beyond the possibilities of the rank and
file--into the unseen world. Undoubtedly this power finally assumed
undue proportions. In his isolation it led him on too unresistingly. His
generation knew him not. It neglected where it should have trained, and
stared where it should have studied. He was not wily enough to conceal
or gloss over his views. Often silent with congenial companions, he
would thrust in with boisterous assertion in the company of captious
opponents. Set upon by the unfriendly and the conventional, he wilfully
hurled out his wild utterances, exaggerating everything, scorning all
explanation or modification, goading peculiarities into reckless
extravagance, on purpose to puzzle and startle, and so avenging himself
by playing off upon those who attempted to play off upon him. To the
gentle, the reverent, the receptive, the simple, he, too, was gentle and
reverent.

Nearest and dearest of all, the "beloved Kate" held him in highest
honor. The ripples that disturbed the smooth flow of their early life
had died away and left an unruffled current. To the childless wife, he
was child, husband, and lover. No sphere so lofty, but he could come
quickly down to perform the lowliest duties. The empty platter, silently
placed on the dinner-table, was the signal for his descent from
Parnassus to the money-earning graver. No angel-faces kept him from
lighting the morning fire and setting on the breakfast-kettle before his
Kitty awoke. Their life became one. Her very spirit passed into his. By
day and by night her love surrounded him. In his moments of fierce
inspiration, when he would arise from his bed to sketch or write the
thoughts that tore his brain, she, too, arose and sat by his side,
silent, motionless, soothing him only by the tenderness of her presence.
Years and wintry fortunes made havoc of her beauty, but love renewed it
day by day for the eyes of her lover, and their hands only met in firmer
clas