t that could afford the least protection. Racked with
renewed anguish, I peeped out to see if there was any earthly prospect
reaching my clothes. Horror upon horror! what were they doing now? Did
my eyes deceive me? As sure as fate, they were all quietly undressing
themselves! Hats, scarves, parasols and dresses were scattered all
around them; there they sat, on the moss-covered rocks, their
alabaster necks and limbs glistening in the sun, looking for all the
world like a bevy of mermaids, laughing and chattering in the highest
glee, perfectly indifferent to my presence! I saw no more. A dizziness
came over me. Consternation seized my inmost soul. Drawing back behind
the rock. I held my face close up to it and shut both my eyes. Don't
talk to me about courage! Every man is a coward by nature. Of what
avail was it that I had killed whales and chased grizzly bears? Here I
was now, hiding my face, shutting my eyes, trembling in the hot sun
like a man with an ague, both knees knocking together, and my heart
ready to pop out of my mouth from abject fear! Strange--wasn't
it?--especially after having made the grand tour of Europe, in many
parts of which live men and women are ranked with statuary. What harm
is there, after all, in discarding those artificial trappings which
disfigure the human form divine? Many a man who looks like an Apollo
Belvidere in his natural condition, becomes a very commonplace fellow
the moment he steps into his conventional disguise. He is no longer
heroic; he may be a very vulgar-looking mortal, not at all calculated
to produce classical impressions on any body. His form divine has
fallen into the hands of a tailor, who may be neither an artist or a
poet. And since we can admire an Apollo Belvidere, why not a Venus de
Medici, or, still more, the living, breathing impersonation of beauty
buffeting the waves with

"Shapely limb and lubricated joint."

But, hang it all! though not an ill-shaped man, I don't flatter myself
there was any thing in my personal appearance, as I crouched behind
the rock, shutting both eyes as hard as I could, to remind the most
enthusiastic artist of the Apollo Belvidere! Nay, the gifted Hawthorne
himself could scarcely have made a Marble Faun out of so unpromising a
subject. And as for the fair bathers, who by this time were plunging
about in the water like naiads, it would of course be impossible for
me to say how far they were improved by lack of costume, since I
l