the Puritan triumph in the
more graceful emulations that are to come; but it must be the Puritanism
of Milton, not of Cromwell only. The invigorating air of great moral
principles must breathe through all our literature; it is the expanding
spirit of the seventeenth century by which we must conquer now.

It is worth all that has been sacrificed in New England to vindicate
this one fact, the supremacy of the moral nature. All culture, all art,
without this, must be but rootless flowers, such as flaunt round a
nation's decay. All the long, stern reign of Plymouth Rock and Salem
Meeting-House was well spent, since it had this for an end,--to plough
into the American race the tradition of absolute righteousness, as the
immutable foundation of all. This was the purpose of our fathers. There
should be here no European frivolity, even if European grace went with
it. For the sake of this great purpose, history will pardon all their
excesses,--overwork, grim Sabbaths, prohibition of innocent amusements,
all were better than to be frivolous. And so, in these later years, the
arduous reforms into which the life-blood of Puritanism has passed have
all helped to train us for art, because they have trained us in
earnestness, even while they seemed to run counter to that spirit of joy
in which art has its being. For no joy is joyous which has not its root
in something noble. In what awful lines of light has this truth been
lately written against the sky! What graces might there not have been in
that Southern society before the war? It had ease, affluence, leisure,
polished manners, European culture,--all worthless; it produced not a
book, not a painting, not a statue; it concentrated itself on politics,
and failed; then on war, and failed; it is dead and vanished, leaving
only memories of wrong behind. Let us not be too exultant; the hasty
wealth of New York may do as little. Intellect in this age is not to be
found in the circles of fashion; it is not found in such society in
Europe, it is not here. Even in Paris, the world's capital, imperialism
taints all it touches; and it is the great traditions of a noble nation
which make that city still the home of art. We, a younger and cruder
race, yet need to go abroad for our standard of execution, but our ideal
and our faith must be our own.

A YOUNG DESPERADO.

When Johnny is all snugly curled up in bed, with his rosy cheek resting
on one of his scratched and grimy little hands