In a word, as he listened to such tales as these, Kenyon could have

imagined that the valleys and hillsides about him were a veritable

Arcadia; and that Donatello was not merely a sylvan faun, but the genial

wine god in his very person. Making many allowances for the poetic

fancies of Italian peasants, he set it down for fact that his friend, in

a simple way and among rustic folks, had been an exceedingly delightful

fellow in his younger days.

But the contadini sometimes added, shaking their heads and sighing, that

the young Count was sadly changed since he went to Rome. The village

girls now missed the merry smile with which he used to greet them.

The sculptor inquired of his good friend Tomaso, whether he, too,

had noticed the shadow which was said to have recently fallen over

Donatello's life.

"Ah, yes, Signore!" answered the old butler, "it is even so, since

he came back from that wicked and miserable city. The world has grown

either too evil, or else too wise and sad, for such men as the old

Counts of Monte Beni used to be. His very first taste of it, as you see,

has changed and spoilt my poor young lord. There had not been a single

count in the family these hundred years or more, who was so true a Monte

Beni, of the antique stamp, as this poor signorino; and now it brings

the tears into my eyes to hear him sighing over a cup of Sunshine! Ah,

it is a sad world now!"

"Then you think there was a merrier world once?" asked Kenyon.

"Surely, Signore," said Tomaso; "a merrier world, and merrier Counts of

Monte Beni to live in it! Such tales of them as I have heard, when I was

a child on my grandfather's knee! The good old man remembered a lord of

Monte Beni--at least, he had heard of such a one, though I will not make

oath upon the holy crucifix that my grandsire lived in his time who used

to go into the woods and call pretty damsels out of the fountains, and

out of the trunks of the old trees. That merry lord was known to dance

with them a whole long summer afternoon! When shall we see such frolics

in our days?"

"Not soon, I am afraid," acquiesced the sculptor. "You are right,

excellent Tomaso; the world is sadder now!"

And, in truth, while our friend smiled at these wild fables, he sighed

in the same breath to think how the once genial earth produces, in every

successive generation, fewer flowers than used to gladden the preceding

ones. Not that the modes and seeming possibilities of human enjoyment

are rarer in our refined and softened era,--on the contrary, they never

before were nearly so abundant,--but that mankind are getting so far

beyond the childhood of their race that they scorn to be happy any

longer. A simple and joyous character can find no place for itself

among the sage and sombre figures that would put his unsophisticated

cheerfulness to shame. The entire system of man's affairs, as at present

established, is built up purposely to exclude the careless and happy

soul. The very children would upbraid the wretched individual who should

endeavor to take life and the world as w what we might naturally suppose

them meant for--a place and opportunity for enjoyment.




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