They send back some of them deep, thrillin’ echoes every time I think on’t in the day-time or wake up in the night and think on’t.

It wuz “Love and Death,” and wuz painted by Mr. Watts, of London.

It showed a home where Love had made its sweet restin’-place—­vines grew up round the pleasant door-way, emblematic of how the heart’s deep affection twined round the spot.

But in the door-way stood a mighty form, veiled and shadowy, but relentless.  It has torn the vines down, they lay witherin’ at its feet.  It wuz bound to enter.

Though you couldn’t see the face of this veiled shape, a mysterious, dretful atmosphere darkened and surrounded it, and you knew that its name wuz Death.

Love stood in the door-way, vainly a-tryin’ to keep it out, but you could see plain how its pleadin’, implorin’ hand, extended out a-tryin’ to push the figger away, wuz a-goin’ to be swept aside by the inexorable, silent shape.

Death when he goes up on a door-step and pauses before a door has got to enter, and Love can’t push it away.  No, it can only git its wings torn off and trompled on in the vain effort.

It wuz a dretful impressive picter, one that can’t be forgot while life remains.

On the opposite wall wuz Crane’s noble picter, “Freedom;” I stood before that for some time nearly lost and by the side of myself.  Crane did first-rate; I’d a been glad to have told him so—­it would a been so encouragin’ to him.

Then there wuz another picter in the English section called “The Passing of Arthur” that rousted up deep emotions.

I’d hearn Thomas J. read so much about Arthur, and that round extension table of hisen, that I seemed to be well acquainted with him and his mates.

I knew that he had a dretful hard time on’t, what with his wife a-fallin’ in love with another man—­which is always hard to bear—­and etcetry.  And I always approved of his doin’s.

He never tried to go West to git a divorce.  No; he merely sez to her, when she knelt at his feet a-wantin’ to make up with him, he sez, “Live so that in Heaven thou shalt be Arthur’s true wife, and not another’s.”

I’ll bet that shamed Genevere, and made her feel real bad.

And his death-bed always seemed dretful pathetic to me.

And here it wuz all painted out.  The boat floatin’ out on the pale golden green light, and Arthur a-layin’ there with the three queens a-weepin’ over him.  A-floatin’ on to the island valley of Avilion, “Where falls not hail nor rain, nor any snow.”

And then there wuz a picter by Whistler, called “The Princess of the Land of Porcelain.”

You couldn’t really tell why that slender little figger in the long trailin’ silken robes, and the deep dark eyes, and vivid red lips should take such a holt on you.

But she did, and that face peers out of Memory-aisles time and time agin, and you wake up a-thinkin’ on her in the night.