THERE is one class of room which, ever since I was quite young, has appeared to me more beautiful, more to be desired, than any other whatever; it is the silent working-room or study of the man of intellect. How quiet, and yet how full of life is this sanctuary of thought, in which noiseless combats are fought out, bloodless victories are won; victories sometimes more important in their results to the world than all the Waterloos or Sebastopols; in which a lamp burns whose quiet flame prepares light for future generations, because it lights him, the genius of the room, the silent thinker, who in the work-room of his brain measures the heavens, searches through the depths, //


weighs stars and grains of sand in search of the eternal ideas, the fundamental laws and truths of all things, and questions and proves, and does not stop until he perceives the scattered sounds or lights arrange themselves harmoniously, and he can exclaim, "I have found it!"

Many who have thus sought and found have been hailed by the world as its light-bearers. More numerous are they who only open the path for these silent sincere workers, but who never enjoy the honour and the glory which fall to their lot. Nevertheless, they participate with them in the happiness of seeking and finding, in labouring for the truth, for the attainment of an end, in so far as they do it. The solitary thinker knows that future generations will be benefited by the results of his labour, of his lonely watching; knows that he is the herald of a better day on earth. That is his life and his reward. And even though he be poor, and of little esteem in the world, yet in his silent study he knows himself to be rich, knows himself to be the monarch over a vast realm.

It is into such a room as this that we would now

invite the reader to turn his eyes-and his ears also. The room has, in the meantime, a kind of beauty about it which is not usual in the workingrooms of the learned, and for this reason therefore any one might feel himself happy in it. Order does not alone prevail here, but a certain degree also of elegance. We see in the first place, above the handsomely filled book-shelves, busts of the wise men of antiquity; we look up to Pythagoras, Socrates, Zeno, Homer. Not a speck of dust is suffered to lie upon the simple green carpet, neither upon the green cloth which covers a large round table, standing about the middle of the room. On one side of the room, and at no great distance from each other, stand two writing-tables, the one somewhat larger than the other, on both of which lie books and papers, but without the disorder and confusion which are often observable on the tables of the learned. A certain spirit of freshness and peace-with not the least smell of tobacco-smoke -prevails in the apartment, giving evidence that a pure and light-loving spirit has here his abode.

The lamp standing upon the round table, and

which diffuses from beneath its flower-adorned cupola a clear radiance upon the surrounding objects, brings into strong light a tall, elderly man, who sits in a tall arm-chair, with one arm His is one of those counstrengthen the beholder Zeno or Cato might have Yet a milder sentiment is

resting upon the table. tenances which seem to

merely to gaze upon. appeared such as he. expressed in those noble, grave features, and especially so at this moment, when the deep-seated eyes, now are raised to the stars which in their silent courses look in through the open window for it is an evening at midsummer in Sweden - and now are fixed upon the young girl who sits at the table just opposite to him, reading aloud, whilst a quiet smile flits across the firm, almost sharp lines of the mouth.

The girl is young and pretty; her dress is light in colour, and the expression of her countenance is singularly bright. Nevertheless you see in her, one who for her years is unusually grave; but there is brightness even in that gravity. A soul of unusual depth is indicated in her dark-blue eyes, but this soul as

yet seems to be under the dominion of another soul which it willingly obeys. In her you seem to see a Galathea not yet awoke to life by the breath of love.

For the rest the girl is fair, like a Swedish maiden, as in fact she is; and many such, believe me, reader, may be found in Sweden, although in certain respects they may be surpassed by a Rosa Ferrucci, or a Rosa Naville; for example, in the knowledge of the ancient languages and other learning. Our Swedish Rosa Norrby, however, is learned also in these, as we shall now perceive by her translation of Cicero's Treatise on Old Age, from which she is reading aloud to her father, and to which he listens with an evident satisfaction, perhaps, also, because Rosa reads with a voice of extraordinary melody, and reads very well also. Let us now listen for a moment, with Professor Norrby, to what the wise old Roman speaks by the mouth of the young Swedish girl.

"I do not know why I should hesitate to tell you

what are my thoughts on death. As I am nearer to it than you, I believe that I can see better than you how death ought to be met.

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