We drifted past lofty highlands, but there was nothing inspiring about them. In Switzerland the velvet heights are sprinkled with homes clear to the clouds, but these hills were sterile, desolate, gray, melancholy, and so thin was the skin on them that the rocky bones showed through in places. 1.30.--We seem lost in the intricate channels of an archipelago of flat islands covered with bushes. 1.50.--We whirl around a corner into open river again, and observe that a vast bank of leaden clouds is piling itself up on the horizon; the tint thrown upon the distant stretches of water is rich and fine. The river is wide now--a hundred and fifty yards--and without islands. Suddenly it has become nearly currentless and is like a lake. The Admiral explains that from this point for nine miles it is called L’Eau Morte--Dead Water. The region is not entirely barren of life, it seems--solitary woman paddling a punt across the wide still pool. The boat moved, but that is about all one could say. It was indolent progress; still, it was comfortable. There were flaming sunshine behind and that rich thunder gloom ahead, and now and then the fitful fanning of a pleasant breeze. A woman paddled across--a rather young woman with a face like the “Mona Lisa.” I had seen the “Mona Lisa” only a little while before, and stood two hours in front of that painting, repeating to myself: “People come from around the globe to stand here and worship. What is it they find in it?” To me it was merely a serene and subdued face, and there an end. There might be more in it, but I could not find it. The complexion was bad; in fact, it was not even human; there are no people of that color. I finally concluded that maybe others still saw in the picture faded and vanished marvels which _had_ been there once and were now forever vanished. Then I remembered something told me once by Noel Flagg,[3] the artist. There was a time, he said, when he wasn’t yet an artist but thought he was. His pictures sold, and gave satisfaction, and that seemed a good-enough verdict. One day he was daubing away in his studio and feeling good and inspired, when Dr. Horace Bushnell, that noble old Roman, straggled in there without an invitation and fastened that deep eye of his on the canvas. The youth was proud enough of such a call, and glad there was something on the easel that was worthy of it. After a long look the great divine said: “You have talent, boy.” (That sounded good.) “What you want is teaching.” Teaching--he, an accepted and competent artist! He didn’t like that. After another long look: “Do you know the higher mathematics?” “I? No, sir.” “You must acquire them.” “As a proper part of an artist’s training?” This with veiled irony. “As an _essential_ part of it. Do you know anatomy?” “No, sir.” “You must learn how to dissect a body. What are you studying, now--principally?” “Nothing, I believe.” “And the time flying, the time flying! Where are your books? What do you read?”