[The City of Montreal is one of the most rising and, in many respects,
most agreeable on the American continent, but its inhabitants are as yet
too busy with commerce to care greatly about the masterpieces of old
Greek Art. A cast of one of these masterpieces--the finest of the
several statues of Discoboli, or Quoit-throwers--was found by the present
writer in the Montreal Museum of Natural History; it was, however,
banished from public view, to a room where were all manner of skins,
plants, snakes, insects, &c., and in the middle of these, an old man,
stuffing an owl. The dialogue--perhaps true, perhaps imaginary, perhaps
a little of one and a little of the other--between the writer and this
old man gave rise to the lines that follow.]
Stowed away in a Montreal lumber-room,
The Discobolus standeth, and turneth his face to the wall;
Dusty, cobweb-covered, maimed, and set at naught,
Beauty crieth in an attic, and no man regardeth.
O God! O Montreal!
Beautiful by night and day, beautiful in summer and winter,
Whole or maimed, always and alike beautiful,--
He preacheth gospel of grace to the skins of owls,
And to one who seasoneth the skins of Canadian owls.
O God! O Montreal!
When I saw him, I was wroth, and I said, "O Discobolus!
Beautiful Discobolus, a Prince both among gods and men,
What doest thou here, how camest thou here, Discobolus,
Preaching gospel in vain to the skins of owls?"
O God! O Montreal!
And I turned to the man of skins, and said unto him, "Oh! thou man of
skins,
Wherefore hast thou done thus, to shame the beauty of the Discobolus?"
But the Lord had hardened the heart of the man of skins,
And he answered, "My brother-in-law is haberdasher to Mr.
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