Why, even to Moses the Great Presence wuz surrounded by a flame of fire; and St. Paul fell to the ground, struck by the blindin’ glory on’t, and he wuz never able to put in mortal words the sights he see—“Whether in the body or out of the body, God knoweth.”
He wuz reverent. And it don’t seem quite the thing to try to paint ineffible glories with chrome yeller and madder. Howsumever, I spoze they meant well.
And, indeed, some of the picters we see as we journeyed through the Italian cities are all placed in rows around the inside of my brain, and can’t never be moved from there—no, the strings must break down first that they hang up on.
In Florence the Beautiful, oh, the acres and acres and acres of beauty that I walked through, full to overflowin’ with beauty and glorious conceptions and the white splendor of marble poems! The works of Michael Angelo I hain’t a-goin’ to forgit them—no, indeed! nor Lorenzo Ghiberti, nor the picters by Titian, Raphael, Rembrandt, Tintoretto, Veronese, Van Dyke, Rubens, etc., etc., etc., and so forth, and so forth, and so on, and so on.
I walked through the long picter galleries with my brain and heart all rousted up, and enjoyin’ themselves the best that ever wuz, and my legs all wore out and achin’ bad. And Josiah groanin’ audibly by my side. And Martin patronizin’ the marvels of ancient and modern art, and havin’ a good time. Al Faizi with his hat off, reverent and devout in the presence of so much divine beauty. And Alice, I spoze, thinkin’ of the past and the futer, and Adrian eatin’ candy, etc.
Time fails to tell what we see. It seems to me it would be easier to tell what we didn’t see; I guess it wouldn’t take so long, but I will desist.
But a few memories stand out shinin’ amidst the bewilderin’ maze. One of ’em is standin’ in the cell of Savonarola, that noble creeter, raised up to the pinnakle of saintship by the fickle populace, who knelt and worshipped him, and then so soon crucified him. And he all the time a-keepin’ on stiddy, jest as good and noble and riz up as he could be. Yes, his last words to his persecutors gin a good idee on him—
“You can turn me out of earthly meeting-houses, but you can’t keep me out of the Heavenly one.”
I may not have used the same words he did, but it wuz to that effect. I had a sight of emotions as I stood in that narrer place that once confined the form of that kingly creeter.
And then the tomb of Galileo. I always liked him the best that ever wuz. He wuz also persecuted for knowin’ things that them round him didn’t know, and thinkin’ thoughts and seein’ sights that they didn’t. And in order to git along with ’em round him, he had to promise to stop teachin’ the truth. The Majority had to be appeased by the old Ignorance. It has to now, time and agin. But he kep’ on a-sayin’ to himself, and out loud, when he got a chance to—“The world duz move.” Men and wimmen to-day, who feel some as Galileo about men’s and wimmen’s rights—licenses, the higher spiritual knowledge—they keep on a-sayin’ all the time, every time that they can git a chance to edge a word in between Ignorance and Bigotry and shaky-kneed Custom, who stand all shackled together with mouldy old chains of prejudice, every time they can git a openin’ between these tattlin’, but hard-lived old creeters, they keep on a-sayin’—“The world duz move.”