Hard by, near the altar, the holy Virgin was
kneeling.
I had been journeying (cheerily indeed, for the voices of my
followers were ever within my hearing, but yet), as it were, in
solitude, for I had no comrade to whet the edge of my reason, or
wake me from my noonday dreams. I was left all alone to be taught
and swayed by the beautiful circumstances of Palestine travelling--
by the clime, and the land, and the name of the land, with all its
mighty import; by the glittering freshness of the sward, and the
abounding masses of flowers that furnished my sumptuous pathway; by
the bracing and fragrant air that seemed to poise me in my saddle,
and to lift me along as a planet appointed to glide through space.
And the end of my journey was Nazareth, the home of the blessed
Virgin! In the first dawn of my manhood the old painters of Italy
had taught me their dangerous worship of the beauty that is more
than mortal, but those images all seemed shadowy now, and floated
before me so dimly, the one overcasting the other, that they left
me no one sweet idol on which I could look and look again and say,
"Maria mia!" Yet they left me more than an idol; they left me (for
to them I am wont to trace it) a faint apprehension of beauty not
compassed with lines and shadows; they touched me (forgive, proud
Marie of Anjou!)--they touched me with a faith in loveliness
transcending mortal shapes.
Pages:
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140