“there was no more spirit in us.” Nay, rather the spirit of beauty and
divinity so possessed us that “plans” and “programs” sunk into oblivion.
Word-pauperism oppresses one upon this height as nothing else on earth.
There is in Europe a single revelation of art which has power to silence
the chatter even of fashion’s devotees, and that is Raphael’s Sistine
Madonna. I have been in its seraphic presence for hours at a time, but
never heard a vocal comment. The foamiest natures are not silenced by
Niagara, by Mt. Blanc, by the Jungfrau’s awful purity, or the terrors of
Vesuvius for their flippant tones have smitten me in all these sacred
places. But from the little child in our midst—a bright faced boy of
four—to the rough, kind hearted driver, not one word was spoken by our
party as