the flaming horizon of conflagrations or the dark mounds of battle and pestilence, leaning over his horse’s winged mane, fantastically swaying as though the earth itself were inebriate with pride.  Everywhere he has been seen, reviving the ideals and the prowess of the Past.  He was seen in Austria, at the time of the eternal quarrel between Pope and Emperor; he was seen above the strange stirrings of Scythians and Arabs, and the glowing civilizations which arose and fell like waves around the Mediterranean.  Great Roland can never die.”

And after he had read these lines of a legend, the young man made me admire them, and looked at me.

He whom I thus see again, as precisely as one sees a portrait, just as he was that evening so wonderfully far away, was my father.  And I remember how devoutly I believed—­from that day now buried among them all—­in the beauty of those things, because my father had told me they were beautiful.

In the low room of the old house, under the green and watery gleam of the diamond panes in the lancet window, the ancient citizen cries, “There are people mad enough to believe that a day will come when Brittany will no longer be at war with Maine!” He appears in the vortex of the past, and so saying, sinks back in it.  And an engraving, once and for a long time heeded, again takes life:  Standing on the wooden boom of the ancient port, his scarred doublet rusted by wind and brine, his old back bellied like a sail, the pirate is shaking his fist at the frigate that passes in the distance; and leaning over the tangle of tarred beams, as he used to on the nettings of his corsair ship, he predicts his race’s eternal hatred for the English.

“Russia a republic!” We raise our arms to heaven.  “Germany a republic!” We raise our arms to heaven.

And the great voices, the poets, the singers—­what have the great voices said?  They have sung the praises of the victor’s laurels without knowing what they are.  You, old Homer, bard of the lisping tribes of the coasts, with your serene and venerable face sculptured in the likeness of your great childlike genius, with your three times millennial lyre and your empty eyes—­you who led us to Poetry!  And you, herd of poets enslaved, who did not understand, who lived before you could understand, in an age when great men were only the domestics of great lords—­and you, too, servants of the resounding and opulent pride of to-day, eloquent flatterers and magnificent dunces, you unwitting enemies of mankind!  You have all sung the laurel wreath without knowing what it is.