We had not travelled far from the office of AEsculapius when my little carriers turned from the broad and beautiful corridor into a narrow passage, through which they proceeded with some difficulty until we reached the other side of this strangely constructed home of the gods.  As we emerged into the light of day, the view that presented itself was indescribably beautiful.  I have looked from our own hills at home upon many a scene of grandeur.  From the mountain peaks of New Hampshire, with the sun streaming down upon me, I have looked upon the valleys beneath through rifts in clouds that had not ventured so high, and were drenching the glorious green below with refreshing rains, and have stood awed in the presence of one of the simplest moods of nature.  But the sight that greeted my eyes as I passed along that exterior road of Olympus, under the genial auspices of those wonderful gods, appealed to something in my soul which had never before been awakened, and which I shall never be able adequately to describe.  The mere act of seeing seemed to be uplifting, and, from the moment I looked downward upon the beloved earth, I ceased to wonder that gods were godlike—­indeed, my real wonder was that they were not more so.  It seemed difficult to believe that there was anything earthly about earth.  The world was idealized even to myself, who had never held it to be a bad sort of place.  There were rich pastures, green to the most soul-satisfying degree, upon which cattle fed and lived their lives of content; here and there were the great cities of earth seen through a haze that softened all their roughness; nothing sordid appeared; only the fair side of life was visible.

And I began to see how it came about that these Olympian gods had lost control over man.  If the world, with all its joys and all its miseries, presents to the controlling power merely its joyous side, what sympathy can one look for in one’s deity?  There was Paris and Notre Dame in the sunlight.  But the Morgue at the back of Notre Dame—­in the shadow of its sunlit towers—­that was not visible to the eye of the casual god who drove his blackamoors along that entrancing roadway.  There was London and the inspiring pile of Westminster showing up its majestic top, lit by the wondrous light of the sun—­but still undiscovered of the gods there rolled on its farther side the Thames, dark as the Styx, a very grave of ambition, yet the last solace of many a despairing soul.  London Bridge may tell the gods of much that may not be seen from that glorious driveway along the exterior of Olympus.

I found myself growing maudlin, and I pulled myself together.

“Magnificent view, Sammy,” said I.

“Yassir,” he replied, trotting along faithfully.  “Dass what dey all says. I ’ain’t nebber seen it.  ’Ain’t got time to look at it.”

“Well, stop a moment and look,” said I.  “Isn’t it magnificent?”

The blackies stopped and looked.