“Leighton, humanity craves the concrete.  All the universe is God’s temple, yet the chill breath of the abstract freezes our hearts; and we pray best in some pillared niche consecrated and set apart, I recall a day in Umbria, when the wonderful light of sunset fell on ilex and olive, on mountain snows, on valleys billowing between vine-mantled hills, on creamy marble walls, on columned campaniles; and standing there, I seemed verily to absorb, to become saturated as it were, with the reigning essence of beauty.  I walked on, a few steps, lifted a worn, frayed leather curtain, and looked into a small gray, dingy church, where a mist of incense blurred the lights on the ancient altar, and the muffled roll of an organ broke into sonorous waves, like reverberations of far-away thunder; and why was it, tell me, that the universal glory thrilled me only as a sensuous chord of color, but in the dark corner consecrated to the worship of our God, my soul expanded, as if a holy finger touched it, and I fell on my knees, and prayed?  Each of us comes into this world dowered with the behest to make desperate war against that indissoluble ‘Triple Alliance, the World, the Flesh and the Devil,’ and needing all the auxiliaries possible, I resort to conscription wherever I can recruit.  Since I am two thousand years too young to set up a statue of Hestia yonder in my imitation prostas, I have built instead this small sacred nook for prayer, which helps me spiritually, much as the Ulah aids Islam.”

“Your oratory is lovely, and I wish its counterpart adorned every homestead in our land; but are you quite sure that in your individual experience you are not mistaking effect for cause?  Your holy heart demands fit shrine for—­”

“I am quite sure I will not allow you to stand a moment longer on this cold floor; and I do not intend that you shall pay me undeserved compliments.  It is derogatory to your dignity, and dangerous to my modicum of humility.  As soon as you are ready for breakfast, come to the dining-room, where Santa Klaus left his remembrances last night.  O, Leighton!  I had half a mind to hang up two stockings at uncle’s bed, for the sake of dear old lang syne.  If we could only shut our eyes, and drift back to the magical time of aprons, short clothes, and roundabouts, when a sugar rooster with green wings and pink head, and a doll that could open and shut her eyes, were considered more precious than Tiffany’s jewels, or Collamore’s Crown Derby!  Can Delmonico offer you a repast half as appetizing as the hominy, the tea cakes, the honey and the sweet milk which you and I used to enjoy at our supper just at sunset, at our own little table set under the red mulberry trees in the back yard?”

“Why should my cousin, whose present is so rose-colored, whose future so blissful, turn to rake amid the ashes of the past?”