The Psyche.


A large star beams in the dawn of morning in the red sky--the
clearest star of the morning--its rays tremble upon the white wall, as
if they wished to write down and relate, the scenes which they had
witnessed during many centuries.

Listen to one of these stories!

A short time ago--(this _not long ago_ is with us men--centuries)--my
rays followed a young artist; it was in the realm of the Pope, in the
city of the world, in Rome. Many changes have been made, but the
imperial palace, was, as it is to-day, a ruin; between the overthrown
marble columns and over the ruined bath-rooms, whose walls were still
decorated with gold, grew fig and laurel trees. The Colosseum was a
ruin; the church bells rang, the incense arose and processions passed
through the streets with tapers and gorgeous canopies. The Church was
holy, and art was lofty and holy also. In Rome dwelt Raphael, the
greatest painter of the world, here also dwelt Michael Angelo, the
greatest sculptor of the age; even the Pope did homage to them both,
and honoured them with his visits. Art was recognized, honoured and
rewarded. All greatness and excellence is not seen and recognized.

In a little narrow street, stood an old house, which had once been a
temple; here dwelt a young artist; he was poor, he was unknown; it is
true that he had young friends, artists also, young in feelings, in