too fiercely for their earth-dimmed eyes, exclaim: 'WE see nothing,
therefore there CAN be nothing.' Ah, mademoiselle, the knowledge of
one's own inner Self-Existence is a knowledge surpassing all the
marvels of art and science!"

Cellini spoke with enthusiasm, and his countenance seemed illumined
by the eloquence that warmed his speech. I listened with a sort of
dreamy satisfaction; the visual sensation of utter rest that I
always experienced in this man's presence was upon me, and I watched
him with interest as he drew with quick and facile touch the outline
of my features on his canvas.

Gradually he became more and more absorbed in his work; he glanced
at me from time to time, but did not speak, and his pencil worked
rapidly. I turned over the "Letters of a Dead Musician" with some
curiosity. Several passages struck me as being remarkable for their
originality and depth of thought; but what particularly impressed me
as I read on, was the tone of absolute joy and contentment that
seemed to light up every page. There were no wailings over
disappointed ambition, no regrets for the past, no complaints, no
criticism, no word for or against the brothers of his art;
everything was treated from a lofty standpoint of splendid equality,
save when the writer spoke of himself, and then he became the
humblest of the humble, yet never abject, and always happy.

"O Music!" he wrote, "Music, thou Sweetest Spirit of all that serve
God, what have I done that thou shouldst so often visit me? It is
not well, O thou Lofty and Divine One, that thou shouldst stoop so
low as to console him who is the unworthiest of all thy servants.
For I am too feeble to tell the world how soft is the sound of thy