The centuries fight such,--now with a Titian, a
Michel Angelo; now with a great philanthropist, who is also peaceable and
easy to be entreated; now with a Florence Nightingale, knowing no sect;
now with a little child by a roadside, holding up a marigold in the sun;
now with a sweet-faced old woman, dying gracefully in some almshouse. Who
has not heard voice from such apostles?
To-day my nearest, most eloquent apostle of beauty is a poor shoemaker,
who lives in the house where I lodge. How poor he must be I dare not even
try to understand. He has six children: the oldest not more than thirteen,
the third a deaf-mute, the baby puny and ill,--sure, I think (and hope),
to die soon.
They live in two rooms, on the ground-floor. His shop is the right-hand
corner of the front room; the rest is bedroom and sitting-room; behind are
the bedroom and kitchen. I have never seen so much as I might of their way
of living; for I stand before his window with more reverent fear of
intruding by a look than I should have at the door of a king's chamber.
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