We soon found that he had in him the true artistic temperament. His own
work was beautiful, his carvings were full of poetical feeling. If not a
genius himself, he was one whose offspring should possess the "sacred
fire," which must be born with its possessor, can never after be
kindled. In one or two instances we pointed to something superlatively
good. "Ah, that is my son's work," he said; "it is not mine." And there
was an inflection in the voice which told of pride and affection, and
perhaps was the one bright spot in the old man's pilgrimage, perhaps his
one sorrow and trouble--who could tell? We had not seen the son; we felt
we must do so.

The old man's most treasured possession was a crucifix, to which he
pointed with a reverential devotion.

"I have had it nearly thirty years," he said, "and I never would sell
it. It is so beautiful that it must be by a great master--one of the old
masters. People have come to see it from far and near. Many have tempted
me with a good offer, but I would never part with it. Now I want the
money and I wish to sell it. Will you not buy it?"

It was certainly exquisitely beautiful; carved in ivory deeply browned
with age. We had never seen anything to equal the position of the Figure
upon the Cross; the wonderful beauty of the head; the sorrow and
sacredness of the expression; the perfect anatomy of the body. But in
our strictly Protestant prejudices we hesitated. As an object of
religion of course we could have nothing to do with it; the Roman
Catholic creed, with its outward signs and symbols, was not ours; who
even in our own Church mourned the almost lost beauty and simplicity of
our ancient ritual; that substitution of the ceremonial for the
spiritual, the creature for the Creator, which seems to threaten the