If, among my readers, some may
say "pass on," others will enjoy these trifles, and will thank me for
writing them.
Thus, Delsarte was always pleased to think he bore the name of Francois
in memory of Francis of Assisi--not the Spaniard whom we know, but the
great saint of the twelfth century; he who "appeased quarrels, settled
differences, taught slaves and common men,--the poor man who was good to
the poor."
"The fish, the rabbits and the hares," the legend says, "placed
themselves in this fortunate man's hands." * * * * The birds were silent
or sang at his command. "Be silent," said the saint to the swallows,
"'tis my turn to talk now." And again: "My brothers, the birds, you have
great cause to praise your Creator, who covered you with such fine
feathers and gave you wings to fly through the clear, broad fields of
air."
One need not be very devout to be attracted by such graceful simplicity.
Delsarte went farther. Whether he accepted this magnetic attraction as
true or whether he regarded it as purely symbolic--for this kind of
miracle is not dependent on faith,--he considered the monk of Assisi as
a lover of nature, whose heart was big enough to love everything that
lives, to suffer with all that suffers. He strove to comprehend him by
placing him upon a pinnacle, well aware that the sublime often lurks
between the trifling.
It was on such occasions that the man of intellect revived to ennoble
and illumine everything.
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