envenom all his undertakings.
For over two hundred years I have never spoken myself: you, I
hear, are not so reticent. I only speak now because one of you
said a beautiful thing that touched me. If we all might but go
back to our makers! Ah, yes! if we might! We were made in days
when even men were true creatures, and so we, the work of their
hands, were true too. We, the begotten of ancient days, derive
all the value in us from the fact that our makers wrought at us
with zeal, with piety, with integrity, with faith,--not to win
fortunes or to glut a market, but to do nobly an honest thing and
create for the honor of the Arts and God. I see amidst you a
little human thing who loves me, and in his own ignorant childish
way loves Art. Now, I want him forever to remember this night
and these words; to remember that we are what we are, and
precious in the eyes of the world, because centuries ago those
who were of single mind and of pure hand so created us, scorning
sham and haste and counterfeit. Well do I recollect my master,
Augustin Hirschvogel. He led a wise and blameless life, and
wrought in loyalty and love, and made his time beautiful thereby,
like one of his own rich, many-colored church casements, that
told holy tales as the sun streamed through them. Ah, yes, my
friends, to go back to our masters!--that would be the best that
could befall us. But they are gone, and even the perishable
labors of their lives outlive them. For many, many years I, once
honored of emperors, dwelt in a humble house and warmed in
successive winters three generations of little, cold, hungry
children. When I warmed them they forgot that they were hungry;
they laughed and told tales, and slept at last about my feet.
Then I knew that humble as had become my lot it was one that my
master would have wished for me, and I was content. Sometimes a
tired woman would creep up to me, and smile because she was near
me, and point out my golden crown or my ruddy fruit to a baby in
her arms. That was better than to stand in a great hall of a
great city, cold and empty, even though wise men came to gaze and
throngs of fools gaped, passing with flattering words. Where I go
now I know not; but since I go from that humble house where they
loved me, I shall be sad and alone. They pass so soon,--those
fleeting mortal lives! Only we endure,--we, the things that the
human brain creates. We can but bless them a little as they glide
by: if we have done that, we