of a poor and pious
man who was dying of cold, went out, and, bringing in an armful of
icicles, laid them on the andirons and made a good fire. Now this fire
was the inner glowing glory of God, and worked both ways,--of course you
see the connection,--as was shown in Adelheid von Sigolsheim, the Holy
Nun of Unterlinden, who was so full of it that she passed the night in a
freezing stream, and then stood all the morning, ice-clad, in the choir,
and never caught cold. And the pious Peroneta, to avoid a sinful suitor,
lived all winter, up to her neck, in ice-water, on the highest Alp in
Savoy. {125} These were saints. But there was a gypsy, named Dighton,
encamped near Brighton, who told me nearly the same story of another
gypsy, who was no saint, and which I repeat merely to show how extremes
meet. It was that this gypsy, who was inspired with anything but the
inner glowing glory of God, but who was, on the contrary, cram full of
pure cussedness, being warmed by the same,--and the devil,--when chased
by the constable, took refuge in a river full of freezing slush and
broken ice, where he stood up to his neck and defied capture; for he
verily cared no more for it than did Saint Peter of Alcantara, who was
both ice and fire proof. "Come out of that, my good man," said the
gentleman, whose hen he had stolen, "and I'll let you go." "No, I won't
come out," said the gypsy. "My blood be on your head!" So the gentleman
offered him five pounds, and then a suit of clothes, to come ashore. The
gypsy reflected, and at last said, "Well, if you'll add a drink of
spirits, I'll come; but it's only to oblige you that I budge."

Then we walked in the sober evening, with its gray gathering shadows, as
the last western rose light rippled in the river, yet fading in the
sky,--like a good man who, in dying, speaks cheerfully of earthly things,
while his soul is vanishing serenely into heaven. The swans, looking
like snowballs, unconscious of cold were taking their last swim towards
the reedy, brake-tangled islets where they nested, gossiping as they
went. The deepening darkness, at such a time, becomes more impressive
from the twinkling stars, just as the subduing silence is noted only by
the far-borne sounds from the hamlet or farm-house, or the occasional
whispers of the night-breeze. So we went on in the twilight, along the
Thames, till we saw the night-fire of the Romanys and its gleam on the
_tan_. A _tan_ is, strictly speak