to figures and lines, not only
_maria ac terras_, where we are, but _coelumque profundum_, where God
is. The wonderful visions of the soul, its mystic raptures, even the
inspiration of the poets, are all a lie. The heart is a sponge; the
brain, a place for breeding maggots."

Every one laughed, while the canon took a draught of wine.

"Come, now, will Senor Don Jose deny," continued the ecclesiastic, "that
science, as it is taught and propagated to-day, is fast making of the
world and of the human race a great machine?"

"That depends," said Don Cayetano. "Every thing has its _pro_ and its
_contra_."

"Take some more salad, Senor Penitentiary," said Dona Perfecta; "it is
just as you like it--with a good deal of mustard."

Pepe Rey was not fond of engaging in useless discussions; he was not a
pedant, nor did he desire to make a display of his learning, and still
less did he wish to do so in the presence of women, and in a private
re-union; but the importunate and aggressive verbosity of the canon
required, in his opinion, a corrective. To flatter his vanity by
agreeing with his views would, he thought, be a bad way to give it to
him, and he determined therefore to express only such opinions as should
be most directly opposed to those of the sarcastic Penitentiary and most
offensive to him.

"So you wish to amuse yourself at my expense," he said to himself.
"Wait, and you will see what a fine dance I will lead you."

Then he said aloud:

"All that the Senor Penitentiary has said ironically is the truth. But
it is not our fault if science overturns day after day the vain idols
of the past: its superstitions, its sophisms, its innumerable
fables--beautiful, some of them, ridiculous others--for in the vineyard
of the Lord grow both good fruit and bad. The world of illusions, which
is, as we might say, a second world, is tumbling about us in ruins.
Mysticism in religion, routine in science, mannerism in art, are
falling, as the Pagan gods fell, amid jests. Farewell, foolish dreams!
the human race is awakening and its eyes behold the light. Its vain
sentimentalism, its mysticism, its fevers, its hallucination, its
delirium are passing away, and he who was before sick is now well
and takes an ineffable delight in the just appreciation of things.
Imagination, the terrible madwoman, who was the mistress of the house,
has become the servant. Look around you, Senor Penitentiary, and you
will see the admirable aggregation