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I spoke of historic associations. The Sindaco and his friend exchanged glances, smiled in a puzzled, tolerant, half-pitying way, and decided that my request might be granted. In another minute I withdrew, carrying half a sheet of note-paper on which were scrawled in pencil a few words, followed by the proud signature "Berlinghieri."
However, I cultivate the wavering shade merely for its value as my earliest glimpse of any circumstance of the public order unless indeed another, the reminiscence to which I owe to-day my sharpest sense of personal antiquity, had already given me the historic thrill.
All these are waiting in solemn lines, standing erect, with a space of several feet between them and the coffin, and there is no bustle nor unseemly curiosity, not a whisper, not a footfall only the collected nation looking with awed hearts upon eminent death. This scene is historic. I regret that I must tell you of it over a little wire, for it admits of all exemplification.
The hexameter took the place of the Saturnian verse; the ornate style of the Homeridae, striving after plastic vividness of delineation, took the place of the homely historic narrative.
And this apart from the wealth of its historic glories. In reference to climate, the valleys of Pelice, Angrogna, with Perousa, are warm and productive, those of Martino and Pragela cold and barren.
Judged by results, Patay's place is with the few supremely great and imposing battles that have been fought since the peoples of the world first resorted to arms for the settlement of their quarrels. So judged, it is even possible that Patay has no peer among that few just mentioned, but stand alone, as the supremest of historic conflicts.
But devotion far and wide begins with mediaeval times. The many legends which have grown up around her name and history have so obscured historic truth that the Breviary gives no historic lessons on her feast day, but gives as a lesson part of a homily from St. Gregory. Some of the legends may be found in the Office of St. August. The Assumption.
He sank to the ground, slipped his arm around the dog's neck, and sobbed aloud. He wrote a tear stained letter to the only parson he knew. It was his first historic record and he signed his name in bold, well rounded letters "A. LINCOLN." Three months later the faithful old man came in answer to his request and preached her funeral sermon.
Our visit to Notre Dame des Commiers was like reading a living page of early Reformation history, and the whole neighborhood made a fitting stage for such a reproduction. Some six or seven miles from Grenoble we passed the restored but still, in parts at least, historic château of Lesdiguières at Vizille.
He dismissed the historic action with a wise saying: "Killing soldiers all right; but it don't settle nothing." He drew a triangle. Indelicately then I pried into his spiritual life. "You a Christian, Pete?" "Injin-Christian," he amended as one would say "Progressive-Republican." "Believe in God?" "Two." This was a guarded admission; I caught his side glance. "Which ones?"
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