sting aside that choicest shield against madness, simplicity,
would fain be wise as God, and can only know that they are naked. This
doubting in the "universal all" is almost coeval with the human race:
wisdom, so called, was early sought after. All is a lie--a deceitful
phantom--was said when the world was yet young; its surface, save a
scanty portion, yet untrodden by human foot, and when the great tortoise
yet crawled about. All is a lie, was the doctrine of Buddh; and Buddh
lived thirty centuries before the wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his
arbours, beside his sunny fish-pools, saying many fine things, and,
amongst others, "There is nothing new under the sun!"

* * * * *

One day, whilst I bent my way to the heath of which I have spoken on a
former occasion, at the foot of the hills which formed it I came to a
place where a wagon was standing, but without horses, the shafts resting
on the ground; there was a crowd about it, which extended half-way up the
side of the neighbouring hill. The wagon was occupied by some half a
dozen men--some sitting, others standing; they were dressed in
sober-coloured habiliments of black or brown, cut in a plain and rather
uncouth fashion, and partially white with dust; their hair was short, and
seemed to have been smoothed down by the application of the hand; all
were bareheaded--sitting or standing, all were bareheaded. One of them,
a tall man, was speaking as I arrived; ere, however, I could distinguish
what he was saying, he left off, and then there was a cry for a hymn "to
the glory of God"--that was the word. It was a strange sounding hymn, as
well it might be, for everybody joined in it: there were voices of all
kinds, of men, of women, and of children--of those who could sing and of
those who could not--a thousand voices all joined, and all joined
heartily; no voice of all the multitude was silent save mine. The crowd
consisted entirely of the lower classes, labourers and mechanics, and
their wives and children--dusty people, unwashed people, people of no
account whatever, and yet they did not look a mob. And when that hymn
was over--and here let me observe that, strange as it sounded, I have
recalled that hymn to mind, and it has seemed to tingle in my ears on
occasions when all that pomp and art could do to enhance religious
solemnity was being done--in the Sistine Chapel, what time the papal band
was in full play, and the choicest choristers of Italy poured for