amo Savonarola was a trifler, a spendthrift and a
profligate. Yet he proved a potent teacher for his son, pressing his
lessons home by the law of antithesis. The sons of dissipated fathers
are often temperance fanatics.

The character of Savonarola's mother can be best gauged by the letters
written to her by her son. Many of these have come down to us, and they
breathe a love that is very gentle, very tender and yet very profound.
That this woman had an intellect which went to the heart of things is
shown in these letters: we write for those who understand, and the
person to whom a letter is written gives the key that calls forth its
quality. Great love-letters are written only to great women.

But the best teacher young Girolamo had was Doctor Michael Savonarola,
his grandfather, who was a physician of Padua, and a man of much wisdom
and common-sense, besides. Between the old man and his grandchild there
was a very tender sentiment, that soon formed itself into an abiding
bond. Together they rambled along the banks of the Po, climbed the hills
in springtime looking for the first flowers, made collections of
butterflies, and caught the sunlight in their hearts as it streamed
across the valleys as the shadows lengthened. On these solitary little
journeys they usually carried a copy of Saint Thomas Aquinas, and seated
on a rock the old man would read to the boy lying on the grass at his
feet. In a year or two the boy did the reading, and would expound the
words of the Saint as he went along.

The old grandfather was all bound up in this slim, delicate youngster,
with the olive complexion and sober ways. There were brothers and
sisters at home--big and strong--but this boy was different. He was not
handsome enough to be much of a favorite with girls, nor strong enough
to win the boys, and so he and the grandfather were chums together.

This thought of aloofness, of being peculiar, was first fostered in the
lad's mind by the old man. It wasn't exactly a healthy condition. The
old man taught the boy to play the flute, and together they constructed
a set of pipes--the pipes o' Pan--and out along the river they would
play, when they grew tired of reading, and listen for the echo that came
across the water.

"There are voices calling to me," said the boy looking up at the old
man, one day, as they rested by the bank.

"Yes, I believe it--you must listen for the Voice," said the old man.

And so the idea became rooted in