of the final car, which was there to close the
procession and bring on the music and the Madonna, and also of the Ark,
which could hardly have been otherwise, there were six cars, three
carrying groups and three practically single figures, for the boy and
girl at the feet of _The Voice of God_, though they were the children of
Donna Anna, my landlady, were not really necessary. Of the groups, the
one representing _The Sons of God and the Daughters of Men_ was certainly
the finest. It told its story in the right way and was full of the right
kind of imagination. _The Sacrifice_ was next best, and owed much to the
extreme dignity of the principal figure. I should have liked _The Flood_
better if it had had more living figures and less papier mache, though I
am not ashamed to admit that I have no idea how this could have been
done. Shakespeare himself, who apologizes for trying to make a cockpit
hold the vasty fields of France, might have been excused for not
attempting to decant The Universal Deluge into a receptacle scarcely
bigger than a costermonger's barrow. Of the three remaining cars, _Sin_
was beyond comparison the finest both in conception and execution.
Perhaps he would have looked the part more obviously if he had had more
of a once-aboard-the-lugger expression on his kind and gentle face; on
the other hand, the designer of this car may have intended that Sin is
most successful in seducing the righteous when he appears with nothing
repulsive in his aspect. The other two were merely just what they should
have been--ordinary business cars, so to speak. Had these three single
figures appeared on horseback with grooms to lead them, as in former
times, the procession would have gained in variety and the importance of
the groups on the cars would have been emphasized.

But this is a small matter. The procession as it was, with its car after
car jolting along under an August full moon, the sparkling of the jewels,
the flashing of the torches, the blazing of the gas, the beauty of the
figures and the immense multitude of reverent worshippers made up a scene
never to be forgotten. The impressiveness was deepened by the knowledge
that this Mountain, where Astarte, Aphrodite and Venus have all reigned
in turn, is also a place where much that has helped to mould the poetry
and history of the world has happened since the Sicans first girded it
with its megalithic cincture. Added to this was the conviction that for