ory of Creation. In the numberless worlds which are forever forming
and perishing, what an insignificant role is played by this poor sun,
which is the prime actor for us! Why, then, does it seem to us so great
and so beautiful? Who saw, before we were created, that "wake of gold,"
as it is called by the poets? How many thousand years had it been
sweeping across the earth without gilding other heads than those of
gigantic saurians, pterodactyls, megalosauruses, and other fearful
monsters?

The veil that hides the infinite mysteries of space--will it some day be
removed? will there be creatures who will ever understand them?

He spent much time buried in such thoughts, in ecstatic contemplation of
the horizons, brought up before him by the frequent and long turns that
they took in the carriage. When he came down from these heights, and
cast his eyes on the equipages which were gathered in that delectable
place, he was given the same impression as though he were looking upon
an anthill; and what else was it, except that the ants, instead of
working, were riding? By his side there were crowded together a
multitude of atomic animals, with their faces fixed on the ground,
carried along by other animals whom they had made their slaves. But ants
also own slaves. All the masters, and the horses also, appeared to
believe that they themselves, and nothing else, constituted the world;
and their schemes, their desires, their loves, their _restaurants_, and
their daily allowance of oats, the only and highest ends of creation.

But there among the pedestrians he saw a pale face adorned with a long
white beard, with melancholy, dreamy eyes likewise fastened on the
skies. As he passed, this face smiled affectionately. Miguel replied,
saying, "Good afternoon, Don Ventura."

It was the tenderest and most spontaneous of Spanish poets, the famous
Ruiz Aguilera. Then his eyes fell upon Mendoza, who was dozing
deliciously. He looked at him attentively for a few moments, and
suddenly felt inclined to laugh.

"Poor man! he thinks that he is on the pinnacle of glory because he has
the disposal for a few months of a few dozen offices, and to this he has
consecrated his whole life, all the powers that God has given him.
To-morrow this man will die, and he will not have known the love of a
tender and innocent wife, nor the enthusiasm awakened in the soul by a
heroic action, nor the deep emotion caused by the study of nature, nor
the pure delig