guild-hall.  And now the prophecy was to be fulfilled that the old woman gave when I left home as a boy.  Odense was to be illuminated for me.  I stepped to the open window.  All was aglow with torchlight, the square was filled with people.  Songs swelled up to me.  I was overcome, emotionally.  Physically racked with pain, I could not enjoy this crowning fruit of my life, the toothache was so intolerable.  The ice-cold air that blew against me fanned the pain to an awful intensity, and, instead of enjoying the bliss of these never-to-be-repeated moments, I looked at the printed song to see how many verses had to be sung before I could step away from the torture which the cold air sent through my teeth.  It was the acme of suffering.  As the glow of the piled-up torches subsided, my pain subsided too.  How thankful I was, though!  Gentle eyes were fastened upon me all around.  All wanted to speak with me, to press my hand.  Tired out, I reached the bishop’s house and sought rest.  But I got no sleep till toward morning, so filled and overflowing was I.

‘MISERERE’ IN THE SIXTINE CHAPEL

From ‘The Improvisatore’:  Translation by Mary Howitt

On Wednesday afternoon began the Miserere in the Sixtine Chapel.  My soul longed for music; in the world of melody I could find sympathy and consolation.  The throng was great, even within the chapel—­the foremost division was already filled with ladies.  Magnificent boxes, hung with velvet and golden draperies for royal personages and foreigners from various courts, were here erected so high that they looked out beyond the richly carved railing which separated the ladies from the interior of the chapel.  The papal Swiss Guards stood in their bright festal array.  The officers wore light armor, and in their helmets a waving plume....  The old cardinals entered in their magnificent scarlet velvet cloaks, with their white ermine capes, and seated themselves side by side in a great half-circle within the barrier, while the priests who had carried their trains seated themselves at their feet.  By the little side door of the altar the holy father now entered, in his scarlet mantle and silver tiara.  He ascended his throne.  Bishops swung the vessels of incense around him, while young priests, in scarlet vestments, knelt, with lighted torches in their hands, before him and the high altar.

The reading of the lessons began.  But it was impossible to keep the eyes fixed on the lifeless letters of the Missal—­they raised themselves, with the thoughts, to the vast universe which Michael Angelo has breathed forth in colors upon the ceiling and the walls.  I contemplated his mighty sibyls and wondrously glorious prophets,—­every one of them a subject for a painting.  My eyes drank in the magnificent processions, the beautiful groups of angels; they were not, to me, painted pictures;—­all stood living before me.  The rich tree of knowledge,