May is in full beauty.
In my courtyard the ivy is green again, the chestnut tree is full of
leaf, the Persian lilac beside the little fountain is flushed with red,
and just about to flower; through the wide openings to the right and
left of the old College of Calvin I see the Saleve above the trees of
St. Antoine, the Voiron above the hill of Cologny; while the three
flights of steps which, from landing to landing, lead between two high
walls from the Rue Verdaine to the terrace of the Tranchees, recall to
one's imagination some old city of the south, a glimpse of Perugia or of
Malaga.
All the bells are ringing. It is the hour of worship. A historical and
religious impression mingles with the picturesque, the musical, the
poetical impressions of the scene. All the peoples of Christendom--all
the churches scattered over the globe--are celebrating at this moment
the glory of the Crucified.
And what are those many nations doing who have other prophets, and honor
the Divinity in other ways?--the Jews, the Mussulmans, the Buddhists,
the Vishnuists, the Guebers? They have other sacred days, other rites,
other solemnities, other beliefs. But all have some religion, some ideal
end for life--all aim at raising man above the sorrows and smallnesses
of the present, and of the individual existence.
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