As I stood in front of this monument to a man whose genius and industry gave to the world this great boon, the statue itself appeared to be sublimely eloquent, as if from those lips, representatives of the lips long since returned to dust, was now going forth the streams of wisdom and knowledge and power that make up the rivers of happiness and usefulness in the art of printing as it has blessed mankind for four centuries, and will continue to flow with increasing volume to the end of time. Perhaps somebody else would have _invented_ the art if he had not. It may be that God would have made another man whose brain would be the womb from which this grand invention would have sprung. But there stands the man who first began to print with movable types, and from his beginning the work has gone forward, widening in its reach and power, and is yet only in the infancy of its career. If he could have anticipated even the present extent of its influence, what mighty emotions would have swelled his heart! And as I look upon this image of him, I feel that beyond any other mere man who has ever lived in the annals of time, he is entitled to stand pre-eminent as the benefactor of the human race. And it is worth remarking that scarcely any art has made so little real improvement for the last three hundred years, as the art of type-making. The types were as clear cut, and the impression just as perfect then as now. We do work faster and cheaper, but not better. I walked into the cathedral and fell to musing among the ruinous tombs; a few children were gathered in one corner and a priest was engaged in giving them instruction; the setting sun was lighting up the colored arches and naves of red sandstone, giving a peculiar effect to the shabby temple, but there was nothing here to divert my thoughts from the statue, the man, and the work commemorated. It was glory enough for one city to have been the birthplace of such an art. Pilgrims will come hither with increasing reverence in far distant years. And I hope they will have a cooler day than I had. The mercury is now at 96 in the shade. CHAPTER XX. PILGRIMAGE TO AIX-LA-CHAPELLE. [Illustration: AIX-LA-CHAPELLE.] IT is now nigh upon a thousand years since King Otto ordered the tomb of Charlemagne to be opened. The floor of the cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle was broken up, the sacred mausoleum that cherished the remains of the mightiest of emperors was entered; and there he sat in the chamber of death, as in a hall of state, on a marble chair, in the vestments of his imperial office, a sword at his side, a crown on his head, and a Bible in his hand!