The Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil. Concluded…

The Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil. Concluded

From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.

XXII.

During these terrible events, I dare say the combatants were not the most to be pitied. They, at least, were in action, in the midst of powder and noise; and if they fell, wounded or dead, they scarcely had time to know it. But think of the poor friends and relatives who remained without news, and almost without strength to seek any information! They were to be pitied.

Perhaps you may live in a city, which does not prevent you from sometimes going to the country; and so you can understand how certain villages are isolated from all daily communication. Our hamlet of Ordonniers, although near the large city of Issoudun, was, in this respect, worse off than many other places; for when M. le Marquis was absent from the château, there was no daily paper, none of the villagers being liberal enough to indulge in that luxury. The Perdreaux, in their time, subscribed for a paper, which came every other day, and gave the market prices and a jumble of news of people and things here and there about a month old. Even this resource no longer existed. M. le Curé was the only one who cared for what was going on; but as his means were very limited, he contented himself with a little paper which only came every Sunday.

Judge, then, of the terrible anguish at Muiceron; above all, when they saw all the able‐bodied men of the commune leave; for you remember that then, for the first time, the provinces showed their teeth at the news of the horrors in Paris, and rose en masse to go and punish the rebellious children of a city that, in her selfishness, disturbed the whole of France without any just right.

The women displayed great bravery. They fitted out their sons, husbands, brothers, and betrothed, and let them leave for the dreadful struggle without wincing. But the next day—but the following days! What anxiety and what tears!

It was touching to see them each morning run before the country stage or speak to the letter‐carrier, in hopes of hearing some words to reassure them. Generally, the stage drove rapidly on at a gallop; for stage‐drivers are not patient, and the poor creatures’ only information was an oath or rough word. As for the letter‐carrier, he knew nothing positive, and was content to give the flying reports, which were not enough to quiet those troubled souls.

Jeanne and her mother kept at home. They prayed to God and wept, poor things! It was the best way to learn patience; but their hearts sank within them. It was a hard blow to have been so near happiness, and then suddenly to see it fly, perhaps for ever.

Old Ragaud was miserable that he could not go off with the other men of the neighborhood. He was too old, and this only increased his vexation, as he was but three or four years older than Michou, and he was in the battle! The sadness and ill‐humor of the poor old fellow rendered Muiceron still gloomier, and the women neither dared stir nor sigh before him.

The little they knew was very terrible; and when the private letters began to arrive, all the families were plunged in despair and sorrow. Our commune alone lost three men; among them Cotentin, the miller, an honest peasant, and father of four children. He was shot dead, almost at the moment of his arrival; and the next day came the news of the death of Sylvain Astiaud, son of the head‐forester, one of our bravest boys. Each one trembled for his own at the announcement of these misfortunes, and at last silence was considered a sure sign that mourning should be prepared.

Jeanne felt all her courage fail. She could no longer either eat or sleep, and even feared to question the passers‐by. Certainly the good God, who wished to sanctify the poor child, and make her a perfect woman, did not spare her any suffering. He acted with her like a father who is tender and severe at the same time; who corrects the faults of his child, knowing well that they are more hurtful than death, and then recompenses her when petting can no longer spoil her.

Therefore this little Jeannette had to go to the end of her trial before relief came and her tears were dried. And this happened through that giddy, wild Pierre Luguet, who had left, like the others, singing and blustering, assuring the people around that he did not believe a word of the current rumors, and that, in one hour after his arrival in Paris, he would find out the whole truth, and send them all the news. But, behold! as soon as he was in the midst of smoking and bleeding Paris, he lost his senses, imagined himself killed before he had fired a shot, and wrote in pencil, on a scrap of blood‐stained paper, a letter to his parents, all sighs and tears. He bade them farewell, and begged them to pray for his soul, as he would be dead before night; for no one could live in such a terrible conflict. If he had only spoken for himself, it might have passed; but he added that M. le Marquis, Jean‐Louis, and Michou were certainly dead. He had sought for them everywhere, asked everybody, and no one could give him good news. To crown his stupidity, he added that, among the great heaps of corpses that lay yet unburied, he had recognized Jean‐ Louis’ blouse of gray linen bound with black; and therefore they must weep for the death of that good, brave boy.

Poor Mme. Luguet ran straight to Muiceron to show that foolish letter. If there had been the least degree of cool good sense among them, it would easily have been seen they were the words of a brain addled from fear; but in the mortal anxiety of the poor Ragauds, they took it all for good coin. Jeanne fell on her knees, sobbing aloud, and, losing the little courage she still possessed, wrung her hands in despair. Pierrette threw herself beside her daughter, trying to comfort her; and Ragaud wept bitterly, although he had said a thousand times a man in tears is not worthy to wear breeches. In the evening, the true religion which filled those poor hearts came to support them and give them some strength. They lighted tapers before the crucifix and around the Blessed Virgin, and all night this afflicted family prayed ardently for the repose of the souls of the supposed dead—who were never better.

The next day you would have been shocked to have seen the ravages grief had made on their honest faces. Jeannette, wearied out with weeping and fatigue, slept in the arms of her mother, paler than a camomile‐flower. Pierrette restrained her tears, from fear of awakening the child; but her hollow eyes and cheeks were pitiful to see; and the sun shone brightly in the room, without any one taking the trouble to close the shutters.

It was in this state that M. le Curé found the Ragaud family. His entrance at Muiceron renewed the lamentations; but Jeannette was calm, which greatly pleased the good pastor, as he saw that his lessons, joined to those of divine Providence, had borne their fruit.

He took the little thing aside, and, much affected by her deathlike appearance, spoke gently to her, and asked her to walk with him on the bank of La Range.

“My daughter,” said he, “it is not right to sink into such utter despair about news which is yet uncertain. Show a little more courage, for a while at least, until we hear something positive.”

“He is dead,” said Jeannette. “May the will of God be done! Alas! I should have been too happy, if I had seen him again.”

“Why are you so certain? As for me, I confess Pierre’s letter would not make me lose all hope.”

“They were three together,” said she. “Pierre has written; could they not have written also?”

This argument was not bad. The curé could not reply; for, without acknowledging it, he did think the silence very strange. He made the poor child sit down by the side of the swift‐running stream that glittered in the bright sunshine, and spoke to her for a long time in such soothing, touching words, Jeanne listened with profound respect and piety. He spoke of the happiness of this world, which is but for a short time; of the necessity of living and regaining her strength, that she might console her parents; of the beautiful day of eternity; of the heavenly home, where we will meet again the loved ones gone before us, never again to be separated.

At another time, Jeannette would not have understood these words, and perhaps might have even found them out of place; but now they fell upon her heart like soft caresses.

“Oh!” said she, “it is only now I understand how dearly I loved him. Father, tell me, can he see us from above?”

“You will have it, then, that he is absolutely dead,” said the curé, smiling.

Jeannette, in spite of her grief, smiled in her tears.

“That is true,” she said; “perhaps he is not dead.”

Hope had re‐entered her soul with the consolations of the holy priest. They walked down the road to the farm, and Jeannette thanked him with much tenderness, and remarked, as it was near sunset, he must return home.

“One moment,” said the good curé; “you are a little egotist. I can’t go without saying a word to father and mother.”

“Oh! yes,” said she, “of course you must; but, dear father, I will remain here, and say my rosary in the shade under the trees; the air will completely restore me.”

“Very well, dear child,” replied the curé; “and may the Blessed Virgin console you, my daughter!”

Jeanne retired under the heavy foliage, and really took her little rosary out of her pocket. But this wood recalled many sweet reminiscences. It was there Jean‐Louis had found her and saved her life on that stormy night the year before. She looked for the spot, near the woodman’s cabin, where he had taken her in his arms with a father’s care; and as the remembrance of all this past happiness, which she had then slighted, came back to her heart, she leant against a tree, and hid her face in her hands.

Whether they were tears of repentance, of regret, of love, or of prayer that fell from her eyes God only knows; and surely, in his infinite goodness, he waited for this moment of supreme anguish, which could not have endured much longer, to say to that heart‐broken child, “You have suffered enough; now be happy!”

For in that same hour Jean‐Louis, wild with joy, leaped from the imperial of the country stage on the highroad, and ran, without stopping to take breath, toward his beloved Muiceron.

He also remembered the stormy night, and, from a sentiment you can well understand, wished to see again the little hut, if only to throw a passing glance.

He reached the spot, and was soon near the tree where Jeannette leant motionless. He recognized her. The beating of his heart almost suffocated him; for, with a lover’s instinct, he immediately knew, if she had come to weep in that spot, it could only be on his account.

He advanced until he stood close behind her.

“Jeanne!” said he, so softly he scarcely heard his own voice.

Jeannette turned, and gave one scream. Her eyes wandered a moment, as if she had seen a phantom, and she fell half‐dead into his arms.

“Jeanne! dear, dear Jeanne! don’t you know me?” said he, pressing her to his breast. “I have caused you much sorrow, but it is all over—oh! it is all over; tell me, is it not?”

The poor child could not speak; her emotion and joy were too great. But such happiness don’t kill; and gradually she revived, although she still trembled like a leaf.

“O Jeannet!” she said at last, “they wrote word you were dead.”

“And was that the reason you were weeping here all alone in this wood, my poor, dear darling?” he tenderly asked.

“Yes,” said she, looking down; “I could not be consoled. Why did you not send us some news?”

“I wished to surprise you,” said he, with simplicity; “and now I see I did wrong.”

“One day more, and I would have been dead also,” said she, leaning on his arm. “Cruel boy, go!”

She looked so lovely, still pale with grief, and yet as lively and coquettish as before, Jeannet was obliged to clasp her once again in his arms, and even kissed her, for which I hope you will pardon him, as I do.

“How good God is,” said he, “to permit us to meet again in this very place! This is the second time, dear Jeannette, that I have saved you when in great trouble; and I hope it is a sure sign that poor Jean‐Louis will be able to comfort and assist you all the rest of his life.”

“You will never leave us again; you will promise that?” she replied. “When you are away, all sorts of misfortunes happen. Oh! how much we have suffered.”

And as these words suddenly recalled the sad events of the last six months, her flirtation, her thoughtless conduct, and the lamentable scenes that followed, she blushed, sighed, and leant her face, down which the tears were streaming, against Jean‐Louis’ shoulder.

“My own Jeannette,” said he, “you must no longer think of all that sorrow, now that God has made us so happy again. There is no misfortune which does not carry with it a profitable lesson when we recognize in it the hand of the Lord; and, for my part, although I have been nearly dead with grief, I say that my present happiness has not been too dearly bought, and I would consent to pass again through the same trials, on condition of possessing a second day like this.”

“Oh! no,” said Jeanne, “I have had enough. I have not your courage, and I will pray to God that I may be spared from such great trials. Come,” added she, taking Jeannet’s arm, “we must go and surprise our parents. And the dear curé is just now with them! He told me so—the good, holy man told me you were not dead.”

“But who set such a report afloat?” asked Jeannet. “For really I was not even in danger.”

“Oh! what a story,” cried Jeanne. “You were in the fight; it could not be otherwise.”

“Certainly,” said Jeannet, “I fought, and did my best; but I never for an instant imagined the good God would let me die without seeing you again.”

“It is very well to have such happy thoughts,” said Jeanne joyfully; “if I could have had them, I would not have been nearly dead with anxiety, and hopeless from such great fear. Now I regret my tears, and would like to take them back.”

“You would not be the richer for it,” said he, laughing; “but, Jeannette, don’t laugh at me. It was neither presumption nor carelessness made me think so. The good God put the faith in my heart; and then, didn’t I have round my neck the silver medal you gave me the day of your first communion? Wasn’t the image of the Blessed Virgin powerful enough to turn aside the balls?”

“What!” said Jeannette with emotion, “have you still my medal? Is it the very same one? Have you always worn it, in spite ... in spite of all.... Jeannet, show it to me; let me kiss it!”

“No,” said Jean‐Louis, blushing, “not now. I will show it to you later.”

“Right away; I won’t wait,” said she in the peremptory manner which so well became her. “I like to be obeyed.”

“But,” said Jeannet, much embarrassed, “I can’t, because....”

“Because what?” she replied. “Don’t think you are going to be master here! No, no, not more now than before, when, you remember, my mother said, ‘Jeannette is the boy....’ ”

“Really,” answered Jean‐Louis, “you have a good memory. Well, then, since Jeannette is the boy, and I am the girl, I must submit to her wishes.”

And as, in spite of all this talk, he made no attempt to show her the medal, another idea entered her head.

“You are wounded,” said she, “and you don’t wish me to see it.”

“That is not the reason,” he replied, unbuttoning his vest. “I don’t wish you to believe any such thing.”

On opening his shirt, he showed the medal on his breast, and then the curious Jeannette understood his resistance; for, near the blessed image of our dear Mother, she recognized the long tress of blonde hair which had been cut off during her illness.

“It has never left me,” said he; “but I dared not let you see it. Do you forgive me? Your poor hair! I said to myself, While it rests upon my heart, it is as though my little sister were watching over me. And in the fight, I thought that, as the medal of the Blessed Virgin and your precious souvenir were also exposed to the fire, I could not be killed; and you see I was not mistaken.”

“Oh!” cried Jeannette, with tears in her eyes, “my dear Jeannet, I do not deserve such love.”

They reached Muiceron, arm‐in‐arm. Oh! how refreshing was the shaded court‐yard and the fragrant hedges! And then, the dear house looked so gay in its new white coat, its green shutters, the fresh young vines that hung from the trellis, and its slate roof newly repaired, all shining in the soft rays of the sinking sun. The songs of the bullfinch and robin were more joyous than the trumpets and horns on a patronal feast; and it seemed as though the good God in heaven were well pleased, so beautiful was the blue sky, flecked with golden‐edged clouds! Was it really the house we saw six months ago? Jeannet, who had long loved it, scarcely recognized it; he was mute with admiration, and, although he had left it in despair, he accused himself of having neglected to look at it until now; for surely his memory did not recall anything as joyous and beautiful as he now beheld in his beloved Muiceron.

Shall we ask the reason? There is a great artist who can paint, with colors of unparalleled brilliancy, whatever he chooses to place before our eyes. He is called happiness; and God wishes him to walk beside us, both in this world and the other.

The two dear children began to run as soon as they entered the court‐yard of Muiceron. Jeannette was the first to spring across the threshold, and fell speechless into her mother’s arms. Jean‐Louis quickly followed her, and stood in the door‐way, holding out his hands to his parents. Then there were cries, and tears, and confusion of kisses, and questions without end and without reason. Their hearts overflowed. The little one, as they always called the tall, handsome boy, was covered with caresses, stifled with embraces quite overpowering; for country‐people drink in joy by the bucketful and don’t put on gloves when they wish to show their love. But you can imagine Jean‐Louis did not complain. M. le Curé alone kept aside, with clasped hands, from time to time putting his handkerchief to his eyes, and thanking God, while he waited his turn.

Gradually their happiness toned down a little; but the excitement was so great, each one showed his joy in some particular manner. Old Ragaud whirled around the room, took off his cap to smooth his hair, and replaced it, all the while laughing as though he did not know precisely what he was about; and Pierrette forgot to ask the children what they wished to eat, which was a sure sign her head was completely turned. As for Jeannette, I must tell you that, like all innocent, warm‐hearted young girls, she dared act, in presence of her parents and M. le Curé, as she would not have done alone with her brother; she threw her arms around his neck every half‐ second, and clung to him so closely he could not stir an inch. Jeannet did not show greater timidity; seeing her act with such naïveté, he neither frowned nor looked sour, but accepted willingly what was so sweetly offered him.

Fortunately, Marion, whom no one thought of, and who bellowed with joy in chorus with the others, came to her senses sooner than any of them, and thought of the supper. Jeannet smelt the butter frying on the stove, and acknowledged he was very hungry. This covered Pierrette with confusion. She felt very guilty that she had so neglected her duties, and asked a thousand pardons; but Jeannet laughed, as he kissed her, and told her not to be excited, as he could easily wait until the next day, being only really hungry to see and kiss her.

Ragaud would not let the dear curé go home. It was right that he should wait until the end of the feast; and as the good pastor, who always thought of everything, expressed a fear that old Germaine might be anxious about him, they despatched a stable‐boy, with the wagon and quickest mare at Muiceron, to fetch her.

What a fine supper that was! All these good people recovered their appetites, and ate and drank as they had not done for a long while. I leave you to imagine the stories that were told of the revolution. But Jeannet, not wishing to cloud their present joy, was careful to relate events as though all had been a kind of child’s play. Jeannette, however, paused more than once as she was about to take a mouthful. She felt that Jean‐Louis stretched a point now and then for love of her, and she showed her gratitude by looking tenderly at him, while she pressed his hand under the table.

At the dessert, they formed plans. They talked of re‐establishing the old order of things, of living together again in peace and harmony, and that there should be no more separations. Ragaud, especially, dwelt at length, and very particularly, upon the happy future in store for all of them; threw meaning glances right and left, in which could be remarked much hidden meaning and not a little white wine. Jeannette smiled, blushed, looked down; and, I fancy, Jean‐Louis’ heart beat high with hope and expectation of what was to follow.

The good man ended by being much affected, though he endeavored to pass it all off as a joke; for it was his wish always to appear deaf to any kind of sentiment.

“After all,” said he, tapping Jean‐Louis on the shoulder, “here is a boy upon whom we cannot depend. He is here now at this very moment; but who knows if to‐morrow he will not be out of sight as quickly as the stars fall from the sky on an August night? Isn’t it so, M. le Curé?”

“It is just as you say, Ragaud,” replied the curé. “ ‘He who has drunk will drink again,’ says the proverb; and as this little one went off once without giving warning, how can we know but he will do it again?”

“Oh! what nonsense,” said Jeannet. “My dear parents, I will never leave you again!”

“Hum!” replied Ragaud, “you said that a hundred times before, and then what did we see? One fine morning, no Jeannet!”

“We must tie him,” said old Germaine, laughing; “when Jeannette misbehaved in school, I used to tie her by the arm to an end of the bench.”

“I remember it well,” said Jeannette; “and more than once I broke the string.”

“Then we must find some other means, if that will not do; think of something, Germaine,” replied Ragaud, winking over at the children.

“Think yourself, M. Ragaud,” said she. “Are you not master here?”

“That depends,” replied Ragaud. “If I were master, I would say to Jean‐ Louis, Marry, my boy; when you will have a wife and children, they will keep you in the country more than all the ropes, even that of our well. But Jeannet has declared he will not hear of marriage; and here is Jeanne, who can’t be relied upon for advice, as she said the same thing not more than a month ago, in presence of M. le Curé; so we can’t sing that tune any longer.”

“But how do you know? Perhaps by this time they have both changed their minds,” said the curé, smiling.

“Let them say so, then,” replied Ragaud, his eyes beaming with paternal tenderness that was delightful to see.

“O father!” said Jean‐Louis, rising, “if I dared to understand you, I would be wild with joy!”

“If you can’t understand me, little one, Jeannette perhaps can be a little quicker. Speak, Jeanneton!”

The child instantly understood his meaning. In a second she was beside Jeannet, took his hand, and both knelt down before their father.

“My children, ask M. le Curé’s blessing before mine,” said Ragaud solemnly. “He is the representative of the good God, and it is God who has conducted all.”

It was a touching scene. The good curé extended his trembling hands over Jean‐Louis and Jeannette, who bent low before him, weeping; then Ragaud did the same with great simplicity, which is the sign of true piety, and then Pierrette took each of their dear heads in her arms, kissed them, and said:

“My poor darlings! May God protect you all the days of your life! You have wept so much, you deserve to be happy together.”

The poor children were overwhelmed with joy so deep and tranquil they could neither move nor speak. They kept close together, and looked tenderly at each other with eyes that said much. M. le Curé left them for awhile to themselves and their new‐found happiness. He knew enough of the human heart to understand that great display of affection, loud weeping, and noisy parade of words and actions are often marks of a very little fire in the soul; while love which has been proved by deeds, and which is scarcely seen, is always very ardent. As he had never doubted that Jeannet, hitherto so perfect, would show and feel sincere affection as a lover, he was glad to see he was not mistaken, and regarded with much pleasure this young couple, who were so well matched.

However, it was very easy to see our curé had something to say. Jean‐ Louis and Jeannette had softly retreated to the corner near the sideboard, a little out of sight of the parents; and we must imagine that, feeling themselves a little more at ease thus sheltered from observation, the faculty of speech returned to them, as they could be heard whispering and laughing like children at recreation. It was so charming to see them thus relieved from all their difficulties, and swimming in the full tide of happiness, like fish in the river, no one had the courage to disturb them.

But our curé had his own idea, and would not leave until he had made it known; so, as he saw Jean‐Louis and Jeannette might chatter away a long while, he rose, as if to say good‐night, which made all the rest rise; for, although intensely happy, they did not forget to be civil.

“My children,” said the pastor, addressing the old as well as the young, “I will go to sleep to‐night very happy. For forty years, come next All‐ Saints, that I have been your curé, never have I assisted at a betrothal as consoling as yours, for which I will return thanks to God all my life. You are going to marry as is seldom done in the world nowadays; that is to say, with hearts even more full of esteem than of love, which enables me, in the name of the Lord, to promise you as much happiness as can fall to the lot of mortals here below. You know already that a house built without foundation cannot stand, and that the grain sown in bad soil bears no fruit. It is the same with the sacrament of marriage, when it is received by a soul that is frivolous and vain, and feels neither regret for the past nor makes good resolutions for the future. Oh! how happy I am I cannot say this about you; and how my old heart, which has pitied all your sufferings, now is gladdened at your happiness, well deserved by the piety and resignation of the one and the sincere repentance of the other—this is for our betrothed. Great disinterestedness, and all the domestic virtues of a Christian life is the praise I unhesitatingly bestow upon you, the good parents! But if this reward is beautiful, if nothing can exceed it, since it is the pledge of a whole life of peace and happiness, know that the Lord will not be surpassed in generosity, and that he has prepared a delightful surprise by my mouth, which will be like the crowning bouquet on the summit of an edifice just completed.

“My dear Ragaud, I speak now to you. Twenty years ago, when your generous heart received, without the slightest hesitation, a poor, abandoned child, it was an honorable and religious act, which deserved the warmest praise; but to‐day, when you give your only daughter to this same child, from pure esteem of his noble qualities, without regard to the gossip of the people around, this second action surpasses the first in excellence, and deserves a special recompense from our good God.

“Well! you will soon have it. Jean‐Louis, my child, as it is generally said, there is no sky without clouds. Perhaps even at this moment your heart may have a little secret grief; for it is not forbidden to feel an honest wish to give the woman you love all possible honor; and that cannot be done when one comes into the world without family or name.

“Alas! for the name. I cannot repair that misfortune; but for the family, know, my friends, that the blood of him whom you call son and brother is equal to yours. In the name of my conscience, I here declare that Jeannet is the son of Catharine Luguet, who died in my arms sincerely repentant, and most piously giving me perfect license to reveal this secret, confided in confession, when I should judge it necessary. I have waited a long time, and I do not regret it. At no other time, I think, could you have been happier to hear me tell such good news. So, Ragaud, embrace your nephew; and you, my daughter Jeannette, in taking a perfect husband, you gain, at the same time, a good cousin. Too much happiness never hurts any one!”

“Ah!” said Germaine, wiping her eyes, “it was worth while staying so late to‐night. I have been tempted half a dozen times to tell what M. le Curé has just made known; for I also received the secret from poor dear Catharine, and even before my master, although I do not pretend to interfere with his rights.”

“M. le Curé,” said Ragaud, “if I am very happy to learn that our dear child belongs to us by nature as much as by friendship, believe me when I say that I am most grateful to God that, without my knowing it, he allowed me to repair the too great severity with which I formerly treated my niece. Alas! I well remember it, and most sincerely do I regret it; and if she gave us this handsome boy a little too soon, according to the laws of God and man, I have no right to blame her, as I was the cause, from want of gentleness and kindness! Come, my son,” added the good Christian, extending his arms to Jeannet—“come, that I may ask your pardon in memory of your poor mother.”

Jean‐Louis threw himself on his father’s breast, whom he could not yet call dear uncle, while Jeannette added her embrace, giving herself up to the full joy of cousining her future husband. Pierrette had her full share of kisses, you can well fancy. It was so delightful to feel that he really had a family, and was bound to the country by ties of flesh and blood, and also to know that he belonged to the best people in the neighborhood, the Luguets and Ragauds, that Jeannet, who in his whole life never had a spark of vanity, felt a little glow of excitement and satisfaction, perfectly natural, flame up in his heart. But his beautiful soul quickly drove out such a feeling, to which he already reproached himself for having listened, even for a moment, although it could be easily understood, and was honorable in itself. The remembrance of his unknown mother, dying in sorrow and want, and who would have been so happy could she have witnessed his present joy, surmounted any personal satisfaction. He questioned M. le Curé, and spoke in the most tender and respectful manner in memory of his poor mother, and wished to know every detail of her death, which was sad, but very consoling at the same time.

Every one listened with much emotion to poor Catharine’s story. I doubt not that God then permitted her to know something of the loving sympathy and compassion that filled those kind, good hearts, which most certainly must have added to her happiness; for, since the church commands us to believe that souls cannot die, can it be wrong to think that they see and hear us, when the Lord allows them?

Jeannette, while the curé spoke, was often much confused when she thought of the dangerous result of coquetry, wilfulness, and too great love of one’s own pretty face and fine dresses. She felt how kind God had been to her, that she had not gone the same way as Catharine Luguet; for she had walked down the same path, and had nearly fallen as low as she.

By way of recovering her spirits, she embraced Jeannet, and promised she would be a good housekeeper, and nothing else.

“And also a pretty little wife, that will make me very happy,” replied Jeannet, pressing her to his heart.

“Now,” said Pierrette, who for several moments had been very silent and thoughtful, “I have just found out something that makes me feel how stupid I am. I never before noticed that Jeannet is the living image of his dear departed mother.”

“It is fortunate, Mme. Ragaud,” said Germaine, “that you have just perceived it, after seeing him twenty years; for, in truth, the likeness is so striking it has caused M. le Curé and me much embarrassment. It was so easily seen that I prayed God would protect him in case of discovery; and if there is one miracle in the whole story, it is that such a strong resemblance did not sooner strike you.”

As it had just been mentioned, in the course of the story, that Catharine Luguet, in her day, was the most beautiful girl in the country, this declaration made Jeannet blush, and I dare not affirm it was not from pleasure. They discovered, also, that Solange had a strong family likeness, and Pierrette, more and more astonished, acknowledged it was true, and that she was as stupid as an owl.

They had to separate at last, although no one felt the least fatigued; but they had had enough for one day, and a little sleep after these heavy showers of happiness would injure none of them.

As the surprises were not yet over, Jeannet had another charming one when he saw his room newly painted and papered, and his bed, with white curtains, perfumed with the iris‐root that our housekeepers love to use in the wash. They installed him like a prefect on a tour of inspection, with a procession of lights, and wishes of good‐night, and what do you want, and there it was, and here it is; and if he slept quietly is something I cannot say positively; but, at any rate, you needn’t worry about his eyes, whether they were open or shut. What I can swear to is that his good angel watched joyfully by his bedside, and took care to drive off all bad dreams.

XXIII.

Now, I might make my bow, and wish you good‐night in my turn; for I think you are satisfied with the fate of the little ones, and need have no further anxiety on their account. But just as two beautiful roses in a bouquet appear still more beautiful when they are surrounded by other flowers and green leaves that rejoice the eye, so our friends will lose nothing if I represent them to you for the last time among the companions of their adventures who have served as an escort during the whole recital. Consequently, if you will be patient a moment and listen to me, I will tell you what became of the people and things that have remained in the background for some time.

In the first place, according to the proverb, “Give every man his due.”

So we will commence with our good master, M. le Marquis, whom we left, if you remember, wounded in the arm and seated on a log near the barricade in the bloody days of June.

This wound, which was believed to be nothing, became inflamed and very dangerous, owing to the great excitement of the patient and the extreme heat of the summer. The poor marquis was obliged to keep his bed for a long time, and they even feared they would be obliged to amputate the arm. When the physicians made the proposition, he sprang up with a start on his couch, and, weak and feverish as he was, did not hesitate to tell them, in the most emphatic manner, that the first one who mentioned it again would go out of the window with one turn of the hand that was still sound. They advised him to be quiet and calm himself, all the while giving him to understand there was no hope for him—which, in my opinion, was not the best means of soothing him; but doctors never wish to be thought in the wrong, and, without meaning to offend any one, I may say very many of us are doctors on that point.

Our master was brave. He contented himself with saying:

“I prefer to be buried with two arms, rather than to live with one.”

“That depends on taste,” replied Michou, who nursed his master with loving fidelity; “but he must not be contradicted.”

When the doctors left, M. le Marquis said to Michou:

“Come here, old fellow; these idiots of Parisians know as much about revolutions and medicine as planting cabbages. Send for Dr. Aubry. I can get along with him.”

M. Aubry was summoned by telegraph, and God so willed it that scarcely had he seen the wound of M. le Marquis than he shrugged his shoulders, and said he would answer for him; and added, with much satisfaction, that one had to come to Paris to find doctors that talked like asses and acted like butchers.

He made them bring him a quantity of pounded ice, which he applied to the wounded arm, and took care that our master always kept a piece in his mouth. In that way his blood was refreshed, and there was no longer danger of the flesh mortifying. He added to this remedy another potion not less wonderful, which was to distract the mind of the marquis by telling him night and day—for he never slept—all kinds of stories, sometimes lively, sometimes serious, but always suitable to his state; and so kept him constantly amused and interested, which prevented him from thinking of his poor arm. At the end of a week, he was out of danger, and he could get up, eat the breast of a chicken, and think of going out in a few days. If I would be a little malicious, I could tell you that the Parisian doctors were not very well pleased at the triumph of their country colleague, and perhaps would have been more content to see our master dead than their prophecies frustrated; but I had better be silent than wanting in charity, and therefore I prefer to let you think what you please about them.

Poor mademoiselle and Dame Berthe, during this painful time of anxiety, acted admirably and showed great devotion and love. It was then seen that, although they had their little defects on the surface, their souls were generous and good. The old governess forgot her scarfs and embroideries, and devoted herself to making lint, and no longer indulged in dreams of the king’s entrance into Paris, but constantly recited fervent prayers, which had not, I assure you, “the cause” in view. Mademoiselle received a salutary blow. She became, through this trouble, serious and recollected; began to see that in Paris nothing is thought of but pleasure and fine toilets, and that, after all, at Val‐Saint there were a thousand ways of passing her life in a pleasant way worthy of a Christian whom God had so liberally endowed with riches.

One day, when she had gone out to pray and weep in a neighboring church, she returned with her eyes radiant with joy, and said to Dame Berthe:

“All will be right. My father will be cured. I cannot explain to you why I am so confident, but I am sure of it. When I was in the church before the altar of the Blessed Virgin, the idea entered into my head to make a vow; and I have promised to return to the country, and remain there the rest of my life, to work for the poor, and to occupy myself with all other kinds of good works, as my mother used to. I have too long neglected to follow her example, and henceforth I will act differently. I depend upon your assistance.”

Dame Berthe nearly fainted with admiration of her pupil’s saintliness. As she was naturally very good, she was impressed with the beauty of the project, and promised to do all in her power to aid her.

After that, mademoiselle looked like another person. She visited churches and chapels, conferred with pious priests; and as monsieur improved every day, he could accompany her in the carriage; and she took great pleasure in confiding to him her new plans, proving to him that he could be much more useful to “the cause” by instructing the peasants in politics than by fighting the rabble in Paris; that, by his great wealth and the high esteem in which he was held, he could make himself still more beloved; and that, when they loved him, they would love the nobility which he represented; so that when the time came—and it would not be far off—for the triumph of his hopes, he could offer to the king a faithful population devoted to good principles, which was scarcely possible in the present state of affairs.

As she was in this happy frame of mind, you can imagine with what joy mademoiselle received the news of the engagement of Jean‐Louis and Jeanne. She immediately wrote a letter on the subject which deserved to be put under glass and framed in gold; for not only did she congratulate the Ragauds with the greatest affection, but she humbly accused herself of having nearly ruined the happiness of her god‐daughter, and thanked God he had directed all in a manner so contrary to her wishes. When you think that this high‐born young lady spoke thus to the little daughter of a farmer on her estate, we must admire the miracles of the religion which teaches us that those who humble themselves shall be exalted; and I add, for the benefit of those who fancy themselves lovers of equality, and talk all kind of nonsense about it, that there never would have been the slightest chance of planting a seed of it in the hearts of men, even though it were no bigger than a grain of millet, if they had not beforehand received instructions on that virtue from our dear mother, the church.

About a month afterwards, M. le Marquis being perfectly cured, they all returned to Val‐Saint; and it is unnecessary to say how universal was the joy. It is equally useless to tell you that their first occupation was the marriage of our children, which was so beautiful, so joyous, so enlivened with the music of violins and songs, it resembled that of a prince and princess in Mother Goose. During a whole week, the boys of the neighborhood beat tin pans and fired off guns under the windows of Muiceron, as signs of honor and rejoicing. With us peasants, joy is always rather noisy, but, at least, it can be heard very far; and, besides, as we don’t often have a chance of amusing ourselves, it is best to let us have our own way.

There remains very little more for me to say, except that mademoiselle persevered in her laudable resolutions, and became the angel of Val‐Saint. One of her first good acts was to buy the house of the unfortunate Perdreaux, which, since the sad end of its masters, had remained deserted and shut up, no one daring to put it up at auction. Mademoiselle sent for workmen, who soon transformed it into a fine school‐house, divided into two parts by a garden, where nothing was spared in fruit‐trees, flowers, and vegetables. The following year the school was ready for occupation, and the Sisters were placed in charge of the girls, and a good teacher over the boys. By good luck, they were able to obtain Solange, who came among the first. Thus all our friends met again, and formed one family, of which the good God was the true father.

M. le Curé was very old when he died, and Germaine soon followed him. This good pastor left many regrets which are not yet assuaged; but he departed from this world happy that he saw all his children around him leading good, holy lives; and at the moment he expired, they heard him softly repeat the Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in pace—which is a prayer of compline, printed in all the Breviaries.

Muiceron continued to prosper under the management of good Jeannet and his dear wife. The Ragauds passed their old age in a dream of happiness, free from clouds, amidst the love and respect of the community. Pierrette, who had never sinned but from weakness of heart, was never cured of this defect. On the contrary, it increased; and she devoted herself so completely to spoiling the beautiful children that Jeanne gave her, that more than once the parents had to cry, Stop! But aside from these little troubles, which did not cause much difficulty, peace and concord never ceased to reign in this house of benediction.

As the last flower in the crown, I will tell you that M. Aubry, who was not remarkable for devotion, was taken in hand by Sister Solange, and quietly converted. He swore a little at first, as might have been expected, and said it was a shame, at his age, to fall into the net of a doctor in cornette and petticoats, at whose birth he had been present, and whom he had vaccinated; but the end of all was, the cornette led him by the nose to Mass and confession, where he was seen to weep, although he tried to be very firm. As he was a good man, frank and open in all he did, once the step was taken, he did not go back; and I knew him a long while, and never saw him act but like a perfect Christian.

And now, at this late hour, I pray that God may send down upon you, as well as myself, his choicest blessings, without which, you may truly believe, there is nothing worth living for here below.

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Public Worship

Few observing persons have failed to remark the great change which within a few years has been wrought in the ideas of people at large in regard to public worship. It is not confined to any one of the religious denominations around us. It pervades all, from the High‐Church Episcopalian to those who still cling to the law of Moses. Insensibly, it may be, but surely, the growth has all been in one direction, as surely as the germ in the earth pushes towards the light.

Time was when the plain, unadorned meeting‐house of the Society of Friends seemed the type all sought to attain in architecture; painting and decoration would have caused a thrill of horror; Gothic architecture, with groined roof and stained glass, were as far removed from the thoughts and ideas as the Crusades; and if the sister art of music was admitted within the portals of the room reserved for worship, the execution was of such a fearful character that Old Folks’ Concerts make it a sure guide to success, to mimic, for the amusement of this generation, the strange religious music of half a century ago.

Then religion, as expressed in public worship, was plain, stern, hard, unsympathetic, responsive to none of the finer feelings, the loftier aspirations, the panting hopes of human nature feeling its misery, but still looking heavenward.

Now the change has come. Insensibly, almost unconsciously, they have all more or less come to confess their error. Just as they are returning to the genuine Lord’s Prayer, after inflicting a spurious one on their votaries for three centuries; just as they are returning to the true reading of the Greek Testament, after three centuries’ bondage to the Received Text, so they are returning, after three centuries of dry, hard, formal worship, to something more in unison with man’s nature, man’s soul, and man’s heart.

But how? The Reformation, that stern, matter‐of‐fact revolt, not only stripped religion of all its poetry, whether manifested in the carven stone, the painted glass or canvas, the strains of more than earthly music, but it did more: it struck at the life of worship; and the present movement which has made synagogues into temples and meeting‐houses into churches—the work of men who “builded better than they knew”—yet is but a factitious life; it is placing artificial fruit and leaves and flowers on a dead trunk that has no vivifying sap to send through all the full, gushing tide of life.

What is public worship?

Is there really a question of the day that can be brought home to practical men like our American countrymen more distinctly than this? Long creeds and the discussion of their various points, the old controversies and chopping of texts, seem to have become singularly distasteful to the men of our day. But the divine worship is a point that, presented squarely and plainly, is easily grasped, and really involves in itself everything. It is the generating principle, the fountain of faith and works.

About a century ago, in London, the question of worship was debated by some of the leading ministers of the day, and the pamphlets form volumes. A more vague series of arguments on all sides can scarcely be found; all seemed to turn round and round the text that men were to “worship God in spirit and truth,” but in what precise way was a matter none seemed able to approach, even in the most remote manner. What constituted practically the public worship of the Almighty seemed to be a point that was utterly indefinite and indefinable.

Suppose, now, we were to ask the clergymen or laymen of the denominations around us, What is the essential element of public worship, as distinguished, on the one hand, from preaching, and on the other from family worship of prayer? What would the answer be?

Public worship has, in common ideas, come to be almost identical with preaching. The preacher makes the church; his popularity is its success; with his decline in health, vigor, or voice, the church begins to melt away, and a new preacher has to be evoked to give it life. But oral instruction of the people, laudable as it may be, is not public worship; it is addressed to the people, while worship is addressed to God. The prevailing confusion of ideas on this point has turned the extemporaneous prayers which in form are still addressed to the Deity really into appeals to the people; so that the reporter who spoke of a prayer as being the most eloquent ever addressed to a Boston congregation was correct in fact, though the form was against him.

Preaching does not constitute public worship. The object of preaching is the people; the object of worship is God.

What, then, is the essential element? Prayer recited or chanted—prayer extemporaneous or in forms grown venerable by use, is common alike to public and private worship, to the worship of the individual in his closet, the family, or the gathering of families. It cannot be the essential element of public worship. What, then, is the essential element, or, if there be none, how can this public worship have any claim on the individual that may not be satisfied by him alone, as in the case of Dr. Bellows’ preferring isolation on the steamer’s deck to joining in the religious exercises carried on below?

But there is certainly an obligation to render public worship to the Almighty. The Sabbath rest prescribed by the Mosaic law was negative and subsidiary to the positive command to worship God. It did not tell what was to be done; that was provided elsewhere with the most detailed injunctions.

Even as ideas have changed on one point, so they have on another.

With the Reformers of the XVIth century, faith was all and everything. Now we have reached a time when faith has lost its ground; and, in the thousands around us, nine out of ten will tell you that it makes no difference what a man believes; if his life is right, he is safe. But yet they make a distinction in works. It is not all works that have value in the eyes of the world; it is those of benevolence—the corporal works of mercy. They will shrug their shoulders and allow some little value to the spiritual works of mercy, but it will not be much. Yet these works of mercy, whether corporal or spiritual, have for their object our neighbor. There is, however, a higher class of works—those which have God for their object.

Good works towards God! some will exclaim; what need has God of our good works? The need may be on our side, and the question is not one of need, but of duty on our part.

Love is the fulfilling of the law—“he that loveth me keepeth my commandments.” The Commandments to be kept, the works to be done, are written on the two tables of the law; and the works to be done towards God form the first and greater Commandment, and foremost on it—first of the good works of which God is the object—is worship, public and private.

Have not common ideas, then, perverted the whole order? With the higher appreciation of good works that is growing so visibly will come a logical placing of them. The first table will reassert its rights; the great good work towards God, public worship, will take its rightful place, and be regarded as the great, imperative act on the part of man.

If so important, it must have its distinctive characteristics, its essential elements—some thymiama exclusively assigned to it, never given, we say, not to any mean use, but to high or holy use or honor of anything that is not God.

Should no one around us tell what this element is, we must go back to the past. The first Commandment, in its positive form, is: “The Lord thy God thou shalt adore, and him only shalt thou serve.” In what essentially does this adoration and service consist?

If we open the two oldest books we have—the Bible, record of a people who preserved their faith in God; Homer, describing the life of a nation fallen so early into idolatry that it preserved no tradition of the time when the unity of God was acknowledged—if we open these to see what in the earliest ages constituted divine worship, we find the answer clear and plain—Sacrifice.

Leave the shores of the Mediterranean, strike to India, China, the islands of the Pacific, and ask what constitutes public worship, the answer still is, Sacrifice. Reach the western shores of America, question every tribe, from the more savage nomads of the north and south to the more cultured Aztecs, to the subjects of the Incas, and the answer never varies; it is, Sacrifice.

Cross the Atlantic as you crossed the Pacific, the Celts of the Isles and of Gaul, Scandinavian and German, repeat the burden, Sacrifice, till you come again to the tents of the patriarchs on the plains of the Euphrates or Jordan.

And what was sacrifice? A rite cruel, repugnant to all our ideas—one that could not spring from man himself. It was the offering of an inferior life to the offended Deity as a substitute for man’s life forfeited by sin—a substitute deriving its value from a human life that was one day to appease the Almighty absolutely.

The whole system is strange, yet the whole is universal. Before man slew the beasts of the field for food, he slew them on the altar. Not Cain, unaccepted of God, offers this bloody sacrifice. Doubly the type of sinful man—sinful by descent and by act—Cain offers the fruits of the earth—badge of sin and toil and sweat of brow; while Abel, pure and gentle, slays the lamb that gambols affectionately around him—slays it to find favor with a God of love. It could not have entered into the heart of man to conceive this. Nothing less than a primitive revelation and command can explain sacrifice—that offering of domestic animals as a type of the great atoning sacrifice of the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world.

No matter how widely removed from the original seat of the race, no matter how low in the grade of civilization, every known tribe on earth has a worship and has sacrifices. The red men of our own land were long considered as an anomaly in this respect; but they really had the whole idea of sacrifice. One example will show it. When F. Jogues, the pioneer priest of New York, was taken by the Mohawks in 1642, and reduced to the condition of a slave, he attended a hunting party of the tribe. Ill success in war and hunt had befallen the Mohawks, and, ascribing it to their offended deity, they offered to this demon Aireskoi two bears with this prayer: “Justly dost thou punish us, O demon Aireskoi!... We have sinned against thee, in that we ate not the last captives thrown into our hands; but if we shall ever again capture any, we promise to devour them as we now consume these two bears”—recognizing the idea of substitution and the efficacy of human blood as the great means of reconciliation. And the missionary, to his horror, saw two women sacrificed and eaten in fulfilment of this vow.

While the temple of Jerusalem stood, the Greek, the Roman, the Egyptian, the Gaul, and the German would, on entering, have seen naught removed from their ideas in the sacrifice offered. They might have wondered at the size and beauty of the temple, the rich vestments of the sons of Aaron; they might have been filled with awe at the absence of the image of the deity worshipped there so grandly; but in the great rite of sacrifice, there was nothing that was not familiar to them. In this the pagan nations were still in harmony with the divine institution; and in default of the Mosaic revelation, its appositeness could be proved by the common consent of mankind in a matter inexplicable except on the supposition of a primitive revelation.

The nearer and more striking the resemblance between the pagan sacrifices and those of the people of God, the greater the evidence they bear to corroborate it. Error may be old, but truth is older.

What, then, is the meaning of this ancient worship? The answer is plain: “Jesus Christ, yesterday and to‐day and for ever”—“the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world,” whose death was, when once accomplished in act, to be thenceforward shown forth until he came.

The offering on Calvary alone gave life and efficacy to all the sacrifices of Adam, of the patriarchs before and after the Flood, of the sacrifices of Abraham, and those who, in his day, still believed in the true God, in the sacrifices of the law promulgated by Moses.

Their sacrifices were but types and figures—substitutes for that which was to be accomplished in the person of the Messias; when that was once accomplished, it became the act of public worship, to be offered by man to the end of time.

The public worship of the new law is the sacrifice of Calvary, not renewed, not repeated—for “Christ dieth now no more”—but “shown forth,” made sensible.

The essential element of public worship is the death of the Man‐God on Calvary; and under the new law, this must be shown in something higher and nobler than the types and animal sacrifices of the old law. It is the one sufficient act of worship, fulfilling all the intentions and designs of the ancient typical sacrifices—adoration, praise, thanksgiving, propitiation, and impetration. No public worship that does not directly connect itself with this great sacrifice can be at all a public worship acceptable to God.

The Almighty has certainly instituted a worship showing forth this death, and that alone will he accept.

Man cannot set up a public worship for himself. Worship is a debt which man owes to the Most High, and it is not for the debtor to fix the mode of paying that debt. In the discussion alluded to already, they frequently quoted the words of Jesus to the Samaritan woman, but overlooked the great lesson of that whole incident. When that erring woman, pressed hard on her moral delinquency, changed the subject, with womanly adroitness, to the great religious division between the Jews and Samaritans, she asked: “Our fathers adored on this mountain; and you say that at Jerusalem is the place that men must adore”—meaning, evidently, “offer the sacrifices of the law.”

Christ answered: “Salvation is with the Jews.” The Mosaic church was the ark, and out of it there was no salvation. And yet the Samaritans had, according to modern ideas, every requisite. They had the law of Moses, and revered and followed it closely; they had priests of the sons of Aaron, won to their side; they offered all the sacrifices commanded by the law, and as the law commanded; and they had and exercised the right of private judgment in the matter of the place. And precisely this last point vitiated the whole, and made their sacrifices utterly worthless in the eyes of God. They did not conduce to salvation. To be in the way of salvation, they must be in communion with the high‐priest at Jerusalem, and their sacrifices could not be vivified by man or angel. They were worthless. “Salvation was with the Jews.”

The essential element of public worship is, then, the sacrifice of Calvary; and the public worship of the new law must be connected with that act by divine institution. No institution devised by private judgment, however seemingly fit to human eyes, can have any real value. It is not for man to make, by his private judgment, a form of public worship that will avoid the sentence, “Salvation is not in it.” As the figurative sacrifices of the old law derived their value from divine institution as typical of Calvary, so the public worship of the new law must be connected with Calvary by divine institution.

Now, in the popular forms of public worship in our days, there is no essential element, either of divine or human creation, to connect it with Calvary. It is inferior even to the Samaritan worship, which Christ so decisively condemned. What claims, then, can it have?

The Catholic who is asked why he cannot attend a Protestant worship finds his answer here. “Why,” it will be said, “there can be no harm in it. Reading the Scriptures, singing psalms out of Holy Writ, and a moral explanation of some part of Scripture cannot but be good.” Even supposing the explanation to contain nothing contrary to faith, a Catholic cannot accept it. It is not of God’s institution, and, as unauthorized and human, must be rejected of God. There was no detail in the Samaritan worship that a Jew could condemn, yet he had to condemn it as a whole; for, by God’s institution, all this, done on Mount Sion, was acceptable to him and contributed to salvation; done elsewhere, was repugnant and availed not.

So absolute is the necessity of adhering to divine institution to give any value to our religious acts that we see in the Acts that the Jewish priests, whose authority had been so fully sustained, were, by the institution of the priesthood of the new law, superseded; and when they attempted to exercise functions under the new law, the very devils laughed them to scorn. If men of a priesthood instituted by God had thus lost power, how could men self‐constituted make themselves more acceptable, or create a form of worship that could be acceptable, to God?

Nor can any such power exist in the civil authority, be it emperor, king, parliament, or congress. Saul, usurping the headship of the church and the functions of the priesthood, only drew down judgment on himself, and his race ceased to rule over the people.

The only example in the old law that even remotely resembles the liberty assumed in the last centuries by men to form modes of worship is that of Michas in the Book of Judges, who made his own god, his own temple, his worship, and constituted one of his sons as priest till he was able to obtain an apostate Levite.

Man, of himself, would have as much right to make his god like Michas as to make his worship. He can make neither, and cannot give saving power to his form of worship any more than he can divinity to the deity his brain may devise.

Let us, then, see whether there exists under the new law an institution in which the one great sacrifice of Calvary is made perpetually present to the end of time. The Reformers, before introducing their own experimental forms of public worship, since so varied—now reduced to the plainest form, then more cheering, but all based on the synagogue service of the Jews, which was not divine worship, as the temple service was—rejected a form of public worship coeval and coextensive with Christendom, full of the spirit and echo of the temple service of Jerusalem, that was really and solely divine worship—they rejected the Mass.

The Jews even now recognize that their synagogue service is not worship; they still admit the necessity of a sacrifice, as witness one of the most common forms of prayer offered up in the synagogue: “O Lord, in the time when the temple stood, when a sin was committed the guilty one brought sacrifices, and it was atoned unto him; but now, through our sins, we have no temple, no altar, no priests to offer up sacrifices which shall atone for our sins. Let the remembrance of our prayers, of the many prayers we offer up, O Lord, be acceptable in the place of sacrifices.”

There had been heresies and schisms before the XVIth century. They had been almost countless; but Arian and Pelagian, Donatist and Nestorian, all retained the Mass, the authority of all tradition, in Asia, Europe, and Africa, making it too daring an attempt for any to endeavor to modify or abolish it. By the concurrent testimony of all Christians of every tongue and land the Mass was the public worship of God, instituted by the apostles under the command of Jesus Christ and the direction of the Holy Ghost; and to this day it is retained in the Oriental lands, where the apostles and their immediate successors preached, although many of those countries have for centuries rejected the spiritual authority of Rome, and would not adopt the slightest form or ceremony peculiar to the Latin Church.

A movement against the Mass could not arise in any of these lands. It could arise only in nations just emerged from the darkness of paganism, with its spirit still strong within them, and with no apostolic tradition to inspire them with reverence.

The German race, last to accept the Gospel, was the first to reject it. The Real Presence was denied, and with that dogma they cast aside the Mass as the great act of public worship, and the whole theory of the Christian priesthood. In England alone an attempt was made to keep a hollow form and a compromise which James I. sneeringly styled an ill‐said Mass.

In each country, government or individuals then attempted to get up something to take the place of the public worship which had for fifteen centuries gathered Christians around the altar of God, and, while all cried for liberty, made the new forms obligatory by civil law; and in England, the government, by fine and imprisonment, compelled men to go to the churches torn from Catholic worship, in order to follow the newly‐ devised common prayer; and in New England, men who turned with loathing from this, punished just as stringently all who dissented from the standing order or refused to attend the congregational form of worship. Yet both were confessedly mere human inventions, to which no more divine sanction could be ascribed than to the form of opening a court of justice.

Of course the first generation of the Reformed recollected the old Catholic worship, and kept up some resemblance to it; but as the memory died away, one point after another was cast aside, till every original trace was lost, and everything was made as bald and plain as possible.

Then a new great discovery was made. Satisfied with their own position, they looked at the Catholic worship, now become strange and wonderful in their eyes, and they discovered a striking analogy between it and pagan worship. Middleton, in the last century, expatiated wonderfully on the point; and our readers know how offensively our fluent, superficial Prescott, in his Conquest of Mexico, draws the comparison. But these men never seem to have thought that God might have his own views of his own worship, and that he could not have left the world without a guide on this point; they forgot that one fully explained type of worship of the ante‐ Christian era was before us to guide us in our search.

Take one of our average countrymen, from Prescott’s own State, and set him down in the temple of Jerusalem while the high‐priest was still offering the sacrifices of the law. What would his impressions be? He would certainly deem it a very pagan affair; the architecture would, in his eyes, be unsuited to a meeting‐house; the vestments heathenish or—what to him would perhaps be synonymous—popish; the incense clearly so; and a radical defect in the whole would be, in his eyes, that the congregation took no part, and that the building was not adapted to preaching.

If, at the morning hour of prayer, or when the shadow of Mount Sion fell lengthening towards the Mediterranean, he entered the sacred enclosure, and beheld the priest, in rich robe, enter, incense in hand, to offer it on the golden altar, while the people were kept rigorously without, he would have found it sadly at variance with his ideas.

If, as the sun began to gild the golden face of the tower, he saw a devout Jew coming with his wife and little ones, bearing in his arms a lamb, to have it offered in sacrifice for him or some sick child at home, and taking back part to eat as part of the religious rite, he would think all this needed reforming, and that it was very nearly as bad as the popish way of having Masses said.

The only question would be whether the Almighty was wrong, or whether his own stand‐point was utterly wrong.

Certainly, neither in the Jewish temple service nor in the worship of any pagan nation could he find the type of his own. The pagan had strong and striking resemblances with the Jewish; the worship of Christendom grew out of the Jewish temple service.

To this day chants echo through Catholic aisles that were first heard on Mount Sion. To the Catholic the old temple service would be intelligible; the edifice, the vestments, the incense, the priestly performing of a great act, would all be in harmony with ideas with which he had been imbued from youth; to him there would be the most natural of natural things in having sacrifice offered for him or his; he would kneel without in the crowd, offering, through the priest within, the smoking incense—offering it, as each one around him did, for his own wants of soul or body. In all the ideas of worship of the Jew he would be at home, and could join in the same spirit in every religious act that marked life from circumcision till the Kadisch, or prayer for the dead, poured forth beside the grave in the valley of Josaphat.

Those who find the Catholic worship too like the pagan would have condemned the divinely‐instituted worship of the Mosaic law as still more like it. That paganism bears its testimony to the Catholic worship is an argument in its favor, not against it; for the pagan worship was a divine institution, perverted more in its object than in its form. Had it been purely the coinage of man’s brain, of man’s private judgment—one of those ways that seem right unto a man, though the ends thereof lead to death—there would be no such resemblance.

Is it not a striking fact that the Catholic, trained to the worship of his church, would be at home in the temple of Jerusalem during that divinely‐ instituted worship, while to the Protestant it would be utterly repugnant?

The Mass in Latin, Greek, Coptic, Armenian, Abyssinian, Sclavonic, is almost identical, and in all rites claims to have been instituted by the apostles by divine authority. The form is the same, though varying parts have varied. The Jewish worship was simply action; the Christian worship has, from the earliest period, combined action and a form of words. The language of the Mass is older than any of the books of the New Testament. Is it unworthy of the great act? The answer will best be a challenge to produce anything, from the days of the Reformation, which can at all approach it in grandeur; in its recognition of all the attributes of God and of the nothingness of man in his sight; in all and everything that could embody the idea of worship. It has, perhaps, the most sublime thought ever written. Longinus quoted the “Let there be light, and there was light,” as a sublime thought that paganism admired. Yet this record of the creative act is less sublime than “We thank thee for thy great glory.” That man, the creature of God, should thank him for existence, for his intellect and body, for truth imparted, for life, health, happiness, for loved ones and their love, for all the blessings ever bestowed on him, or, soaring higher, ever bestowed on men and angels, might be admirable; but when man, losing sight entirely of himself and of all created things, looks up to God, and, overwhelmed with love, thanks him for his great glory, for his attributes, for being what he is, he soars from the depths of nothingness to the height of sublimity. One of the modern objections to religion is its selfish character; the Mass answers this by its utter abnegation of self, just as it formally disavows the sufficiency of human works.

The action is worthy of divine worship. A man stands at the altar, not self‐instituted, but called as Aaron and his race were—stands there with powers traced back through the apostles to Christ. He approaches as a sinner among sinners, acknowledging his unworthiness, striking his breast with the publican, not vaunting himself with the Pharisee. Then follow soon the glorious canticle, in which the sinner rises, in thought and hope, to God, prayer, lessons from the Old Testament or the New, a portion of the gospels, a solemn profession of faith. Then properly begins the Sacrifice, at which, in early days, only the baptized could be present, and not even such of them as were subjects of public penance.

Bread and wine appear on the altar. Even among the pagans, fruits of the earth were offered to inferior deities alone. In the Bible, they mark the sinful race, like Cain, or men without the chosen people, like Melchisedec. It is in itself an inferior offering, and bears the stamp of man’s fall. Bread and wine are doubly suggestive. It is not merely fruits of the earth raised by man’s toil and the sweat of his brow; it is food prepared by still further toil.

The priest stands there as the type of fallen man, with such offering as fallen man can give; but if this were all, his sacrifice would be but that of Melchisedec. His language shows that the sacrifice has, so to speak, no beginning or end; that it is one act, and that time is not regarded. The bread and wine are treated, not as what they are, but what they are to become. It is not that the sacrifice of guilty Cain may become that of the pious Abel, the sacrifice of the uncalled Melchisedec become that of Abraham the elect; not that this sacrifice of fallen man may become the Paschal lamb, but Christ our Pasch himself; and such it is in thought already when the priest offers the bread as an immaculate host, and the wine as the chalice of salvation—offers them for his own sins and those of all Christians; for the salvation of those present and that of the whole world. He offers it again in memory of the passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord, and in honor of all who have faithfully served him on earth.

He never separates himself from the people for whom he offers it. From the commencement to the end, it is their sacrifice and his; in fact, as if to prevent any forgetfulness of this, he turns, as the awful moment of consecration approaches, to say: “Brethren, pray that my sacrifice and yours may be acceptable to God, the Father Almighty.”

Then, with the Preface that sounds like the triumphant march of an approaching monarch, comes the consecration. The types of sinful man disappear, and Jesus Christ is all. He is the priest; he is the victim. He makes the only oblation that can take away sin. He offers the only victim which can render his Eternal Father due adoration, homage, and honor; which can alone call down graces and blessings.

The priest and people, adoring the divine High‐Priest and Victim, offer through him that sacrifice of Calvary for all mankind, for the living and the dead, for the church and all its members. Then, repeating the prayer he himself enjoined, the divine Victim is consumed, and the solemn rite hastens to a close.

Sublime in its conception, sublime in all its parts, sublime alike in action and in words, the world has never beheld a more adequate public worship of God. In itself, in its antiquity, its wide extent, it is one of the strongest arguments in favor of the church. Its wonderful adaptability to all nations and all conditions of social elevation are no less striking. A public worship, in which the most polished and cultivated minds of civilized nations can join, absorbed and taking part, while the poor peasant enters as well into its spirit, and offers it for all his wants; a sacrifice that can come home to the savage and the sage, to men of the frozen North and the parching tropics, which makes the church a home in all lands where not a syllable uttered in the streets falls familiar on the ear—such is the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass of the Catholic Church—a worship distinct from any other service, offered to God alone, and combining in the highest degree everything that can be conceived as fitting in that great act—divine institution, the character of sacrifice, identity with the oblation of Calvary—the only adequate worship ever offered to God.

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The Answered Prayer

“Mortal cannot make Conditions with the Creator.”—Schiller.

Into my broken heart Pour gracious balm, Where the deep waters start Breathe holy calm; Over my weary life Shed deep repose, Shelter me from the strife, Baffle my foes!

I have not shunned my task Early or late; I have not turned to ask “Wherefore?” of fate. Only one cry went up, Hopeless at length— “Father! to drink thy cup Grant me thy strength.”

Now at the last I stand Waiting from heaven, Patient, with outstretched hand, Alms never given! Grant me, O God! I pray, One answ’ring sign Ere I withdraw for aye! Speak! Am I thine?

Cometh the sign at last— Bolt hot and red, Falling to crush and blast Desolate head; Driving the cowering form Wildly across Life’s heath, through flood and storm, On—to the cross!

The Veil Withdrawn.

Translated, By Permission, From The French of Madame Craven, Author Of “A Sister’s Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.

IV.

From that day I resumed my former habits, and, except the liveliness of my childhood, which had disappeared never to return, I became almost the same as before. This sudden and unhoped‐for restoration brought cheerfulness once more to our gloomy house, and a ray of joy to the sad, anxious face of my father. I say anxious; for it was more so, if possible, than sad. There was an anxiety in his look, whenever he turned towards me, that was quite inexpressible. Had he so trembled for my life, and afterwards for my reason, as hardly to credit I was restored to him? Perhaps so; but if his anxiety had really outlived its cause, though that might explain his profound solicitude, it could not account for the coldness of manner he now manifested, instead of the warm affection to which he had accustomed me from infancy. And when I endeavored to fathom the cause of this change, only one reason occurred to me, which I repelled with terror, and on which my mind utterly refused to dwell!...

I had not seen my brother (the elder of the two children by my father’s first marriage) since my illness. When I went to the supper‐table for the first time, he was not there. But this did not cause me any great regret, for I feared Mario more than I loved him. I was glad, therefore, to find no one present but my father, my sister Livia, and Ottavia, who, from a waiting‐maid, had merited, from her long services, to be promoted to a duenna. I say duenna, and not governess; for she would scarcely have been able to teach us to read and write. But she knew many things much more important. She was one of those good, simple souls, so frequently met with in Italy among people of her station, uncultivated from a human point of view, but wonderfully conversant with everything relating to the principles of the Christian religion, the practice of charity, and the grandeur of the Christian’s hopes. Sometimes thoughts came spontaneously from her heart and lips which were far more admirable than are to be found in any book. Therefore my father, notwithstanding her undeniable ignorance in many respects, did not consider her useless in the training of his children, but treated her with a consideration bordering on respect.

Hitherto my life had been surrounded by, and, so to speak, permeated with a mother’s love; and when I was suddenly deprived of this light and warmth, an overpowering grief, as has been related, took possession of my soul, which at first it seemed impossible I could survive. Now I was calmer; but there was still a void, a wretchedness, a grief in my heart, which, though not as violent as at first, had become fixed and permanent. I thought sometimes of young birds, whose mothers had been caught in the fowler’s net, left pining alone in their nests, or of poor little fish drawn out of the water and left on the shore in the heat of the sun. I seemed to be like them: my heart and soul were out of their element and deprived of their necessary food.

In this state, Ottavia and my kind sister Livia were the only persons in the house who afforded me any comfort. I always sought shelter beside them; for the sight of my father increased my depression, and I was afraid of my brother’s stern and penetrating eye.

Mario, at this time, was twenty‐seven years of age. He was remarkably handsome at first sight; but his stern, gloomy face, seldom expressive of kindness, and never of affection, greatly modified this first impression, and it was nearly impossible to feel entirely at ease with him. Nevertheless, he had many noble qualities, and in some respects resembled my father; but he had not inherited his kindness of heart.... My brother was unyielding and jealous, and, if not bad at heart, at least had an unpleasant disposition, and was often in an insupportable humor. He made me habitually feel that he regarded me as the child of a different mother, and could not forgive Livia, who was his own sister, for loving one who, according to him, had come to rob them of the full share of their father’s love.

At the time of Fabrizio dei Monti’s second marriage, Mario, then only twelve years old, had manifested so great a repugnance to it, and so much ill‐will towards her who was about to take his mother’s place at their fireside, that Fabrizio decided to send him away; and for several years Mario lived away from home, only returning from time to time for an occasional visit. It was only within a year he had become a permanent member of the household. At that time the malady that was to prove fatal to my mother had begun its ravages, and the remaining days of her life were already numbered. Whether it was this knowledge, or because he was softened and disarmed by the charm of her beauty and the angelic sweetness of her manner, it is certain he became quite a different person, and, in her presence at least, was never harsh or severe towards us. Perhaps this change would have been complete could he have remained longer under the sweet influence we were all so unhappily deprived of!

On the 15th of July—the day that ended so fatally—Mario was absent. He had left home the evening before, and, when he returned, he learned, at the same time, the calamity that had occurred and that which so speedily threatened to follow. I have been assured that he manifested a lively grief at my mother’s death, and had inquired about me, not only with interest, but even with anxiety. But the recollections of the past were still vividly impressed on my memory, and it was not to him my heavy, bleeding heart turned for consolation at such a time.

At the end of our gloomy repast, my sister was informed that there were several visitors in the drawing‐room. It was the hour when my father received his friends and the clients he had not been able to see in the morning. Livia immediately left the table, and I was about to follow her, when my father stopped me, and kept me beside him till he had looked over some documents which had just been brought him. He then gave me his arm to the salon. This was certainly done with kindness and an air of affection, but with a kind of gravity constantly perceptible as he kept me beside him the remainder of the evening. How gladly I would have exchanged this affectionate solicitude, that could not lose sight of me, for one such look as I used to receive!...

It was strange! but when I thought of my mother, no remorse was mingled with so affecting a remembrance. I felt as if a constant communication was maintained between her soul and mine; that she saw my repentance, was aware of my resolutions, and, to sum up my impressions—childish, perhaps, but so lively and profound that they have never been effaced—that peace had been made between us. But the thought that my father might be aware of all that took place during that hour of fearful memory, or the possibility of his knowing the foolish act I committed in my mother’s presence, alas! while she was dying, and that he might attribute the dreadful catastrophe that followed to that act, inspired me with genuine terror, which was only checked by a secret, constant conviction that my mother had not been able, during the few short hours of the following night, to divulge my secret to any one, even to him. But then, who could have told him, or what other reason could there be for the change that made me feel as if I had lost my father as well as my mother, and that the heavens were darkened on that side also?

The next day I was alone in my chamber, collecting my books in order to resume my studies, as if my mother were still alive to direct me, when my sister came in breathless, as if from running. She stopped to take breath, and locked the door before speaking.

Livia was two years younger than her brother. She was not handsome; but her form was noble and graceful, her eyes were strikingly beautiful, and her smile, though somewhat sad, was incomparably sweet. But a nose somewhat too long, a chin a little too short, and thick hair parted on a forehead a little too low, made her rather unattractive at the first glance, and perhaps caused the absurd notion I shall soon have occasion to refer to. But all who knew Livia regarded her as an angel of goodness, and forgot the defects of her face.

“Gina!” she hurriedly exclaimed, as soon as she could speak, “my dear little Gina! Mario has returned, and is coming up to see you. Listen to me,” embracing me as she continued. “I think he means to tell you something that will distress you—something I wish you could remain for ever ignorant of. But it is useless. He is determined you shall know it, and, after all, it may be as well. Only, carina, promise to be calm. If he scolds you, or speaks in his usual severe way, do not answer him. Control yourself. Let him go on, Gina mia! I beg of you. No matter if he distresses you for a moment; he will soon go away, and I will console you....”

I had no time to answer these incoherent supplications, for at that very instant I heard my brother’s steps in the gallery. He stopped at my door, and, finding it fastened, gave a low knock.

“You need not worry,” I whispered to Livia. “Remain here, and I will do as you wish, I assure you.”

Livia embraced me once more, and then opened the door. Mario entered. I advanced to greet him, and then stopped with surprise at seeing him so pale and altered. He looked as if he had been ill also. Neither of us spoke for a moment, for he likewise seemed to be astonished at my appearance. He must, indeed, have found me greatly changed since he last saw me. I had grown so tall during my illness that my face was nearly on a level with his, and the long black dress I wore made me appear even taller than I really was. I had lost the freshness of my complexion. The thick, fair hair of which I had been so proud no longer shaded my face, but was drawn back from my forehead, and confined under a black net. He had no reason now to chide me for too much attention to my appearance. He could not make any cutting jests about my hair, as he used to when I arranged it like a crown on my brow, or left it in long curls at the caprice of the wind, according to the whim of my vanity. He had left me a child—a child wilful and full of freaks, whom he only noticed in order to correct for some fault. He found me a young lady, whose sad, distressed, and somewhat austere look seemed the very reverse of the picture left in his memory. He seemed affected to find me so changed, and held out his hand with a cordiality much more affectionate than usual. Then, after a moment’s silence, he said with a kindness he had never before manifested:

“You have passed through a great trial, my poor Ginevra. I have felt for you, and participated in your grief, I assure you.”

I was touched by these words, and was about to reply, when he resumed:

“Yes, you have suffered, I see; but it seems also to have been a great benefit to you.”

My heart was ready to burst, and I at once drew myself up: “Benefit to lose my mother! O Mario! how can you say so?”

He frowned. “I do not mean in that sense, Ginevra, as you must be aware. But perhaps I am mistaken,” he continued, resuming his ordinary tone, which I only remembered too well. “It may be you have only changed exteriorly. I hope it is otherwise, my dear sister, and that your childish vanity and foolish coquetry....”

“Mario!” murmured Livia in a beseeching tone, scarcely raising her eyes from her work. This exclamation escaped her almost involuntarily; for she knew better than any one else that the least reply only acted as a stimulant when he was inclined to be ill‐humored or angry. Therefore this slight interruption only served to make him continue in a louder tone.

“Yes, it is possible her coquettish disposition may not be overcome, and it would not be right to spare it. I am only acting as a friend by speaking plainly about the misfortunes it has caused.”

O merciful heavens!... Did he know my fearful secret, and was he about to tell me what I dreaded more than anything else in the world to hear? My heart throbbed violently, but I breathed once more when he added:

“Thank God, Ginevra, in the midst of your tears, for having taken your mother out of the world without the least suspicion of your behavior.”

Though these words allayed my chief anxiety, they seemed far more insulting than I merited. A flush rose to my cheeks, and I haughtily drew up my head, as I replied: “I never concealed anything in my life from my mother, Mario. And now she is gone, who alone had the right to admonish me, it belongs to my father, and not to you, I beg you to remember, my dear brother.”

I sat down and leaned my head against my hand, that he might not perceive the heart‐felt anguish he had caused me. I was by no means prepared for what followed.

“You are mistaken, my charming little sister,” he said in a cool, ironical tone, “and it is well to tell you, as you seem to be ignorant of it, that when young ladies play a game that endangers their reputation and the honor of the name they bear, they often oblige their brothers to take a part in it.”

Notwithstanding my folly and defects, I was really nothing but a child at that time, and his words conveyed no definite meaning to my mind. I turned around and looked him in the face with an air of surprise that showed I did not comprehend him. The eyes that met mine were no longer full of mockery, but sad and stern.

“Look at that, sister,” he said in a grave tone, throwing on the table a small paper package that was sealed. “The contents of that paper may recall a circumstance you seem to have forgotten, and perhaps make you understand my meaning.”

I hesitated a moment. I was afraid without knowing why. But finally I took up the paper, and tore open the wrapper. A withered flower fell out, which I gazed at with surprise, but without the slightest recollection.

“Do you not recognize it?”

I shook my head.

“Nevertheless, that flower came from your hands.”

I shuddered. He continued in the bitterest tone:

“It is true it was then red, ... red as the blood that had to be shed to restore it to you.”

The horror with which I was filled at these words struck me dumb. I clasped my icy hands, and turned deadly pale, without the power of uttering a word! Livia sprang from her seat.

“Mario, you have no heart, or soul, or mercy! Go away. It was not your place to tell her about this misfortune.”

But Mario, excited as usual by contradiction, continued without any circumlocution, and even more violently than before.

“No, no. It is better for Ginevra to learn the truth from my lips; for I am the only person that dares tell her the real state of the case. And I will do it without any disguise, for it may cure her. She shall listen to what I have to say. It will do her good. And I shall conceal nothing....”

I will not repeat the words that fell from his lips like a torrent of fire!... Besides, I can only recall their import. All I can remember is that they met the very evening of that fatal day—where and how I do not recollect. Flavio was talking to several other young men, and, without observing Mario’s presence, insolently mentioned my name. My brother snatched the carnation from his button‐hole. The next day the encounter took place....

I felt ready to drop with fright and horror. “Oh!” I said in a stifled voice, “can it be that my brother has killed Flavio Aldini with his own hand? O my God. my God! My punishment is greater than I deserve!”

“No, no,” he eagerly replied, “it was not I who....” He stopped, ... and then continued in a calmer tone, but somewhat bitterly:

“Compose yourself, dear sister; it was my blood alone that was shed in this encounter.”

“May God forgive me!” I shudderingly exclaimed with the fervent, sincere piety I always manifested with the simplicity of childhood. “And may he forgive you, too, Mario; for you likewise have committed a deed forbidden by God.”

A faint smile hovered on Mario’s lips, but it immediately gave way to a graver expression; for notwithstanding his defects, he was by no means disposed to be impious.

“Forbidden by God! That is true, Ginevra; but it is, I would hope, a deed he sometimes excuses, especially when the person insulted gets the worst of the encounter.”

As he said this, he put his hand to his breast, as if suffering from pain. I was again struck with his extreme paleness, as well as other traces of illness in his altered appearance, and was penetrated with shame and remorse. A feeling more akin to affection than I had ever felt for him sprang up in my heart, and I said to him humbly:

“Mario, you have done right to be plain with me, and I thank you. What you have said will, I trust, effect my entire cure. At any rate, you have done your duty.”

He had never known me to yield to him before. I had always revolted against his ill‐humor and harshness, whether just or not, and sometimes replied with an impertinence that justified his resentment. He was touched at seeing me in this new attitude, and, for the first time in his life, clasped me in his arms and kissed me with real affection. He then left the room, making a sign for Livia to follow him. She did so, but returned in a few minutes. Tears were in her eyes, and her lips were slightly tremulous—a sure indication in her of some sudden and profound emotion.

Mario had not told me every thing. His anger had died away, and he left it for kinder lips than his to communicate the rest.

V.

The affliction and repentance that so speedily followed the brief moment when I saw Flavio Aldini for the last time seemed to have effaced the transient impression produced at our only meeting, as a stream, suddenly swelled by a storm, washes away every trace left on the sand. I should have met him again with indifference, and perhaps even with aversion; for he would have been always associated with the first misfortune and first remorse of my life. Nevertheless, when Livia, after considerable hesitation, uttered the words, “Flavio Aldini is dead,” a cry almost of despair escaped from my lips; and the horrible thought at once occurred to me that Mario had deceived me—that he was the murderer, and that this flower, a thousand times abhorred, had cost the life of him who had obtained it through my vanity and thoughtlessness!...

The terrible lesson I had already received was not, however, to be carried to such an extent; but it was some minutes before I could be convinced of it. Livia herself had some difficulty in clearly relating the account she was charged with. At length I comprehended that Flavio, while pursuing a successful career of pleasure, was no less careful to improve every opportunity of repairing the inroads made on his fortune. Among these was the proposal to marry a wealthy heiress, which he acceded to without any scruple. But though he thus triumphed over a large number of suitors by means of his good looks and captivating manners, it was, in his eyes, only a lucky bargain and another light vow. He had been engaged only a few days, and the marriage was about to be publicly announced, when he met me at the ball. The sight of a new young face, and especially the naïve inexperience of a girl it would be easy to dazzle, inspired the wish to try his power once more. But he had been followed to the ball‐room, and watched, by one of the unsuccessful suitors of the beautiful heiress. His encounter with Mario a few days after confirmed his rival’s suspicions, and afforded him a pretext for gratifying his hatred and jealousy. Consequently, when Flavio, after leaving Mario wounded on the field, returned to the villa he occupied at a short distance from Messina, he found a new opponent to bring him to an account for his faithlessness to his betrothed, on the plea of a distant relationship that gave him the right to declare himself her champion. In this second duel, fortune was adverse to Flavio. He lived several weeks, however, and had only died that very morning from the effects of his wounds!... The news had just arrived.... And this was what Livia had been commissioned to tell me of....

If it is true that our souls are like precious stones that only reveal all their brilliancy after much cutting and polishing, it is certain that for both the first blow must be the most trying.... My soul, over which my mother had watched, and which she said was dearer to her than her own life, or even than mine, was now undergoing this painful process; or, rather, had undergone it. But during the last hour, it was no longer the knife, but fire, that had been applied to my bleeding heart!

Though I had no direct cause for self‐reproach concerning this new catastrophe, as I at first feared, I did not feel myself wholly irresponsible. This was sufficient to deepen the solemn gravity of my reflections, in which I remained absorbed so long—motionless and silent—that poor Livia was seriously alarmed.

“Speak to me, Gina, I implore you. Oh! why, tell me why, carina, you have kept all this secret from your poor sister? Who could have dreamed you loved this unfortunate man; that you loved any one unbeknown to us all? Could we imagine such a thing possible? You know, dear child, I have never found fault with you, and I will not now. So tell me if it is true that you eluded the vigilance of your mother and Ottavia, in order to meet Flavio in the garden? Was it there you gave him the flower you wore in your hair? And is it true that more than once....”

Excessive surprise completely roused me from my stupor, and I eagerly interrupted her with a face as red as fire:

“Never! never! never!...” I exclaimed in a tone that would have convinced the most incredulous, for it had the indubitable accent of truth. “I did not love Flavio Aldini, and I never met him alone in my life.”

Livia, in her turn, looked at me with astonishment. “Did not love him? Never met him alone? Never gave him a bouquet or a single flower?”

“I will tell you the truth, Livia: once, and then I did not speak to him, I threw him from a distance the carnation I wore in my hair.”

“Once? From a distance? Ah! then tell me when and where you did it?”

I made no reply. A thousand thoughts flashed across my mind with the rapidity of lightning.... It was evident that, by some wonderful chance, no one knew exactly what had taken place. A vague story had been circulated, founded on Flavio’s exaggerated boasts. My father, brother, and sister had accepted this version—so far from the truth—without understanding the real extent of that which had been alleged against me. I felt that they considered me guiltier than I really was. And yet I would not have undeceived them for anything in the world. They judged me more severely than I deserved, but of what consequence was it? Was I not sufficiently culpable to accept this injustice with humility? Was it not enough, without complaining of anything else, to be at last assured that my secret was safe with my mother in heaven? Ought I not rather to bear all their reproaches without a murmur? There was only one that would have overwhelmed me, and that I was spared. All others were easy to bear, and, moreover, were merited by what they were ignorant of, if not by what they supposed true.

Livia patiently waited for me to break my long silence.

“You know I am incapable of telling you an untruth,” I said to her at last.

“Yes, and therefore I always believe you.”

“Well, then, I implore you to believe me now, Livia, without asking me anything more. And, moreover,” I added in a supplicating tone, “do not repeat what I have just told you, and make no effort to justify me to any one.”

My good sister looked at me attentively for a moment, and then gently drew my head against her shoulder.

“Poor Gina!” she said. “It shall be as you wish. I believe everything you say, and love you too well to annoy you with any more questions.”

Livia knew me thoroughly; for, notwithstanding her apparent simplicity, she had an eye that could read one’s soul. She saw the sincerity and repentance of mine, and read in my pale face and distressed look the extent of my sufferings, and her kind heart melted.... I was, indeed, very young to experience such a variety of emotions, and was still too weak to endure them. The habit of duelling, so unfortunately prevalent in Sicily, had, of course, accustomed me more than would have been the case anywhere else to occurrences similar to that I had just heard about. But to have my name connected with so fatal an affair; to feel that I was the cause of the blood shed in one of these encounters, and that the other had resulted in the tragical end of one who had flashed for an instant across my path, like one of those meteors that are the ominous forerunners of misfortune and death, ... was more than my young heart and feeble frame could endure. Livia perceived it.

“Come, carina,” she said, “lean against me. You need rest.”

I attempted to make my way to an old sofa, covered with red damask, at the other end of the vast and scantily‐furnished room; but I had no sooner risen than my strength failed me, and I was obliged to lean against a table to keep myself from falling. Livia hastened to procure some cold water, with which she sprinkled my face. I soon recovered, but was still pale and agitated when Ottavia came in. She had left me quite well an hour before, and, finding me now in such a state, she exclaimed with mingled impatience and alarm as she advanced: “Good heavens! what has happened to her? She was so well this morning.”... And giving Livia a furtive, distrustful glance, she extended the index and little finger of her hand, closing all the others; turning around as she made this gesture, the meaning of which is only too well known in our country.(89) This was done so quickly that I hoped I was the only one to perceive it.

“How foolish!” I angrily exclaimed to Ottavia, seizing her hand and covering it with mine. “Are you going to treat me always as if I were an invalid or an old woman? Thanks to Livia”—and I emphasized these words—“I have entirely recovered.”

Ottavia, half angry, half sorry, was about to go away; but Livia made a sign for her to remain, and, pressing my hand as she embraced me once more, left the room without uttering a word.

VI.

The little incident I have just related will doubtless excite some astonishment, and be regarded as scarcely confirming what I have said before about Ottavia’s piety and good sense. But whoever has lived in the southern part of Italy knows there are hundreds of people in that region whose education, and even religious instruction, are in no way deficient, and who, nevertheless, are not exempt from the singular superstition I have just referred to.

I leave it to the erudite to prove that Magna Græcia derived it from classical Greece, the mother country; that remote antiquity made use of the same absurd gesture to avert the effects of what it was still more absurd to believe; and that in those days, as well as now, people multiplied this very sign under the form of protective amulets—not only as jewels to be worn, but in the objects that surrounded them. I likewise leave to them the task of explaining why this evil has resisted the influence of time and the progress of civilization, as well as the spirit of Christianity. All that can be said, it seems to me, is that in those regions this superstition takes the place of all those that abound in the North of Europe, and from which Italy is exempt. For instance, we do not hear people there, as in Ireland, Scotland, and Sweden, talk of strange, weird apparitions, fairies, or malign spirits, under the name of bogies or banshees. They are not afraid, as in Russia, of meeting people clothed in black, of the number thirteen, and a thousand other absurd notions which Catholicism has condemned without being able to eradicate, and which Protestantism has been much more powerless against. Nor are the ruins, as in Germany, associated with wild legends or haunted by spirits. But, to make up for all this, the jettatura holds there its baleful sway. Though frequently ridiculed, it is feared more than any one is willing to admit; and there is no one, even among the most reasonable, who would suffer this dreaded epithet to be applied to himself, or any one he loved, without manifesting his displeasure. It would be impossible to account for the cause of this prejudicial notion in individual cases, or explain why this fearful term is sometimes applied to men of special merit, and women who are young, lovely, and amiable, as well as to those whom a pretext is wanted to avoid, or whose appearance has something repugnant. Sometimes it is sufficient that a person has accidentally witnessed some misfortune, and, if the same thing is known to occur again, the word escapes from the lips, flies from mouth to mouth, and the foolish prejudice is established. This had been the case with poor Livia. An accident once happened to me in my childhood when she was with me; shortly after, she was present when another occurred to one of our young friends; and a third time, she happened, in one of her charitable rounds, to be in the house of a poor man at the time of his death. This was spoken of at first as a mere jest; but it gradually became a source of mortification and humiliation to her, though none of us were ever allowed to make the least allusion to it in her presence. The repeated troubles of the past few weeks had disturbed the faithful Ottavia’s equilibrium and good sense to such an unusual degree that when she found me, pale and agitated, leaning on my sister’s shoulder, the first thought inspired by her terror caused her instantly to make this involuntary gesture.

I was so vexed at this occurrence that for a moment I forgot everything else. I felt angry with Ottavia, and threw myself on the old sofa without speaking, in a fit of mingled sorrow and displeasure.

I had always been fond of Livia, and now all the repressed and pent‐up tenderness of my heart was poured out on her. She seemed to be the only person in the world that still loved me—the only one that stood between me and what appeared like a great void. Yes, my mother was right in what she said about the great necessity of my nature. As a flower dies, deprived of the sun, so without affection I should soon cease to exist. I placed no reliance on the durability of that which my brother had just manifested. As to my father, his love seemed extinct in comparison with that of former times. And now that I knew the reason of his coldness and severity, I had no hope of overcoming them; for I felt sure he would less readily excuse the truth, were it revealed to him, than the error which had caused such a change in his manner.

Therefore for any one to wound the feelings of Livia, my darling sister, my indulgent and faithful friend, was at this time like piercing my very heart. I remained with my head on the cushions of the old sofa, while Ottavia was bustling about the chamber, as if trying to divert my attention from what had taken place. At last she approached and tried to get hold of my hand. I withdrew it.

“Come, dear signorina,” she said, “forgive your poor old Ottavia. I did wrong.”

“Yes, very wrong, Ottavia,” I replied in a tone almost severe.

“I know it, and feel as if I were listening to the blessed spirit of Donna Bianca herself when I hear you and see you! You resemble her so much, signorina!...”

“Well, Ottavia, what would she say to you, if she had been present?”

“She would tell me that my fear of the jettatura is both foolish and wrong; and that is only what I know myself, what I believe and realize when I am on my knees before God!... Oh! at such times I really feel that his will alone is everywhere accomplished; I only love that holy will; I am afraid of nothing, because I am convinced that will must prevail. And yet, after all, ... when my dear signorina seems to be in danger, or I imagine some one is going to bring her ill‐luck....”

“Ottavia!... Ottavia!”... I cried, suddenly interrupting her with an outburst that almost frightened her, “it is I, it is I, and not she, who bring ill‐luck to all I approach....”

I burst into tears as I spoke. This sudden return upon myself effaced, with the mobility of youth, the impression previously received, and brought back, to my confusion and remorse, all the reality of the present.

Ottavia, like the rest, had been told of my supposed fault, and was ignorant of what I had really done; but she was by no means in a mood now to add any reproaches to those I had already received from my brother. On the contrary, she tried to soothe me, not by any direct reply, but by speaking of that which she could talk best about. I had always been more or less piously inclined from my earliest childhood. How could it be otherwise under the excellent influence that had hitherto been the life of my life?... This piety did not obliterate my faults, but it existed in spite of them, and was to exist through all the perils reserved for me in the future. But it was, if I may so speak, intermittent. Sometimes it grew dormant, if not absolutely extinct; at other times it was kindled to a lively and ardent degree. Therefore I frequently recited my catechism with indifference and ennui; but when it was explained by Ottavia in her peculiar way; when she spoke of the sacraments, or dwelt on the life and sufferings of our Saviour, and more especially on the life to come, I was filled with delight. The loveliness of the natural world around me seemed to assume an additional charm; and when I considered that this was only a faint image of a far more beautiful realm, I longed at once to exchange this life for the other....

It was by such means the good Ottavia now gently endeavored to divert me, by speaking of God, of heaven, and various other sacred topics. By degrees she came back to more indifferent subjects, and finally to Livia, promising to make her forget the mortification she had experienced, and almost persuading me she had not perceived what had taken place.

I allowed her to talk on in this way without interruption until her somewhat monotonous tone produced a drowsiness that was beneficial to my over‐excited nerves. As soon as she saw my eyes grow heavy, she placed one of the large sofa‐cushions under my head, closed the window‐shutters to exclude the dazzling light, and then, after remaining beside me till she was persuaded I was fast asleep, softly left the chamber.

I was not, however, asleep. But my attitude and the profound silence and solitude of the room were very soothing, and I remained a long time absorbed in a thousand complex thoughts. Long years have passed away since that day, and other and more dangerous temptations have assailed me, but I have never forgotten the reflections of that hour. My vanity had been for ever shattered like the congealed surface of some deep lake by some sudden blow. It had not really been a part of my inner nature, but rather on the surface, and therefore not the most dangerous trait of my character. During the remainder of my life, I can only recall a single hour—and only one! ... when it again blinded me.... But that hour was long after the one of which I have been speaking. At this time I could say with assurance that Mario’s wish was fulfilled—that I was effectually and radically cured of my vanity. Associated with so many poignant recollections, it had become horrible in my eyes.

My health was somewhat affected by the agitation I had undergone, and I took advantage of this to remain several days in my room, only leaving it to take the air on the terrace. I only saw my father for a moment, morning and night. The remainder of the day I passed with Livia. Whether she had forgotten what had distressed me so much, or it was owing to her self‐ control, or she really had not noticed it, it was impossible to tell from her manner, and I finally persuaded myself it was as I hoped.

Livia, in spite of her amiable disposition, had great firmness of character. She never allowed herself to be induced to tell anything she wished to conceal, or to do what was forbidden by others or by her own judgment. But what especially characterized her was her self‐ forgetfulness. This did not strike me at that time. When one is only fifteen years of age, one receives impressions without defining them: one is repelled or attracted by certain natures without being able to analyze them. But in looking back, not only over the events of my past life, but what transpired in the inner folds of my conscience, I clearly see the difference between my sister’s nature and mine. From her very childhood she had lived a life of self‐forgetfulness (sublime and simple way to heights but little known!), regardless of her own tastes and inclinations, and even of her own sufferings. Whereas, I was constantly endeavoring to fathom the workings of my heart and soul and mind, and to find food for them, as one tries to appease one’s hunger and thirst when importunate. Not but that I was capable of forgetting myself, and, so to speak, of being absorbed in the heart of another, as I had been in that of my mother, but solely on the condition of being to that other, in return, the object of an infinite predilection; ... for this word of such vast import does not seem to express more than my heart craved. But in spite of this difference, or rather on the very account of it, Livia and I were always at ease with each other, and it was not without regret I was at last obliged to resume my usual life. I regretted this the more because it had been regulated by my father in a way that indicated only too plainly how much he distrusted me. Nevertheless, I submitted with humility and docility to this unaccustomed surveillance, the cause of which was so evident.

I was only released from it during the early hours of the day, which I spent in my chamber with Livia. I was not allowed to go into the garden, except under Ottavia’s escort; and I was not permitted to leave the house, unless accompanied by my father or Mario. All the rest of my time I passed in my father’s cabinet, where he had a table placed for me near his own. There, for hours together, I read, wrote, or worked, varying my occupations according to my own tastes, but without any other liberty. To have passed my days in this way beside my father would have been delightful once; but now, though he was often kind and affectionate, there was a certain gravity in his affection that made me feel I was the object of unjust suspicion, and tortured me beyond expression. But I submitted to this torture without a murmur, acknowledging, as I did so, that it was only a merited chastisement.

This cabinet was like a vast hall in form, and, like all the other rooms of that old palace, grand in its proportions, but only furnished with what was absolutely essential. One side of the apartment was entirely lined with shelves filled with books and papers, and at each extremity stood a row of arm‐chairs. In the middle of the room, opposite two large windows, was my father’s writing‐table, near which was mine. Between the windows hung a large painting, which was the only ornament in the room; but, to compensate for this, the garden could be seen, and further off, beyond the verdure of the orange‐trees, stretched the blue outline of the sea.

My father received many of his friends and clients in the morning, but seldom admitted any of them into the room we occupied. A servant half opened the door to announce the visitors’ names, and my father went into the adjoining room to receive them. It was only on special occasions he gave orders for any one to be admitted where we were.

During the long hours I was thus left alone, I sometimes busily employed my time, but more frequently remained with my arms folded, plunged in a profound reverie. At such times I always avoided looking at the large painting that hung on the opposite panel between the two windows. This was a fine copy of Herodias’ Daughter, by Guido, the original of which I afterwards saw in the Palazzo Corsini, at Rome. The sweet, charming face of the girl who is holding with a smile the bleeding head of S. John had a kind of fascination for me. It seemed like the personification of vanity in a new form, giddy and thoughtless in its course and fatal in its results, and often inspired me with many silent, gloomy reflections.... I preferred looking at the foliage of the orange‐trees in the garden below, or gazing into the blue, illimitable heavens above. I often amused myself, likewise, before a cage, prettily painted and gilded, that hung in one of the windows, and contained a bird whose company was a great diversion in the life of disguised punishment I was condemned to. This bird, whose melody surpassed that of the nightingale in sweetness and power, was one of those called at Sorrento, where they are chiefly found, the passero solitario. I was so fond of its sweet music that my father had allowed me to hang the cage here, and more than once in the day I climbed up on a bench in the embrasure of the window to see there was no lack of the singularly copious and solid food which this bird of angelic notes daily requires.

One day, while I was thus perched at a considerable height from the floor, the door opened much wider than usual, and the old servant that announced the visitors said with a certain emphasis: “His Excellency the Duca di Valenzano.”

My first thought was to descend from the post I occupied; but before I had time to do so, the visitor entered the room, and stood regarding me with an air of surprise. My father rose to meet so unexpected a client; but the latter held out his hand to aid me in my descent, and followed me with his eyes, without speaking, as I hastily regained my usual seat, blushing with confusion. My father conducted him to the other end of the room, where stood the row of arm‐chairs, and both took seats. During the long conversation that followed, I could only hear the tones of their voices as they rose and fell. Sometimes my father’s predominated, and at other times the deep, sonorous voice of his visitor. I saw it was a question of business, for my father rose several times to search for different papers among the books arranged on the shelves of the library. Finally the conversation ended, and the new client proceeded towards the door. But when he arrived opposite the cage where my bird was singing, he said: “Really, one’s ears are charmed here no less than one’s eyes. It seems more like a palace of fairies than a rendezvous for all the contentions of Sicily....”

He was then standing directly before me.

“Don Fabrizio,” continued he, “is not this your daughter, Donna Ginevra, of whom I have so often heard? Do me the favor of presenting me to her.”

My father’s face assumed a severe, dissatisfied expression, and mine was covered with a livelier blush than before. “Heard of me so often?” Alas! he had probably heard me spoken unfavorably of! Perhaps this was the very thought that clouded my father’s brow. Nevertheless, after a moment’s hesitation, he said: “Rise, Ginevra, and pay your respects to the Duca di Valenzano.”

I rose, but without uttering a word; for I was disconcerted by the fixed, scrutinizing eye that seemed trying to read my face. I lowered my eyes, without being able to distinguish the features of this new acquaintance. I only remarked that he was tall, and had a noble air, in spite of his peculiar garb, that made him look more like a travelling artist than a person of high rank.

To Be Continued.

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On The Wing. A Southern Flight. III

“Vedi Napoli, e poi mori.”(90)

We left Rome in a storm of thunder and lightning. The rain poured in large, cold drops, pattering against the windows of the railway carriage, and adding considerably to the feelings of gloom and apprehension with which we thought of Rome—as Rome is now. When should we visit the Eternal City again? And would the veil of sadness which now falls on all that is dear and sacred to the Catholic be raised once more in our time? Mary was very silent for some hours of our long journey; and while I, with my habitual curiosity, was peering through the rain‐washed window to discover the beauties of the glorious country through which we were rushing, she lay back with closed eyes, absorbed in thought; while Frank, with a fixed frown on his face, was reading and rustling, and finally crumpling up, in paroxysms of anger, the numerous Italian papers that he had bought by handfuls at the station. Presently Mary opened her eyes once more, and condescended to recognize the great fact that we were travelling further and further to the glorious South. I do not think I felt less intensely than my sister the sorrow that attends all reflection on the present condition of the great centre of Christendom and the position of the Father of the faithful. But my grief is apt to take another form from that of Mary’s or Frank’s. Mary grows silent and outwardly calm. Frank becomes gloomy. I am more irritable; and irritability leads to activity. My mind was working with an incessant rapidity, and the impulse to catch sight once more of every shred that could carry me back to happier times, and recall once more the memories of the past, kept me straining my eyes to get a glimpse of Albano, where we had spent a long, happy summer when the Holy Father was at Castel Gandolfo. Should I catch sight of Lavinia, Æneas’ own city, the object of so many excursions in those happy days? Should I see those hills covered with chestnuts, bare of leaves now, beneath whose shade I had so often rested? Even Velletri, though not in itself a specially interesting place, had the charm of association. I remembered how I had gone to spend a long day there, and had wandered to the gates of some private house with a large garden. I had stood looking through the iron bars on a little paradise, but, as usual in Italy, a paradise in disorder. Stone vases stood on a balustrade, filled with bright flowers, but also with weeds. The fertile valley lay below, and beyond the blue and purple mountains rose in tiers one above another, with soft, violet shadows and dim blue mists; and here and there a peak of rugged rock, on which the sun struck bright and keen. A long avenue of shady plane‐trees was to my right. A solitary peasant drove his mule, with balanced panniers and pointed ears like two notes of admiration against the sky, far as my eye could reach down the green distance. I longed to wander on; to follow the flickering lights along that silent road, and know that it would lead me out to the Pontine Marshes, with the rugged Abruzzi beyond. Here, too, rests the body of Hyacinthe Mariscotti, a Franciscan nun, who died in 1640, and whose life, less known out of Italy than it deserves, is one of the most marvellous in its union of great graces and great sufferings.

The rain pelted hard; the lightning made me, from time to time, shrink back suddenly; but still I strained my eyes to catch sight of the shifting scene, and allowed memories to reawaken and imagination to throw its glamour over the past and the future.

Many of the stations along this road are at some distance from the towns whose name they bear; and this, of course, diminishes a little the interest of the journey. For instance, Aquino, the birthplace of the great father of the church, S. Thomas Aquinas, is about a mile off. Near here we were, for a time, to take leave of Frank. He had made up his mind to visit the cradle of the great saint before proceeding to Monte Casino, where he had made arrangements to spend at least a week. Our readers are no doubt well aware that Monte Casino is no longer what it was. Its glories have been shorn by the present government, as the rays of the sun are shorn by the twilight. There are comparatively very few monks of the order of S. Benedict still allowed to reside there. Amongst them, however, Frank had formed a real friendship; and for a month previous, at least, Mary and I had heard him descanting upon all the charms that he was to find in that wonderful retreat of learning and sanctity. Partly to tease him, and partly to be revenged for the fact that I must be for ever excluded, I generally replied to his enthusiasm by making a wry face and uttering the words, “Kid, rancid oil, and garlic.” Then he would toss back that tiresome stray lock which is always trying to shade his beautiful violet eyes, and reply, with a smile, “Oh! I shall not mind.” The train stops a very short time at San Germano, the station for the Monastery of Monte Casino, and we had a hurried leave‐taking. I was endeavoring to collect a few of his newspapers, which I thought he had not half read, and put them into his hand as he left the carriage. “No, no, dear Jane. Do you think I would pollute those sacred walls by carrying there all that blasphemous stuff.” And he leapt out just as we began to move on.

“O Mary!” I exclaimed, “how dreadful it would be, if Frank were to become a Benedictine monk.”

“What else do you want him to do?”

“Why, live at home, of course, as an English country gentleman should do, marry, and bring up a son to rule after him.”

“What a thorough conservative you are, Jane!” said Mary with a smile.

“I am not so sure of that. I have a dash of the liberal in me at times. But I do love the dirty acres; and I like to see them going down from father to son without a break.”

“You are right there. It is that permanence which is the back‐bone of England. I do not believe in the lasting stability of any country where there is a perpetual and ever‐recurring division of property. What a man has should always survive what a man is, in a sufficiently substantial form to make the cradle of a future destiny. And where no one is sure of inheriting a large fortune with the large leisure that it secures, it tends to make all men equally mercenary. There should always be a class apart who have no need to fret about making money, but can afford to spend it.”

“But what if they do not spend it well?”

“That is an answer which in one shape or another you may make to the laying down of any principle. What if it be abused? It does not prove the falsity of the principle, but only once more calls to mind the truism that everything is open to abuse.”

“I suppose you think there are so many objects on which wealth may be advantageously expended that it is well to have an hereditary body whose business it is to do so.”

“Yes; and I would certainly include the cultivation of hot‐house grapes, and the elysium of fat porkers who are washed and combed twice a week. It is every man’s business to produce the best he can of whatever he has in hand, including pineapples and pigs.”

“Well done, Mary. You are a worse conservative than I am. But do you really think that modern civilization, as it is called, has its uses?”

“By modern civilization, Jane, I conclude you really mean material improvements. Civilization is a term which is so misused that it has become hardly safe to use it at all. It ought to mean something much higher than increased railway facilities, more looking‐glasses and buhl, hundreds of daily newspapers, and a French cook.”

“Oh! of course. Civilization ought to mean the intellectual and spiritual development of mankind from out of the rough block of his animal nature and his uneducated mind. If you add to this the refinement which self‐ respect and a perpetual inner consciousness of a Being greater and higher than ourselves, keeping all the man’s actions in harmony with himself and with a higher law, you have a really civilized man as distinct from a savage.”

“That is not a bad description of what civilization ought to be. But that is very different from the idea most people have in their minds when they use the term.”

“In point of fact, Mary, I mean material progress. How far is it useful?”

“How people would stare at you, Jane, for that query!—people who think there is nothing more glorious than to have invented a new machine or a fresh adjunct to luxury.”

“Yes, those are just the people who would not the least know what I meant by my implied doubts about the value of material progress. But you know what I mean and why I question its nature and deprecate its increase.”

“It is a difficult question to solve. But I have long since come to the conclusion that there is never any very great and generally diffused advance made by mankind in any one direction without its having some definite purpose in the Eternal Mind for the ultimate good of his creation. The progress of science is only second in importance to the progress of religion; and after these two comes the progress of the useful arts, which are the offspring of science, and often seem only to pander to luxury, but are really subsidiary aids in that march, in the accomplishment of which man is to fulfil his destiny of possessing the earth and filling it. Mankind is in no way benefited by the discovery, for instance, of a new perfume, whereby some silly woman may add to the already exaggerated expenses of her toilet; but the process by which that perfume has been produced is, in itself, of the utmost value, and exhibits mechanical invention and scientific principles that are of the last importance to mankind. The perfume is an accident—a little of the golden dust scattered by the wheels of material progress.”

“Just so; and dust, albeit golden, is not a good atmosphere to breathe in.”

“Decidedly not.”

“Then do you think, dear Mary, that material progress, or what we generally call improvements, conduces, on the whole, to human happiness?”

“Ah! there lies the really difficult question, and one which I have again and again striven to answer satisfactorily to myself. Happiness is a term generally used to cover more than it has any right to do. There is only one real happiness, and that is what man finds in himself, in union with his God. That happiness is positive, and there is no other positive. We begin it here, but with great drawbacks and frequent interruptions. We complete it in the light of glory. But outside that, hanging on to the skirts and fringes of real happiness, there are contentment, pleasure, ease, and last, but not least, comfort. No one can impart happiness, pure and simple, to another. The nearest approach to doing so is in a reciprocal affection. But God alone can satisfy the soul of man. What we can confer on others and on ourselves are various degrees of those lesser goods which I have enumerated. Now, all these enter into the general plan of God’s dealings with his creatures. The animal world is susceptible of them in its degree, and we ourselves in a far higher degree. As they enter into the general scheme, I am at liberty to conclude, not only from my own sensations, which might delude me, but from that very fact, that they are of very great importance, and that everything which augments the sum of them is a blessing. They are the ore out of which we coin our charities to others. They are therefore essentially God’s gifts, to be given by us again.”

“I know what you mean, Mary. I shall never forget the pleasure I had in taking one of your air‐cushions to that poor woman at T——, who was dying of cancer, and to whom the slightest pressure of even an ordinary pillow was so painful. Now, air‐cushions are a comparatively modern invention. Dear mother used to say no one ever heard of mackintoshes and gutta‐percha in her day.”

“No, Jane, nor yet of lucifer matches. It was terrible work to have to nurse the sick through the night, with a flint and steel and tinder as the only way of striking a light. I think I see now my old nurse, with her large frilled night‐cap, hammering away for what seemed to us children a good three minutes, because the rush‐light had gone out, and baby was crying. I can remember I had for that flint and steel very much the same feelings an Indian has for his fetish. I used to wonder how the flint hid the fire in its cold bosom, and why sometimes it seemed to require so many more persuasive knocks than at others before it gave out its sparks. But for the matter of that, as a child I had secretly embraced the earliest form of religion, the animism of the lower races of savages—and I lent a soul to all inanimate, and even all inorganic, matter. I believe, if we could but find it out, all children do so more or less. The external world is so wonderful to them that they vaguely imagine a personality and a consciousness to exist in everything. There is not a little girl who does not, in her heart, believe that her doll is something more than wax and sawdust; and I would not give much for her, if she did not. The exuberance of faith leads to an exuberance of tenderness; and the girl who believes in her doll has the germ of a good mother in her.”

“You seemed just now to attach a great importance to comfort, Mary. I am surprised at that.”

“It arises, in a measure, from my own personal experience. Besides which, comfort may mean almost anything; for it is generally whatever we are used to. I remember so well, years ago, when the sorrows of my life first threatened to overpower me, how thankfully I felt the warm, soft arms of mere outward well‐being so closely round me. To me they were no more than comforts, because all my life I had been used to them. To others they would have seemed luxuries. When I used to go up to London alone to my father’s house, and find all ready to my hand—well‐appointed servants, large, warm rooms, and a good table, with nothing of meanness, or sparing, or pinching in the unextravagant but perfectly organized home that was open to me—I used often to lean back in my easy‐chair, and say to myself, ‘I am very unhappy; but, thank God, I am not uncomfortable!’ Later on, you know, it was not so. I was a Catholic, and doors that had been open to me before were closed for ever. Then came the time for discomfort. If I wanted to go to London, I had to go to a lodging. The furniture was shabby and dirty; the fires smoked; the food was badly cooked. I drove about in hired vehicles, perished with cold, and shaken to death. I knew I was in no way degraded by it all; but it was new and painfully strange to me, and I felt degraded by an amount of discomforts which in my youth I had never approached. It did not, in itself, make me unhappy, but it added a thousandfold to the suffering from real causes for unhappiness. I used to say they were the splinters of my cross, though not my cross itself. Ever since then, I never see a person in sorrow without being anxious to make them at least comfortable. There is nothing, you see, approaching to asceticism in my view, dear Jane; but, at any rate, one is not bound to be ascetic for others.”

Mary and I were sitting side by side in the railway‐carriage, I having come from my seat opposite in order the better to hear. But now I returned to my old place, just as we paused at the station of Caserta, and saw the largest palace in Europe, now empty and almost deserted, not far off.

The great object in our visit to Naples was to be as near as possible to our friends, the Vernons. We were to go first to a hotel, and then look out for a villa at Posilippo, near the one occupied by themselves, which was called Casinelli, from the family of that name to whom it belonged. We had written to Ida Vernon to beg she would choose our hotel and our rooms. She had lodged us at a very comfortable pension on the Chiaja, and wrote us word we must, on reaching the station at 10 o’clock at night, look out for their servant, Monica; and that she would wear a red handkerchief pinned across, gold earrings, and a blue skirt. We were not to expect the universal black hair and eyes of the Italian woman, as hers were soft brown. The station is very large and very badly lighted. But as soon as I got out, I ran to the grating—a high iron railing, behind which stood the crowd of people, friends, servants, porters, and mere lookers‐on, all pushing and squeezing to catch sight of those they expected by the train. I soon made out the blue skirt, and red kerchief, and the amiable, smiling face of Monica. She welcomed us exactly as if we had been old friends, and that it was a personal pleasure to herself that we had arrived. She had brought a carriage for us the size of a small house, but which refused (through the coachman) to take luggage. That was to follow in another kind of conveyance immediately after us. Every sort of injunction was given as to its destination, and, persuaded all was right, we rumbled over the large flags of the streets of Naples to the far end of the Chiaja, where we were to lodge. There were flowers in our room and a note from Ida; and the next morning we were to meet, after a separation of seven years. Meanwhile, our impedimenta was slowly grinding its way past our door, up the steep hill of Strada Nuova, on to Posilippo, where our friends reside—a good twenty minutes from our abode—down the hill, through the vineyard, and up to the door of the Villa Casinelli, where, arriving about midnight, they thundered and thumped till the tired Monica had donned once more the blue skirt, while Lucia was screaming that there were robbers. Ida came forth in a warm wrapper; Elizabeth’s tall figure was draped in white; Helen peeped out of the half‐open door; and the good Padre Cataldo, their chaplain, in beretta and soutane, had to emerge from his little sanctum, at the furthest end of the long, narrow house, before peace could be restored, and our mountain of huge black trunks, portmanteaus, and leather bags could be induced to retrace their needless steps, climb again that zig‐zag road up the steep tufa rock, and reach us, worn out with waiting and feverish with impatience for night‐gear, at about one o’clock in the morning.

Brilliant sunshine, streaming into the room the next day, woke us up to the sense of the joyous, bounding life of these delicious climes. O noisy Naples! what clamorous cries, what vibrating shouts, what shrill feminine voices, fill thy glaring streets through the livelong day and far into the unrestful night. The horses neigh as they do not neigh in any more tranquil climes. The usually silent ass is here a garrulous animal. The dogs bark and snarl in a dialect special to Naples. The women scream like cockatoos, and never address each other in lower tones than as if shouting a word of command on board a man‐of‐war in a gale of wind. Their habits are not conversational, but _scream_ational; and the most cordial civility is communicated like a threat, while an affectionate compliment is conveyed in sounds sufficient to startle the most supine into lively attention. Young girls hiss and squeal; infants bellow and roar. It is noise, noise, all day long; and over all a remorseless sunshine on white, glaring pavements of flag‐stones a quarter of a yard square and more, like the pavement of the ancient Romans, such as we still see it in the Via Sacra near the Colosseum, and which resounds to the metallic tread of donkey, mule, and horse, or to the softer, shuffling pit‐a‐pat of the herds of bearded goats that traverse the city at early morn and eventide.

Mary’s bed‐room opened into a large loggia full of flowers—geraniums, petunias, and carnations in full blossom, though it was only the month of March; but so had they blossomed more or less all through the winter. A few orange‐trees in tubs were there with golden fruit and star‐like flowers. Then the blue sky and the bluer bay! Yes, it was the plenitude of life that one only knows in the South, with the delicious sense of the pleasure of mere existence, which tempts one to adopt the dolce far niente, and makes living and breathing seem a full accomplishment of the day’s duties.

Ida and Elizabeth Vernon came early to carry us off to Posilippo; first to call on Mrs. Vernon at Villa Casinelli, and then to decide on a lodging as near to them as possible. We found them living in a house whose foundations are washed by the sea, and commanding a view of wonderful beauty. The descent from the main road was too steep for any carriage, winding in and out through vines and fig‐trees, oranges and Japanese medlars, ending in a closely‐knit avenue of the white mulberry, which in the summer makes a dense shade.

Our friends wanted us to take the villa next to theirs, if only the proprietor, a poor and proud marchese, would let it to us. We went over to look at it, but came away in disgust. There was scarcely any furniture, and none that would have satisfied even the most modest requirements. I do not remember seeing any beds, although it is certain the family come there from time to time for a few days. I asked Ida where they slept, and she pointed to some roomy sofas and wide divans, on which had been flung the ashes and the ends of cigars, as the probable resting‐place of the proprietors. We could only shake our heads in horrified astonishment, and think what a lovely place might be made of this quaint old house. It stands partly on the rock and partly on arcades, through which the sea comes rushing when the waves are high, but where, when it is calm, you may sit on silver sands or on the stone steps that lead down from the house and the upper terraced gardens. We had been so fascinated by the appearance of this residence, which looks outside like the fragment of an old feudal castle, and inside is bright with sunshine and the glorious view it commands, that we had requested Padre Cataldo to write and ask the terms before we had gone over it. On our return from doing so, shocked at the dirt and disorder we had witnessed, we were amused to find a magniloquent reply to the effect that the titled owner would “condescend” to let us his dwelling for (and here he named an exorbitant price), solely out of an amiable desire to make himself agreeable; and that he would call the following morning to receive the ten weeks’ rent in advance! We finally decided on the villa next but one to that of our friends—the Villa R—— R——. We did not require more than one floor of the house. The rest was occupied by the family, and had a second entrance. We came into our part straight from the Strada Nuova, down a few steps, and in at a large folding door flanked by a Stone seat and two vases with huge aloes. We had a lovely view of the bay in front, a little garden on a sloping bank on one side, full of oranges and lemons, now in full fruit and flower; a loggia—that great desideratum of an Italian house—and a view of Naples and Mount Vesuvius. On our return to our apartments, we were met by the woman who attends upon us, telling us that Ann was in her room with a bad headache. Little did we guess what had befallen her! We went in to see what was the matter, and found her flung upon the bed, with her clothes on, in a profound stupor. In vain we called her and shook her; we could not rouse her. The landlady presently came and told us that an hour previous poor Ann had been brought home by a gendarme in a carriage; that she was unable to walk up‐stairs without assistance, and seemed completely dazed when spoken to. The gendarme said he had noticed a young person sitting on a bench in the Villa Reale, the long, narrow garden which runs for a mile along the Chiaja by the sea‐shore; that she looked extremely ill; and that, noticing she had valuables about her (alluding to her watch and chain), he had asked her address, put her into a carriage, and brought her home. It was a mercy he had done so. The Neapolitan police are not always so honest. But our dismay was increased when at length, having awakened her, she did not know any of us. She kept entreating Mary, who held her in her arms, to take her back to her own Mrs. Gordon, her good Mrs. Gordon. In vain Mary replied, “But I am Mrs. Gordon, Ann. Look at me; don’t you know me?”

“No, no; you look something like her, but you have not her voice. Oh! where is she. Where is Miss Jane, and where is Lulu?”

Fortunately, Lulu, Mary’s dog, was in her room, and the probability was that, though she failed to know us, she would recognize Mary’s Lulu from any other Lulu. I flew to fetch the little animal, and threw it into her arms, to poor Lulu’s great astonishment. It succeeded perfectly. She knew the dog, and thus recovered her memory of the faces around her, and her conviction that she was in her own room. Evidently she had a vague horror that she might have been taken to the wrong house, and that she had awakened among strangers. When she had entirely recovered herself, we found that no trace of what had happened to her remained on her memory from the moment that she entered the Villa Reale; yet she was found more than half way down it! She must have wandered on partially insensible; and it is a blessing that, when the gendarme found her, she had enough consciousness left to give the right address. She had already been out in the morning, and a second walk in the hot sun had been too much for her. It was a sun‐stroke; and strangers are more subject to such accidents than persons who have become habituated to the climate. It was, however, long before Ann really shook off the effects of gratifying her over‐curiosity to visit the beauties of Naples on first arriving.

In a very short time, we were comfortably settled at Villa R—— R——. The Vernons had arranged everything for us with a forethought for which we could not be too grateful. They lent us the services of Monica as cook, assuring us that, if we took a Neapolitan, we should be cheated and tormented out of our lives. Monica was a Piedmontese, and as good and simple‐hearted a girl as any one could wish to find. Her economical scruples were positively amusing. We could hardly induce her to buy the particular articles we desired for our dinner, because, in her estimation, they were at too high a price in the market; and she would beg and entreat of us to wait patiently a little longer until they should have gone down. If it had been her own money she was spending, she would not have been so economical; for, as we found out later, she was always ready to lend to those less well off than herself, and would give away more than she could afford. The name of the young lad whom the Vernons engaged to act as servant was Paolino, a boy of eighteen, with glorious, large brown eyes and bright complexion. It was some time before we taught him manners, as he had never been in a gentleman’s family before. His father was a vignaiuolo of the name of Camerota. He had several sons and daughters, some of them married. He rented the vineyards of the marchese whose dilapidated house we had declined to hire, and each of his children married from their home with a good substantial dower and a large trousseau. The eldest girl had not long been a bride when we arrived; and, after making the acquaintance of the other members of the family, we one day called upon her. Their dwelling was built against the tufa rock which skirts the Strada Nuova. She had three rooms, nicely furnished, with marble tops to the chest of drawers and the table, such as we in England should only expect to find in the houses of the rich, but which here are common enough. The bedstead was of walnut, and the sheets like the driven snow for whiteness. Ida, who had known the girl for years, told us that her trousseau contained a dozen of every necessary article of dress and house‐linen, even to a dozen pairs of stays!—enough to last a life‐time. There hung a crucifix at the head of the bed, and a few colored engravings ornamented the walls of the sitting‐room, in which also there stood a tiny altar with a statue of the Mater Dolorosa and a few flowers.

The lower classes here have what we should call strange notions with respect to the sacrament of marriage. It is treated as a deed of darkness. The bride is conveyed late in the evening, or by cock‐crowing, to church, by her mother and a few respectable matrons. No young girl, not even a sister, is allowed to be present, and would endanger her reputation were she to appear on such an occasion. A few days later, the bride once more puts on her wreath, and her veil, and her wedding‐dress. All the family and friends of both sexes are gathered together, and the women and men, in separate carriages, drive fast and furious along the Chiaja up the Strada Nuova, past Posilippo, by the hour, and finally pause at the Taberna del Capo di Posilippo, or some other house of entertainment, and have a merry feast. We held this said Taberna somewhat in horror. On Sundays—the day on which everybody seems to think his honor and reputation are engaged in galloping up hill and down dale at a break‐neck pace for the whole afternoon—this was the chief place of meeting; and in the lovely starlight evenings, the returning guests would come back with a sadly rollicking air, hat on one side, a long cigar in the mouth, and a leg hanging over the side of the frail vehicle, while the spirited little Sardinian horse, all blood and sinew, would fly along, with jingling bells and bright brass harness, as if his hoofs hardly struck the earth. The drivers of these cittadine, as the little hired open carriages are called, take great pride in their harness. The horse‐collar more resembles a yoke; and where it meets over the horse’s neck, there is often a little brass image of the angel guardian—a very necessary angel, indeed, considering the pace they go, and whose guardianship must be severely put to the test by the mad risks of the half‐inebriated coachmen. It is very rare to see a Neapolitan really drunk. The wine they take produces a light, joyous, but brief intoxication, which makes dare‐devils of them for the time, but soon loses its effects, and is rarely stupefying. It is the divine inflatus of the Bacchus of old, and not the coarse, heavy incapacity of the snoring Silenus. Nevertheless, though I have spoken so indulgently of the Taberna del Capo di Posilippo, it formed a not unfrequent subject of grave rebuke and expostulation in the discourses of our good Padre Cataldo to his little group of listeners in the chapel in the rock belonging to Villa Casinelli. And probably he knew more of its evil influences than we did. I remember, one Sunday afternoon, being particularly struck by a carriage full of merry‐makers, drawn by the most miserably thin gray mare my eyes had ever beheld. She was nothing but a bag of bones, and must have reached the utmost age that horse ever attains. I was horrified to see so old and pitiable an object driven so hard and fast, and could only console myself by thinking the gallop I then witnessed must surely be the last. But it was not so; far from it. Day after day, but on Sundays especially, my Rosinante might be seen flinging her wild hoofs into space, amid a cloud of dust, and generally in competition with a beautiful, wicked‐looking black horse, sleek and well cared for, in dazzling harness, with red ribbons in his mane—a perfect little devil, as he took the bit between his teeth, and seemed to enjoy the eagerness of his driver, albeit the lash fell often on his sleek and steaming flanks. I delighted in that little black horse. But to the last Sunday of our abode at Posilippo poor Rosinante held her ground. And I can see her now, awful to behold, neither fatter nor thinner—that she could hardly be—than the first day, devouring the ground beneath her, and flinging out her skeleton leg straight from the shoulder, so that I could hardly see she touched the ground.

The chief amusement on Sunday afternoons of our own humbler friends and neighbors, the vignaiuoli,(91) was a game of bowls by the side of the road, and in front of the wide‐gaping wooden doors of the strange dwellings cut in the rock where the inhabitants of Posilippo reside. Many of these are restaurants and taverns on a small and humble scale; and Padre Cataldo had been making vigorous efforts, not to discourage the game of bowls, but to induce the men to play in an open space near the Villa Casinelli, and consequently at some distance from the taverns. Like all Italians, and chief amongst them all, the Neapolitans are great gamblers. The tavern‐keepers encourage this, because it promotes their trade; and the games being carried on in front of their caverns (for such they really are) leads to incessant “treating.” In this way, what between entertaining his friends and losing his money at play, it often happens that the ill‐ advised vignaiuolo returns to his home with his pockets empty; and the next day the wife would come in tears to tell her sorrows to the good father. Even our Paolino was never contented without an hour or two at bowls on Sunday afternoon. And we did not like to refuse him, for we were obliged to take him somewhat on his own terms; and these involved a very small sense of servitude, and a very large one that he had put us under something of an obligation by coming to us at all. Had he been a year or two older, his parents would not have allowed him to enter service, thinking it a degradation. But as he was very young, and rather restless and wanting change, it was decided that he might be allowed to work off a little of the exuberance of boyhood in our service. Even this could not have been allowed had we not been friends of the Vernons; but as they are adored by all the vignaiuoli and the inhabitants of Posilippo generally, their request could not be overlooked. Accordingly, Paolino, blushing and grinning, was admitted to form one of our household. His father told us exactly what his son’s labor was worth to himself, and that we were to hand over to him. It was all to go to the making‐up of Paolino’s marriage‐ portion. We were then to pay the lad a little over for himself, as pocket money. And this was to be done with discretion; not to prove a temptation to lavish expenditure. This is the way in which the marriage‐portions of both boys and girls are made up. They work for their own parents, and the latter put by the wages for them. When old enough, they are at liberty to undertake other and more profitable work. And from time to time there comes a windfall—a little work to be done in addition; or a specially good harvest, when the parents add something of the surplus to the portion of the girl or boy then marriageable. There was a deep, dark‐eyed maiden, of the ripe age of fifteen, with wayward black locks and a furtive glance in her liquid eyes like a startled fawn, about whose conduct there was a slight demur. Venturella (for such was her name, and it struck me at the time as of evil omen) was at heart as innocent as a child of five. But there was something in her shy yet daring nature which caused a certain uneasiness as to the fate of the timid, impulsive girl in this evil world. Venturella was fond of leaning over the low parapet which divided her father’s vineyard from the highroad; and when the brief Italian twilight had sunk in the shades of night, and the brilliant stars, that seem so near in those southern lands, had spangled the dense blue heavens with their myriad fires, Venturella would pretend she did not hear her mother’s voice calling her to come home. With arms crossed, she would lean on the wall, just breast high, and her star‐like eyes would seek their sister‐ stars above with a vague, dream‐like wonder. What the stars—and perhaps even more the moon—said to Venturella we shall never know; but one of them must have carried a message to a certain youthful Franceschino, whose hyacinthine locks clustered low over a brow of ivory, beneath which lay two eyes like the evening sky Venturella was so fond of; and whose teeth gleamed in the soft light like the white sea‐foam. Nobody knew; and as the birds had all long ago gone to bed, none of them were there to whisper tales.

Franceschino was the son of a vignaiuolo who lived on the Vomero, the heights above Posilippo; and the little stolen interviews took place as he came back from the city, whither he had been sent on his father’s business. From time to time the mother wondered what made her son so late in coming home; and one night she thought she would find out for herself whether the dry bush hanging out before the wide doors of one of those cavernous taverns had tempted Franceschino to try the red wine within, and perhaps take a hand at cards with some other loiterers. Alas! for Venturella when the indignant matron found out the charm which had led to the boy’s delay. She was not likely to hold her tongue about it. Nor was his father, who beat and cuffed him well; for boys of nineteen at Posilippo will meekly bear a cuffing from a parent, when they would not tolerate a finger’s weight from any one else. Then came the rage of Venturella’s mother; and spite of Padre Cataldo’s having elicited the fact that no greater wrong had been done than a few silly promises and one shy kiss, all Posilippo was loud in crying, Fie for shame! on the fawn‐eyed Venturella. At length those older than herself and wiser than her mother took the matter in hand. Could nothing be done? Stern fortune answered, Nothing. Venturella’s marriage‐portion was far from being made up. She was an idle hussy, and only worked when she could not help it. The rest of the time she paddled with naked feet in the silver sands, tempting the tiny waves to kiss them, or gathered scarlet poppies from among the green corn and twisted them in her raven hair. Worse than all, Franceschino was equally behindhand with his fortune; and nineteen was too young for a lad to marry, though fifteen was none too soon for a Neapolitan maiden.

There was, however, something in the silent sauvagerie of the strange girl which made it evident to her betters that she could not be thwarted with safety. There was something deeper than words in the sudden flash of those wild eyes when they looked up fiercely, and then fell beneath the long, fringed lids, and lay in shadow like pools in some dense forest. Venturella shrank, half angry, half ashamed, at every breath of blame; while her eyes grew larger and deeper, and the round, full cheeks became pallid and sunken.

“What is to be done with that wayward girl?” was the ever‐recurring question among the Vernons, who seemed to take upon their own charitable shoulders every burden that weighed upon their numerous friends, the Posilippians. At length a suggestion was made that Venturella should be sent to school far away from present associations, where she would have numerous girls of her own age to divert her, and where she might learn fine needle‐work and embroidery—the only thing, besides paddling in the sea and weaving wreaths of wild flowers, for which she had ever shown any disposition. Meanwhile, a dot was to be thought of for her; not so very much was wanted to make up the necessary sum—about 4,500 francs. And then, when Venturella should be wiser and Franceschino older, who knows but what love’s young dream may turn out true at last?

It did not take us long to get intimate with the names and habits of the rural population around us. They were quite willing to receive us as friends, and seemed to expect a ready sympathy from us in all their concerns. Unlike the peasants of an English village, the best of whom, at least amongst the women, cultivate so little acquaintance with each other, here everybody knew everybody else; and though I do not pretend to say there was less gossiping among them, it always struck me that there was less of that sour ill‐nature which is apt to characterize the English cottager’s comments on her neighbors. No doubt this arises in a greater degree from the nature of the people than from acquired virtue. It is only in northern, damp climes, like the English, that the necessary ills of life are so heightened and intensified by the general sense of moral and physical discomfort which a heavy atmosphere and a gray sky produce. We all know what it is to wake in the morning with a vague sense of apprehension, as if the post were about to bring us a distressing letter which our imagination foresaw. We all know the ceaseless and unreasoning feeling of being out of spirits which also tempts us to be out of temper. We are acquainted with the blue‐devils, and we are generally taciturn and inclined to gloom. The Italian knows nothing of this. The very great and constantly‐pervading influence these feelings have over our daily life is absolutely beyond the limits of his experience, unless, of course, he is suffering from a deep sorrow or a real physical malady. To the age of eighty, he wakes in the morning with the same sensation of joyous energy or placid pleasure which we were beginning to lose before we were eight. He is passionate; but he is not irritable. He has paroxysms of despair, but he knows no constant gloom. Our impatience, our tendency to being “put out,” are enigmas to him. The small hindrances of every day and every hour are less a great deal to him than the swarms of his pestering southern flies are to us. Pazienza (patience) is for ever on his lips; and it is no vain word, for patient he is to a degree which is exasperating to behold. When he is waiting, he is not gnawing an invisible bit, as we are doing, and grinding his teeth to powder. He is simply enjoying the being alive; and it does not much matter to him whether he chews the delicious cud of existence waiting at your door or sitting in his own home. You may make him furiously angry; and as likely as not he will stab you in the back and in the dark. But you cannot make him cross, or fretful, or peevish, or low‐spirited. Depend upon it, if he is ever any one of these things, it is high time to call in the doctor, who probably will declare his case already hopeless. On the other hand, if anything—and it may often be a trifle—thoroughly rouses a Neapolitan, it is fearful. It becomes a rabbia (a rage), as they themselves express it; and then they are blind and deaf to reason and expostulation, and run amuck of all that comes in their way. It is possible that the extraordinary violence which seizes them is, in a measure, purely physical, and that that also in a measure diminishes their responsibility. Evidently, they think so themselves. Era una rabbia(92) is considered almost an excuse for the worst crimes, so long as these were committed in the heat of passion. And probably, in the long run, this has seriously affected the moral sense; so that good and reasoning people fail to be as much horrified at some murder committed in a brawl as we should be. They look upon an event of the kind almost in the light of a mutual misfortune between the murdered and the murderer. It is at least certain that the line of demarcation which separates inward resentment from the outward act of guilt is more easily crossed by these children of the sun, and does not presume the existence of so much previous demoralization as it would do with us. Yet I am far from intending to write an apology for the Neapolitan character. There is a great deal about them which is very graceful and very attractive; and when they are really good and refined, they are most lovable. But this is exceedingly rare. As a people, they are venal, deceitful, mercenary, and treacherous. But with it all, they are exactly like children; good or naughty, as the case may be, but always children.

Frank not being with us, the Vernons had undertaken to procure for us a carriage and a pair of horses, with a well‐conducted coachman, to hire by the month. Indeed, had Frank been there, he could not have done it half as well as they did; for all these transactions require you to be acquainted with the current charges and with the character of the people; and Frank had no experience in either. The Vernons concluded the bargain for us with Pascarillo, the man from whom they always hired a vehicle when they wanted one; and a fine, handsome‐looking fellow he was, with the reputation of being rather a gay Lothario, but, on the whole, an honest man as Neapolitans go. Our carriage was delightfully roomy. It held four with admirable ease, and five at a pinch, together with cloaks and cushions, luncheon and drawing materials, whenever we went on an excursion. In the evening, we could close it. We had two very fleet horses, not at all fine‐ looking, and rather undersized for the carriage, but the best little beasts to go I ever saw. Our coachman was a veritable son of Jehu. He was a miserable object, mean and despicable to look at, diminutive, with bleared eyes, a beardless chin, and the expression of a low coward. But never have I sat behind such a coachman as that. I believe he would have taken us up the wall of a house and down the other side in perfect safety. It did not signify what his horses did, or what evident peril we got into, he always managed quite quietly to bring us right again without any expression of vehemence or alarm. Suddenly, one day, our coachman vanished. An old man appeared in his stead, and a pair of grays, larger than the little brown horses. We made no remark, supposing it was an accident, and that our former equipage would return in time. That day we set out for the Vomero—the height above Posilippo, covered with beautiful villas, and commanding a superb view, or rather many views. The horses jibbed. We were greatly alarmed. They could not be got up the hill, and we had to go home. We sent an indignant message to Pascarillo, and hoped it would never happen again. But it did happen; not once nor twice only. And then Pascarillo was sent for in person to render an account of himself. There he stood, six foot two, with broad chest, a forest of hair, and an august presence. Ida, the universal spokeswoman, with her fluent Italian and her determined energy, left him in no doubt as to her opinion of his conduct. He heard her out silently and calmly, and then replied that the signorina was quite right; he was conscious that his conduct had been inexcusable, and that we had serious cause for displeasure. He had not kept to his bargain, and he was aware of it. It should not happen again; and with a polite bow, he retired. It did not happen again. He had tried to take us in, and he had not succeeded—just a little speculation that had failed, and that was all! As for any rancor at being scolded, or any humiliation at having to make an apology, such sentiments did not trouble the breast of Pascarillo for a second. He probably only said to himself, “Better luck next time.” Our little horses came back, and our impish young coachman with them. We had never again to complain. But the impression made on Mary’s imagination by our coachman’s face was such that she had scruples of conscience about Paolino being allowed to converse with him on the coach‐box. Paolino was, therefore, seriously informed that for a footman to talk to the coachman when the ladies were in the carriage was not good manners. And from that moment silence was maintained; and Paolino’s morals were left untainted, as he sat, radiant in clean white cotton gloves and a new necktie, enjoying the delights of drives and picnics at least as much as the persons on whose account they were undertaken.

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