hundred and eighty days without intermission. One day Doctor Sterbini, who was Bartolo's family physician and on terms of intimacy with him, called to see him.

"You see," said the Doctor, "how all Rome is in joyful commotion, what animation there is among the people, and that the time of our ransom is at hand; these festivities may be compared to the public dinners of ancient Sparta, from which the Spartan youth arose with souls inflamed with the love of their country, with ennobled views, and renewed courage for the magnanimous enterprises of war. This is perfectly clear to you, who never absent yourself from any of our entertainments, and who have so generously contributed to the supply of wine and bread and cheese for the Roman people. The popular commission does not ask you for money on the present occasion, but that you would, on next Monday, throw open to the people your splendid vineyard near Ponte Molle, for a grand banquet, which it proposes to offer to its friends. You will not need to put yourself to any expense; everything is in order; the tents, tables, and utensils; wines, fowls, vegetables, and meats, all are prepared, and we shall have waiters and carvers in abundance."

Bartolo answered, that he accepted as a very great favour the opportunity of giving so small a proof of his devotion to Italy and Rome.

Good," replied Sterbini, "the matter is settled. Pray, keep your seat, don't let me disturb you: you rich gentry have always plenty on your hands. I am going in to see the Signora Polissena, who has been troubled with headache. Sit still, I pray; with friends there is no need of ceremony." And leaving Bartolo, he went to Polissena, closed the door carefully, and looked round before he spoke.

"Well, you see we are not satisfied with the usual mode of -progression on foot, we are flying with outstretched wings. Everything is in our favour. The impatience of our brethren in Switzerland can scarcely be restrained; those holy-water dupes and the pilgrims to the Madonna of Einsiedeln will soon get their thick skulls broken. At Vienna all is ready to spring the mine; nothing more is needed but to apply the match. Germany is prepared; France will blow up Louis Philippe, with his Macchiavel in his hand; Piedmont, Tuscany, and the whole of Italy, arc like a pond surrounded with an impervious net, and not a fish of them all can escape. England scatters its baits, which are eagerly swallowed; the Jews of Italy, Germany, Poland, Bohemia, and Hungary, will lend their aid in various ways. They are our treasures and our printers; they supply us with books and every kind of prints; and what is infinitely more important, they have men of every condition, old and young, travelling apparently for purposes of trade, who render us, with perfect safety, the most faithful services. They pry into every corner, and through every keyhole; they thrust themselves everywhere: in a word, they are our electric telegraph."

"What do you trust to Jews!" exclaimed Polissena; to the sordid, ignorant, covetous, cowardly Jews, who, for two quattrini, would outdo Judas ?"

Exactly and it is neither magnanimity, nor generosity, nor courtesy, which binds them to us: it is the madness of Judas. The resurrection of Europe would crucify and bury again the Nazarene, and for this they would give the last drop of blood. But how have you got on with Alisa? I would have you to leave nothing undone. She is rich and beautiful, and full of spirit; she must be a good Italian. We need ladies; they have an infinity of arts to bring over their lovers, their husbands, and their sons."

"What would you have, Sterbini mio," answered Polissena, smiling; "there is little to hope from Alisa; she remains, in spite of all my attempts, devout to the Blessed Virgin, and proof against every attack. I have placed in her hands books such as you approve of, the Journals of Young Switzerland,' the Wandering Jew,' the Religion of the Future,' by Fuerbach, the Poems of George Herwegh,' the discourses of

Weitling and of Marr. I have gained little more than to corrupt her heart somewhat, and inspire her with a love for the amusements with which our party has inundated Rome. On the occasion of the installation of the Pope in the Lateran, she narrowly escaped being crushed by a horse, and was only saved by the interposition of a young man, who received a serious injury on the shoulder. On being carried insensible into the house of an apothecary, a miniature was found upon him which was recognised to be the portrait of Alisa. He is some foreigner of the name of Aser. Alisa knows this; and since this occurrence she seeks solitude, she is absent and thoughtful, and has lost all taste for amusement."

"This Aser, my dear Polissena, is a mystery, even to us; but the determined soul and the resolute bearing which he has displayed in our affairs in Italy and Rome, by no means partake of the same character of obscurity. Who this Aser is no one knows; he wraps himself in an impenetrable disguise. He is generally supposed to be a natural son of some great prince in the north; it is, however, certain that he came to Rome with a passport from Hamburgh, that he brought letters of introduction from the first bankers of the Hanseatic towns, that he was recommended to several consuls, and that he was always in the company of Lord Minto; but he avoids | the minister of Russia, and more than any other the ambas sador of Austria. He scatters money with a profuse hand, and is still always well supplied; his house is furnished like a nobleman's; he is a generous patron of all the artists, particularly to the Prussians, Hanoverians, Swedes, Danes, and Norwegians; he speaks several languages with fluency, especially French, English, and Italian, and pronounces the latter with a softness and delicacy unknown in a German. He plays on the harp and on the piano, sings well, paints like a master, and rides with inimitable grace."

"He certainly is," interposed Polissena, "a youth of great courage, and it is positively a crime not to know his origin."

"Of what advantage would it be to know it?" said Sterbini; "if we desired it, our police would not be long in discovering it, and we should soon be informed of his father, mother, and parentage four generations back. But that which to us is of real importance-he is our friend and ally. He is a friend of Mazzini, Ruffini, and Rosales. Polissena, keep up your courage, and exert your whole strength to raise up this degraded Italy from its debasement." With these words Sterbini retired.

CHAPTER VII-THE RURAL BANQUET.

BARTOLO now busied himself in embellishing his vineyard for the banquet: he set his men to work in every part-on the walks, the paths, the flower-pots and shrubberies, the || fountains and seats, everything was renewed and beautified. In the middle was planted an immense Persian tent striped with white and yellow. Over the tables in the interior were suspended innumerable magnificent chandeliers, which in the evening would illuminate the entire space with the brightness of midday; festoons and garlands were tastefully mingled with the curtains and entwined about the mirrors, which hung round the sides and supported three-branched chandeliers, the light of which they vividly reflected.

Bartolo had caused bouquets of flowers to be brought from his Alban villa; these were distributed in vases over the tables. From the gardens of the vineyard, and from the villas of his friends, he had collected a great number of earthen flower-pots, containing the richest native and exotic plants; moreover, every variety of trees and shrubbery was collected for the occasion. These were arranged in tasteful lines and groups in different parts of the pavilion.

On the appointed day, Ciceruacchio and his satellites drew the people up in ranks, and led them with songs and shouts through the Porta del Popolo to Bartolo's vineyard. They were followed by long lines of carriages containing the artists

of every nation. Ciceruacchio was the golden link which bound with its chains of love every grade and position; here he shook hands with a prince, there he walked arm in arm with a duke, or he embraced a marquis or a count, or he playfully jested with a banker, or caressingly curled the monstache of a colonel; and by way of greeting, he shook the judges of Monte Citorio and presidents of the wards by the shoulders.

A company of elegant young gentleman had assumed the task of receiving the ladies, and escorting them to the platforms erected for their especial use. These youths were dressed in the Italian fashion, in tunics and trousers of black velvet, plumes in their hats, and a belt in which they wore daggers with cross-hilts. Aser, on this occasion, appeared more brilliant and handsome than ever. His tunie was of the velvet of the celebrated manufacture of Bracchetti di Ala in the Italian Tyrol. His belt was fastened by a gold buckle in the form of an escutcheon deeply engraved, and holding in the centre a magnificent emerald. The hilt of his dagger, instead of being in the form of a cross, like those of the other young men, was fastened in the shape of a serpent entwined in triple spiral folds, with its ercct crest forming the guard for the hand; the sheath was of glittering steel, variegated with tracery of gold; the point, likewise of gold, terminated in a ruby. His hat was adorned with a large ostrich feather; round his neck he wore a gold chain of almond-shaped links, which sustained a medal representing, in relief, Italy crowned by Genius, with the motto," Arise, and reign."

When Bartolo arrived with Alisa and Polissena, Aser was in a moment at the carriage door, and offered his assistance to Alisa as she descended from the carriage.

The refreshments were circulated among the ladies; beautiful young girls, who waited upon them, moved rapidly to and fro with watchful activity, and offered to each one the varied delicacies of the feast. In the meantime, Aser stood behind the seat of Alisa to see that the attendants did not pass her by; and he himself would remove her plate, and if any pistachio nuts or almonds remained upon it, he stealthily took possession of them, happy to preserve some memorial of such a day. While he was thus silently paying his attentions, a certain Casemirsky accosted Aser with intentional insult. This man was a Pole of furious and ungovernable temper, constantly on the watch for every occasion of quarrelling, and who, notwithstanding frequent chastisements, still indulged his fractious disposition.

"What are you doing here? I wish to attend to this young lady myself."

Aser turned upon him a look of burning contempt, and kept his place; but Casemirsky proceeding to elbow him from it, Aser seized him by the arm with an iron grasp, and dragged him rapidly out to the open green. There three other Poles came to the assistance of their countryman with drawn daggers; Aser had also drawn his dagger, and was warding off their blows in silence, when several Romagnuoli and Sicilians threw themselves between and separated them. Casemirsky cried with impotent rage, "I expect you tomorrow with pistols."

Elsewhere every one was delighted with the perfection of the arrangements of this great banquet. The foreigners pay their complements to the Roman magnificence, which manifests itself on every occasion. This festival was looked upon by a majority of the spectators simply as a demonstration of public happiness under the auspicions government of Pius IX.; but it was clearly manifest to those who did not walk with their eyes shut, that it was designed by the revolutionists as the first movement of the conspiracy against the most paternal of princes, and the most mild and generous of Popes.

Cicernacchio scattered his heralds through the galleries, to excite the people to shouts of, "Rome for ever! Italy for ever!" And to blind the well-intentioned to their evil de

signs, he spread a report in Rome on the following day, that a man from Leghorn had unfolded a revolutionary tricolour, and that the people were ready to tear him to pieces, with cries of, "Down with those colours; white and yellow for us; woe to them that touch them! Long live Pius IX.”

Casemirsky, enraged against Aser, was not satisfied with the verbal defiance on the green; but he sent him a note at the theatre, challenging him to a meeting at noon on the following day, among the old ruins behind Santo Stephano. Aser had, for seconds, a friend from Palermo and another from Leghorn. Casemirsky was accompanied by a Hungarian and a Persian. They left their carriages on the green of the Navicella, and chose a level space at the foot of Monte Celio, where the seconds loaded the pistols, and the combatants made their preparations. But Polissena, who had received intimation of the duel, sent in great haste two Romagnuoli, to beseech them not to throw away their lives at a moment of such vital importance to their country; to reserve their ardour and daring for their enemies, and for the deliverance of Italy from its chains, since for that alone both had abandoned their native soil and devoted themselves to its cause; but let them remember their oaths, and consider, which ever should fall, would be one champion the less in the ranks of the brave.

Aser coolly answered: "I have already devoted my life to Italy; tell the generous lady who sent you, that I forgive Casemirsky, notwithstanding his insult and defiance; but my blood is of some account, and if he be resolved to fight, and I fall, it shall call down vengeance upon the enemy who uselessly sheds it on the Roman soil, instead of leaving it to flow on the plains of the Adige or the Po."

Casemirsky grew ferocious. ""Tis fear that makes you thus play the hero. Fight, coward, and die!" and approaching Aser, he wished to fight breast to breast; but the seconds interposed: "No," said they, "it shall be according to our rules of duelling, at five paces."

So saying, they bandaged the eyes of both. The first shot fell to the lot of Casemirsky. He fired, and the ball grazed Aser's temple, carrying away a lock of his hair. Then, instead of pointing his pistol at his adversary, Aser raised his arm and fired in the air, with a cry of "Viva l'Italia." (To be continued.)

THE CONVENT ROSES.

BY CHARLOTTE LAW

(Authoress of "The Convert's First Communion").
CHAPTER V.

FAR different were the scenes in which Isabel moved. The efforts Ernest made to turn her from the path of vanity and pleasure, were crowned with success. And in return she loved him with all the warmth and impetuosity of her nature. At his suggestion, the haunts of vanity and frivolity were abandoned; her mind was turned with all its force to do good. Schools were taught and supported; the sick were visited, and the poor assisted. He became the good genius, the guiding star of Isabel's life; alas, that life became bound up in him. He loved the fair girl, but it was with a love tempered by religion. In God and for God, but not so with Isabel. Unconsciously she made him her idol: good was done because he, too, did it; and pleasure was abandoned because he disliked it. Poor Isabel, a shadow was on her she saw not the blind idolatry she was guilty of-she knew not the source of the change her thoughts and feelings had undergone. But so it was, and Ernest stood between her and the clear light of heaven, where he had hoped to place her. They were betrothed, and a distant day was settled for the marriage. Isabel was sitting alone in her boudoir one morning, when Ernest was announced. She

hastily rose to meet him, and marked with surprise the agitation visible in his countenance.

"Ernest, dear, dear Ernest, are you ill? what is the matter? why do you look so? Oh, tell me, what is it?"

Taking her hand in his, he gently placed her on a couch, and sat down by her. "Isabel," said he, with a calm, grave air, "I have sad news for you. I am obliged to leave hear, and to go to Sicily for some months. I have done all I could to avert this, but I am now obliged to go. What shall I do without you, dear one?"

She did not answer him the colour left her cheek and lip, and she trembled with emotion. Ernest went on in a clear sad tone, explaining all to her; soothing her wild regrets, calming her impetuous bursts of grief.

"Patience, dear Isabel; it is God's will, and I must obey. Fear not, love, I shall soon return, and then we shall only be the happier for this short separation."

No, no," she cried, wildly; "I shall never see you again. You are leaving me for ever."

"Nay, not so," he said, gently; "only for a few short months. I shall soon return, and I have much that I wish you to do for me during my absence."

"When do you go?" she asked, in a tone of quiet despair.

"I fear, my Isabel, this must be our farewell meeting-my vessel sails to-morrow."

"To-morrow?" she repeated, vacantly;

-must I lose you to-morrow ?”

"to-morrow

"Yes; and I am sure you will prove yourself the same highminded Isabel you have ever been, bravely bearing misfortune and trouble when it comes, and murmuring not."

She answered him with a torrent of grief."Oh, Ernest," said she, "when you are gone, what is there left to love and guide me who will teach me right? who will guide me as you have done? who will train my heart to higher ends ?" "Stop, Isabel; Heaven God will do these things for you. Trust only in Him- His love alone never faileth. And now, dearest, cheer up. I have much to say to you. I wish you to attend to my schools, to visit my poor, and to be my treasurer." Isabel dried her eyes, and looked up to him; and then he went on, There are these pictures I wish to be copied, and these songs perfectly learnt and my flowers, you will take care of them, Isabel, for my sake." She answered him more gently, and he continued long talking to her. Hours passed on, and at last Ernest rose and said, Now, my own Isabel, I must leave you-remember, only three months." She rose; there was one long sorrowful embrace-one last farewell look, and he was gone. Then, indeed, Isabel felt alone; a torrent of grief and tears followed his departurehe was gone. His footsteps still lingered in her ear-his voice still echoed there--her hand still felt the pressure of his -yet he was gone. Alas, poor girl, thou didst not see it was thy Father's hand that took thy idol from thee.

When the first shock of grief had passed away, Isabel aroused herself, and applied diligently to the tasks imposed upon her by Ernest. And as her life before had been one of joy in his presence, it now became one of longing for his return. And yet had you told Isabel that she was daily and hourly breaking that commandment, that tells us to love "God above all things," she would not have believed it. Often in this world are our affections so entirely and so wholly fixed upon the creature, that we neglect the great Creator; and while by some wise dispensation, the idol is removed, how often do we murmur and rebel against the

decree. Ernest frequently wrote to Isabel cheering letters that spoke confidently of his return, and of his wish to see her again. How those letters were treasured-how eagerly devoured; and what long answers they called forth. And time passed on, and the summer was drawing to its close; and Ernest in his last, spoke of returning directly home; his vessel was to sail shortly, and all promised well for a safe voyage. Ah, Isabel, thy angel stood by thy side, and read thy heart, even as thou didst read the letter; he saw thy error, and thy blindness, and folding his pure wings, wept, that God alone reigned not there. And then the decree of the Most High went forth, a sentence that for a while would agonize thee with grief, but which in the end would bring thee to the fount of grace and mercy.

The week came which was to bring Ernest home, and Isabel's preparations were nearly completed. The pictures were hung up in their frames, the songs were perfectly sung, the schools were in order, and she had a thousand things to tell him, and much to surprise him with. The day drew near, and she had gathered his favourite flowers to ornament the rooms; and as each moment flew, her heart beat faster at the prospect of again seeing him, whom she loved dearer than her life. It is well that mortal eyes see not the future; it is well that clouds o'erhang the days to come. The long looked-for day came, but no Ernest. Poor Isabel, she could not think, and she waited for the next day, with a heart cold, and fluttering with a half-defined dread. The morrow came, and was drawing to its dreary close, when a letter came for Isabel. To tear open the envelop and master its contents, was the work of a moment :

"Dear madam,-We are sorry to inform you, that the ship Hecla, foundered during a tempest, on the 19th of this month. Only two of the crew were saved, all else on board perished. The enclosed packet was given by Mr. Seval to one of the sailors, to deliver to you if he ever reached the shore. I having received it from the sailor, who has since died from the exposure of the cold and wet, now forward it to you. I remain, madam, your humble servant,

"JOHN BOWDEN, owner of the Hecla." Isabel read the letter through; her faculties all confused, all bewildered. A stupor seized her, and she sat motionless. A darkness, a mist came over her, and then the idea, "He is gone." She rose, and crushing the note in her hand, she murmured, "He is dead, and now I am all alone. I will go to Mother Lucia." She was as pale as marble, and put on her bonnet and mantle quite calmly, only shuddering as though very cold. Calmly she gave her directions; she felt lost, bewildered, and in less than two hours her carriage stopped at the convent door. Mother Lucia's words rang in her car, "When sorrow comes, fly to me;" and she obeyed the voice. Alighting from the carriage, she entered again the well-known door, and asking for Mother Lucia, was shown into the reception-room. Is it thus thou returneth to thy long-forgotten home, thou brilliant red rose; thy bright head bowed-thy leaves steeped in the dew of sorrow? Is it thus with thy bright dreams faded-thy glowing hopes gone? Is it thus that thou returneth, with thy proud beauty crushed, and thy high spirit broken? Ah, come, poor mourner, here to the haven of rest, come to the house of love and prayer. Come, pour out thy tale of grief and sorrow, of repentance and despair, to the compassionate ear of one of God's own. Come, the world is a cold, heartless home; rest thee now-thou art once more safe.

CHAPTER VII. "Fiat voluntas tua."

It is evening, and the convent sisters have assembled in the community-room for their hour of recreation. Innocent mirth sits on every face, and the spirit of fun and enjoyment is evidently abroad. They are laughing, as the mistress of

the novices tells how the young postulant Sister Agues has, for the first time in her life, been trying to hold a broom in her hand. Poor Sister Agnes stood blushing, evidently considering her want of experience in the sweeping line a great fault.

Ah, now, dear Mother Frances, pray do not be too hard upon her, for I have sundry recollections of a certain dear sister, who could not at first dust the refectory without gloves," cried Sister Angela.

"Ah, my dear sisters," said the reverend mother, "I am afraid you will never discover who has been the most awkward; but, Sister Angela, how is that interesting young hospital patient of yours?"

Ob, better to-day, dear mother; but she wants a rosary, -may I take her one?"

"Yes," replied her mother, "if Sister Therese will give

you one.

"Dear Sister Therese, I want to beg a rosary; may I have another, I have only had six this week?"

"Six," cried the rev. mother, holding up her hands in amazement, "why you will ruin us, dear sister, at this rate." "Oh, dear mother, cried one of the young novices, coaxingly, “I wish you would tell us a secret ?”

"Curiosity, Sister Magdalen, is no great virtue." "Ah, but dear mother, it is not curiosity that makes me ask you this, but I only want to know."

"Rather a logical answer," said the superioress, laughing, "but what is it?"

Why, when will Sister Marie's profession take place ?" "I do not know yet the precise time, but very soon, I hope."

Come here, Sister Marie," and the novice approached her superior. "Are you getting rather impatient at this long delay of your profession, my child?" said the rev. mother. 'Ah, no, dear inother, I am longing for it, but willing to wait."

A knock at the door interrupted the conversation. 'Benedicamus Domino," said the superior, and a lay sister entered, and said, "Mother Lucia is wanted in the reception-room immediately."

Can I go, dear mother?" said she, rising.

"Yes, dear sister;" and with an obeisance to the Superioress, Mother Lucia left the room. Quickly walking through the long cloisters, she reached the reception-room, little dreaming the surprise that there awaited her. She opened the door, and perceived a lady kneeling before the large crucifix at one end of the room. So quietly had she entered, that the visitor had not heard her approach, and the sister stood for a moment still with surprise, noting the strange picture before her. The lady's dress was of the richest satin, and her velvet mantle, carelessly thrown round her, revealed the white jewelled arm, and the low, sumptuously laced bodice. The elegant bonnet, half fallen from her head, exposed the inasses of long dark curls which fell around her shoulders. The lady knelt, her face buried in her hands, and so still, so silent, that Mother Lucia felt half afraid. Going gently up to her, she asked "if she had wished to see her."

At the sound of that familiar voice, Isabel, for it was no other, arose, and throwing herself at the sister's feet, cried, "Oh, take me home."

It was some moments before Mother Lucia could recognise in that pale, sorrow-stricken face, her once brilliant pupil.

66

"Take me home," cried the sorrowing girl. "Oh, mother, you told me when sorrow came, to fly to you, and I am here."

Taking her in her arms, the sister tried to soothe and quiet her; but no, the grief, so long controlled, now burst forth with redoubled violence. In a quivering, passionate tone, she told Mother Lucia all her sad tale, and then cried, “Now I am come here to die; I cannot live; earth has lost its light

and beauty; all is colder than the grave, dark, and so dreary. Oh, close my eyes, and let me die, for the sun, and flowers, and birds are mockeries of my misery. He is dead and cold, at the bottom of the raging sea. Could I have only seen him once more, have only wept over his grave, I would have been content. Oh, mother, let me die." And so pale, so still, and so lifeless she lay in the sister's arms, that it seemed as though life had fled. Ringing the bell hastily, Mother Lucia summoned Sister Marie to her assistance, and it was then the Convent Roses met again. They laid Isabel upon the couch, and tried every means to restore her, but in vain; and for some hours they feared she would breathe her last. Numerous were the prayers offered for her by the nuns, and throughout the convent, for all loved, and now pitied her. Slowly she recovered, but the pious words of the good sisters fell on cold ears. She gave herself up to melancholy, and refused to be comforted. No prayer of resignation escaped her lips. "My all is gone, and I care not to live," was all she said. One evening she wandered into the garden; the moon was shining brightly, and the air was laden with the perfume of flowers. Unconsciously she traced her steps to the little arbour, where, years ago, she had prayed with Mother Lucia. She entered, and seating herself, with her head on her hand, thought of all her wild grief and wilful despair. A shadow flitted near her, and, looking up, she saw Mother ILucia watching her. Entering the arbour, the nun sat by her side, and gently taking her hand, asked her, "What were her thoughts?" And leading her on, that good mother soon knew the utter and wilful state of despair poor Isabel was in. She talked gently and kindly, first of Ernest and his holy life, and of her assurances of his heavenly bliss; for Ernest was well known to her. Then she softened Isabel's grief-hardened heart by representing Ernest's grief, were he alive, at her want of resignation. Then to heavenly motives the good nun went; she led Isabel up Mount Calvary. In low and solemn accents she pictured that bleeding figure, that thorn-crowned head, that heavy cross, and she told how, in the midst of all, Jesus had bowed his head, and said, "Thy will be done." She told of our holy mother's grief and suffering; she told of Magdalen's ardent love; and as words from the mouth of a ininistering angel were those of the nun to the mourner by her side. And she spoke of the mystic love of Jesus; how he lived and died for us; how he gave us all things. And Can you refuse him the only thing he has asked of you? Can you resist the loving hand so tenderly held out to you? 'Come to me, all ye that labour and are heavy burdened.' Long, long, ere Mother Lucia ceased, had Isabel knelt and bowed her head unto the earth, and with streaming eyes had she repeated the nuns' "Fiat voluntas tua." Long she knelt, and the evening dews fell thickly around, ere the sister and the child returned to the convent. Straight to the knee of the holy priest the penitent went; there her blind love, her stubborn despair, her neglect of God, and her rebellion at his will, were all poured forth. The whole sad tale was told; and as the holy words of absolution fell over her, a sweet peace and calm, that she had long been a stranger to, took possession of her heart. And many were the prayers and tears she shed in sorrow for her sins, and many were the thanks she poured at the feet of "Him who doeth all things well."

CHAPTER VIII. AND LAST.

Years flew over her head, but Isabel never returned to the world again. To the God who had poured His benefits on her, she dedicated the remainder of her life. And the "Convent Roses" bloomed again in their happy home, and the fame of their sanctity became known far and wide, and many were the prayers breathed for them by the sick and the poor, to whom they were as ministering angels. And now the "Convent Roses" sleep side by side, and the flowers spring

over their graves; and on the wooden cross that marks the spot where Isabel sleeps, is inscribed, "They whom God loveth he chastiseth."

THE APOCALYPSE.

EXPOUNDED BY BISHOP BOSSUET, THE "EAGLE OF
MEAUX."

(Translated from the French for the Lamp, by
JOSEPH KERR., Esq.)

(Continued from p. 43.)

4. THE various charms of this divine book, although they are still only seen in the general, and as it were in confusion, nevertheless, take the heart captive. We feel impatient to penetrate still farther into the secret of a book, the very exterior and shell of which, if we may so speak, sheds such light and consolation upon the soul.

There are two modes of explaining the Apocalypse; the one being the general and the easier mode, of which Saint Augustin has laid the foundatious, and traced the plan as it were in several parts of his works, but chiefly in his book intituled "The City of God." This explanation consists in considering two cities, or towns, or empires commingled bodily, but separated spiritually. One is the empire of Babylon, which signifies confusion and trouble; the other is that of Jerusalem, which signifies peace: one is the world, and the other is the Church, considered in her highest aspect; that is to say, in her saints and the elect. The reign of Satan and that of Jesus Christ; in the former is the reign of impiety and pride, and in the latter is the abode of truth and religion in the one is joy which will soon change into everlasting grief; in the other is suffering, which will shortly produce eternal happiness. In the one is a spiritual idolatry,in it the passions are adored, pleasure is made a god, and riches are worshipped as idols; in the other all idols are demolished, and not only those to which blind paganism offered incense, but likewise those to which sensual men erect a temple and an altar in their heart, whereon they sacritice themselves as victims. In the one is seen a continual triumph, and in the other continual persecution; for those idolators, who make the senses reign supreme over reason, continually harass the worshippers in the spirit; they endeavour to compel them to join in their practices; they establish maxims which they wish to make universal laws: in one word, the world is a tyrant; it cannot tolerate those who walk not in its ways, and ceases not to persecute them in a thousand ways. Here, then, is needed the exercise of the faith and patience of the saints, who are ever upon the anvil and underneath the hammer, that they may be conformed to the model of Jesus Christ crucified. What have they not to suffer from the reign of impiety and the world? For this reason it is that God, in order to console them, shows them the nothingness of it: He shows them the errors of the world; its corruption; its torments, under the appearance of a short-lived pleasure; its beauty, that lasts but for a day, and its pomp, which vanishes like a dream; and in the end, its dreadful fall and horrible ruin. This is, as it were, an Abridgment of the Apocalypse. It is for the faithful to open their eyes, and to consider the end of the wicked, and their unhappy reign; it is for them to wait with patience, and despise its deceitful show; to adore not the beast-that is to say, to adore not the world in its grandcurs, lest they should share one day in its torments; to hold their heart and their hands pure from all this spiritual idolatry, which makes the soul a slave of the flesh; and, in fine, to get utterly rid of its slightest taint; for it is the mark of the beast St. John so earnestly warns us to avoid, and which he declares to be the essence of idolatry.

This mark of the beast is found wherever the world reigns; thus we find it even in the Church, because we find it in those worldlings who enter her society and mingle with her holy people; we find, I say, in those worldings, whoever they

may be, and whatever place they may occupy, the mark of the beast, when we find in them pride and corruption. It is necessary, then, continually to fly away from this mystical Babylon. We make our escape from her by means of holy desires, and of practices contrary to those of the world until the hour of the last and inevitable separation arrives, when we shall depart from her for ever, and be eternally delivered from even the slightest stain of her corruption.

So far as this explanation of the Apocalypse is useful, it is so far easy. Wherever we find the world vanquished, or Jesus Christ victorious, we find a useful meaning in this prophecy; and we can even feel confident, according to this rule of St. Augustin, that to give such an interpretation as this to the revelation was the intention of the Holy Ghost, because He saw from all eternity all the meanings which would be applied to His inspired words, and has always approved of those interpretations which are good, and are calculated to edify the children of God.

5. But if our apostle had only regarded this meaning in his Apocalypse, it would not suffice to give him a place amongst the prophets. He has merited this title by the knowledge which was given to him of fature events, and especially of that which was about to happen to the Church and to the Roman Empire, immediately after this wonderful revelation had been communicated to him by the ministry of an angel; and hence it is that we find the angel declaring that the time is at hand, and that he is about to reveal what will shortly happen; which expression is likewise, in a very distinct manner, at the end of the prophecy.

I cannot, therefore, consent to the reasoning of those who postpone the accomplishment of the prophecy till the end of the world; for the struggles of the Church, and what was about to happen to the Jews as well as to the Gentiles, in punishment of their contempt of the Gospel, the fall of idolatry and the conversion of the world, and finally the destiny of Rome and its empire, were objects too great and altogether too near at hand to be concealed from the prophet of the new covenant; otherwise, contrary to the custom of all the preceding prophets, he would have been carried in vision to the time of the last days of the world, without noticing the great events which were shortly to happen in the world, although the infant church stood so much in need of instruction with regard to them.

6. Nor can we doubt that the Church, during her persecu tion, was attentive to the predictions of this divine book respecting her sufferings. For a proof of this, we need only mention Saint Denys of Alexandria. Eusebius quotes one of his letters, from which it appears that he regarded the Apocalypse as a book full of divine secrets, wherein God had imparted a wonderful but very hidden knowledge of what happened every day, in particular кað гкaçov (Kath' ekaston).

Whilst he admitted that the meaning of this divine book was incomprehensible to an intellect such as his, he, nevertheless, desisted not in his efforts to unravel its mystery; and a letter to Hermammon from which the same Eusebius has given us a choice extract, shows us that he applied to the time of the Emperor Valerian, the three years and a half of persecution foretold in the 13th chapter of the Apocalypse. Another precious extract from the same letter, inserted by Eusebius in his history, justifies the supposition that this saint represents to us the Emperor Gallienus as resuscitating himself, and thus adapting himself to the description which is given of the beast, which is the seventh and the eighth at

the same tine.

It is true that he avows at the same time that there is nothing very clear in the conjectures which he makes as to the meaning of the Apocalypse. Nor do I see why we should rest satisfied with them; and I produce this passage merely to show, that it was the custom of the Church to refer to the Apocalypse, and endeavour to discover therein some revelation as to what was passing in the world with regard to the