Chapter IV: “a Flock of Sheep That Leisurely Pass By.” (2)

“I _feel_ it,” added he warmly. “Correggio may repeat himself, but he cannot be copied, at least in two pictures, his _Giorno_ and his _Notte_. The dominating, character of Correggio’s paintings in oil, that something which proclaims him on the instant, is the coloring, penetrating and brilliant as enamelling—of such a kind that the lights assume an indefinable splendor, the shadows have a depth and transparency which no painter, and much less a copyist, ever produced, save Correggio. There”—and he arose and drew the curtain over the window, until the room was nearly dark—“you need no light to see that picture; it has its own light in the divinity which is effulgent from the face of the Infant. Tell me the copyist who effected this, and I will venerate him as Correggio’s other self.”

A word of explanation is necessary here. The _Notte_ is a picture representing the Nativity. The Child is in the arms of the kneeling Mother. “The radiant Infant, and the Mother who holds him, are lost in the splendor which has guided the distant shepherds. A maiden on one side, and a beautiful youth on the other, who serves as a contrast to an old shepherd, receive the full light, which seems to dazzle their eyes; while angels hovering above appear in a softened radiance. A little farther back Joseph is employed with his ass, and in the background are more shepherds with their flocks. Morning breaks in the horizon. An ethereal light breaks through the whole picture, and leaves only so much of the outline and substance of the forms apparent as is necessary to enable the eye to distinguish objects.” This picture is at present in the gallery of Dresden, and the foregoing is the description of it given by Kugler. The same writer adds in a note: “Smaller representations of this subject, with similar motives and treated in the same manner as the Dresden picture, exist in various places. An excellent little picture of the kind is in the Berlin museum, No. 223, and is there ascribed to the school of Correggio.” That Correggio himself reproduced smaller representations of this scene, preserving only the three prominent figures of the Infant, the Mother, and St. Joseph, is notorious. It was a favorite subject of the great master’s, as is evident in the very counterpart of the _Notte_, because of its wonderful light—St. Jerome, or _Giorno_—“Day.” Coindet, in his _Histoire de la Peinture en Italie_, speaking of the _Notte_, says that, on account of the celestial light which emanates from the divine Child, the picture “has been called ‘Night,’ just as the St. Jerome is often called ‘Day,’ by the Italians, who thus express the striking light of that picture. Is it necessary to say that that light is as harmonious as it is brilliant, and that the celebrity of those two pictures, ‘Night’ and ‘Day,’ is due above all to the perfection of the chiaroscuro?”

The picture which the old man was restoring is one of the “smaller representations” spoken of by Kugler. It required no restoration as far as the coloring was concerned. That was deep and brilliant as ever. Not the lights but the shadows needed retouching, and the old man showed himself a good artist, as well as a reverent admirer, when he said he would not touch the face of the Child. The wonderful durability of the coloring, which every one knows to be one of the grand characteristics of Correggio’s productions, is admirable in the little picture. M. Coindet says that frequent analyses of some of Correggio’s paintings, with the view of discovering the secret of this durability, have produced results more curious than useful. Upon the chalk, he says, the artist appeared to have laid a surface of prepared oil, which then received a thick mixture of colors, in which the ingredients were two-thirds of oil and one of varnish; that the colors seemed to have been very choice, and particularly purified from all kinds of salts, which, in process of time, eat and destroy the picture; and that the before-mentioned use of prepared oil must have greatly contributed to this purification by absorbing the saline particles. It is, moreover, commonly believed that Correggio adopted the method of heating his pictures either in the sun or at the fire, in order that the colors might become, as it were, _interfused_, and equalized in such a way as to produce the effect of having been poured rather than laid on. Of that lucid appearance which, though so beautiful, does not reflect objects, and of the solidity of the surface, equal to the Greek pictures, Lomazzo says that it must have been obtained by some strong varnish unknown to the Flemish painters themselves, who prepared it of equal clearness and liveliness, but not of equal strength. The history of the little picture in question is not known to any precision. It was brought to Rome from Madrid by the late Cardinal Barili, who received it as a present from a Spanish nobleman while he was nuncio to the court of Madrid. After the death of the cardinal it was exposed for sale with many other pictures, mostly of indifferent merit. The probabilities are that it would have fallen into the hands of some son of Jewry, and disappeared, perhaps for ever, into a dark and dingy lumberroom of the Ghetto. A better fate was in store for the gem. The _père_ saw it, admired it, purchased it, and rested not until he had placed it in the hands of the venerable artist in the quaint old studio, of whom no better eulogium can be pronounced than that implied by the members of the Academy of St. Luke, who, having been requested by Prince Borghese to hold a consultation on the restoration of Raphael’s “Deposition,” unanimously chose the old man to do it. He has since been entrusted with the delicate and important commission of restoring the principal pictures in the gallery of the Vatican. That he did justice to the little _Notte_ requires no proof. He possesses the necessary requisites for such a task—the skill of an artist, the love of an artist, and the humility of an artist. The picture is now in New York City, and, as an old painter once said laconically, in pronouncing his opinion on a painting, “_ex ipsa loquitur_”—it speaks of itself. But I have left the old man standing outside the parenthesis, palette in hand, and a smile irradiating his countenance which would be the instant destruction of legions of blue fits. He saw me look inquiringly at the prayerful St. Jerome, and divined my desire of knowing something, about it.

“Painted by Timoteo Vite,” said he, “and I’m to copy it for the good _père_ and send it off to America. Going to be in good company, too!” And he pointed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the lightsome “Night.”

Then I turned towards the “Dispute of the Hermits.”

“That was an effort of mine when I was eighteen. I never thought it would go to the New World when I worked at it.”

Laying down the palette, he asked me if I wished to walk around the house. I was only too glad of the invitation. As we passed out of the door he pointed towards the ladder in the corner, and said laughingly:

“Jacob’s ladder when it rains; only there are no angels ascending and descending. My room is above—an old man’s contrivance.”

As we walked up on the roof, he narrated with the complacency of a little boy how he built the house himself; how he was somewhat discouraged in digging the foundation when the folks laughed at him; how he built the outside wall first, to hide himself from the observation of the passers-by, and after that he got along finely. At this juncture I stopped to examine a large cage on the roof. It contained several white mice.

“They are pleasant little fellows, especially when the moon shines,” said my host, and, stooping down, he opened the little door, whereat several of the little creatures ran out into his hand.

Replacing them with some difficulty—for they seemed reluctant to be shut up again—we went down the stairway and over to the part of the building opposite the studio. As we passed the door I looked in again at the grim skeleton, and then turned away quickly. But he laid his hand gently on my shoulder, and said:

“You young people don’t like the sight of skeletons, because they tell an unpleasant truth very plainly. I call that skeleton the Naked Truth; it’s a splendid antidote against a disease called pride.”

As we passed the chicken-coop he had to caress a few favorite bantlings. Then came an old storeroom, then a carpenter-shop, then a blacksmith-shop, where he told me he did all his own carpentering and smithing; then a hole in the wall containing a wheelbarrow, pickaxes, and spades, with which he amused himself in the evening, as, indeed, the lovely little garden attested. The gold-fish in the cistern seemed to be his especial favorites. When he dipped his hand in the water they all flocked around and nibbled it vigorously. Nor did they evince the slightest disinclination to be caught. I remarked that the cistern was large enough to bathe in.

“Precisely,” he answered; “I made it for that purpose—the fish were a second thought. I learned to swim in there. It is very pleasant on a warm evening.”

I asked him how long he labored in building up his little home.

“Seven years, like Jacob; only the patriarch had the advantage of me there, too—he got a Rachel in the end, and I have only—” He paused and looked about him. The friendly dog and cat had appeared on the scene, a hen began to cackle boisterously, which left no doubt in the minds of the neighbors that the great feat of laying an egg had just been achieved. The little shadow which saddened his face for a moment passed away in an instant, and he completed the sentence—“this live-stock.”

“And your art,” I subjoined.

“And my art,” he admitted pleasantly. “Say,” he added, as he saw me moving towards the steps which led down to the garden door, “do you think the good _père_ would like to sell that picture?”

I thought not—I was sure he would not; and, with a promise to come and see him often, I left him. I have gone to the old studio repeatedly since, and each visit has been a new confirmation of my first impression—that he was the happiest old artist in the Eternal City.

LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.

(FROM THE FRENCH.)

JUNE 13.

What a lovely day, my sister! Everything is singing, around and within me; my mother is making rapid progress in her convalescence. Baby has five double teeth, and Lucy is radiant; Adrien, Gertrude, and Hélène left us this morning to be present at the marriage of which I have already told you; René and his brothers are gone out; Berthe and all the darlings in the country; Lucy is going out, and your Georgina is by the side of the reclining-chair. Poor mother! how sweet it is to watch her revive. Johanna’s Bengalese birds, brought hither to enliven our dear invalid, are hopping about gaily in their gilded cage; my beautiful exotics are flowering in the _jardinière_; everything is living, animated, radiant. My mother can now converse; all her wishes are now for her complete recovery, that the _two sisters_ may meet. But first we shall fulfil our vow, and go to tread the holy mountain upon which the Blessed Virgin Mary placed her heavenly foot, and hang our _ex voto_ in the beloved sanctuary. To revisit La Salette without you, my Kate, will be to me both sweet and bitter.

Hélène has no secrets from me; she permits me to read her journal—pious effusions of a soul belonging wholly to God. If I did not fear to be indiscreet, I would transcribe for you these pages, all palpitating with divine love.

Yesterday I took all the small population to the fair. The displays in the open air, under gigantic chestnut-trees, made them wild with delight, but Aunt Georgina willingly shut her eyes and ears. In the evening there is so much noise and animation, it rather reminds one of _Vanity Fair_. How sweet is solitude when one returns! Kate, as time goes on, the more my happiness increases in solidity and depth. René appears to me still more attractive, more gentle, good, and handsome than ever. I fear the future, since happiness is an exception.

Margaret tells me to-day of her arrival in Paris; you will see her before I do. “I can but bless God,” she writes, “for having mingled wormwood with the honey of my golden cup; I should have loved earth too well.” Poor Margaret! I persist in my opinion that she is mistaken, and that her imagination deceives her. Can you imagine what a whole life would be without sunshine and without love?

Mme. de T—— has long been insisting that I should consent to set out with René, but I should not forgive myself if I were to leave her side, feeling that I am necessary to her. It fatigues her to speak, and I understand her look. How good is God to have given me another mother! Lucy is going to spend two months with hers. Her communicative gaiety, her cheerful spirit, and her lively chatter make her valuable to us, not to speak of her excellent qualities. To amuse our beloved invalid we got up a little drama yesterday, and some _tableaux vivants_. It was superb.

Here I have been interrupted to give my mother some music. I played her the _Symphony in La_.

And hereupon, dear Kate, I make you my best curtsy, and hasten away to René.

JUNE 16.

Thanks to “this ingenious art of painting speech and speaking to the eye,” we already know that Hélène has apparently enjoyed herself very much on her last appearance in the world. Adrien and Gertrude have despatched quite a volume to my mother. Gertrude will carefully keep the white and vapory toilette of her daughter, who had, she says, a charming expression, like that of an exiled angel, in those drawing-rooms where she was the admired of every eye. They announced their return for the 18th. It seems to us all as if they had been absent for months. Separations, departures—these are the real crosses of life.

Read the _Beatitudes_, by Mgr. Landriot. It is very fine, this eloquent commentary on the magnificent words of our Saviour. The _beati qui lugent_ too often finds its application.

The last four days I have been to Hélène’s paralytic. The poor woman was quite confused at my eagerness, while I was so happy to wait upon her that I would willingly have done so on my knees. My charities will not be rewarded in heaven; I have too much sense of pleasure in them, too much enjoyment. God is present to me in the poor. “May God bless you, my ladies!” This is the most delightful adieu I have ever heard.

René, to whom I have given a detailed account of my morning, says that he should be curious to see me doing the house-work for my good old woman. I have probably done it very badly, but then I shall soon become used to it. Benoni keeps his sweetest smiles for me, and I am teaching him your name. A thought of Mgr. Dupanloup often comes into my mind: “The borders of the Ganges, which send us Oriental pearls, have not given us simplicity; I have found it in the heart of a child.” Picciola is rich in it—in this sweet and charming simplicity which is the sister of innocence. “Would you not consent to give her to me?” I said yesterday to Berthe. This morning the pretty dove came leaping into my room, exclaiming, “Now I have two mammas! Good-morning, mamma!”

Adieu for the present, my sweet one.

20.

Dearest, we set off to-morrow. My mother declares that she will not be completely cured except at La Salette. Hélène is enthusiastic about it. What a festival! What joy!

I am pressed for time. We are packing up. All is commotion; every one coming and going; everybody calling everybody else. Picciola runs from room to room with outstretched hands, offering her services. I send you a kiss. Unite yourself to us. René will write to you when we are in the train; an impossibility to me. I shall pray for Ireland.

LA SALETTE, June 20.

Why cannot we die here, dear Kate? It is truly the vestibule of heaven. I have no need to describe to you the landscape, the chapel, my emotion on finding myself again in the same place where we had prayed together so much. My mother is making wonderful progress, and would fain not set out again any more. René, to whom I had described it all, assures me that the reality surpasses my poetic pictures. How sweet and good a thing it is to pray together, and to be at the very well-spring of graces! Hélène is overflowing with joy. Adrien and Gertrude weep no more.… And we are soon to see and embrace you again, to spend a month near to you. I think we shall be in Paris on the 12th of July. Dearest Kate, I regret you here! Oh! the inconstancy of my poor heart, so happy to give up to God the better part of itself, and then desiring to take it back again. The gifts of the Lord alone are without repentance. O sweet, delightful, perfect friend! nothing can separate our souls, always fraternally united in the adorable Heart which gave itself for us.

La Salette! La Salette! To say to one’s self that here, where we tread, Mary has passed; that her voice, more melodious than all the harps of Eden, has been heard upon these heights; that this sky has beheld her tears, her propitiatory and beloved tears, mysterious pearls which should be gathered up by a seraph; to pray here, where the Mother of the Saviour has herself taught prayer; oh! what felicity: _Ecce quam bonum et quam jucundum habitare fratres in unum!_ Beloved, I have prayed for you, and soon now I shall see you. “Dear Georgina,” my mother said to me yesterday, “may God reward you for the sacrifice you have made for me!” Between this super-excellent mother, René, Hélène, and myself there passes a continual interchange of thoughts and feelings, and I could even say amongst us all.

Yours now and always, my sister.

* * * * *

AUGUST 12, 1867.

What, already? so soon? and we must resume our correspondence! Again I have quitted you, my Kate, my visible angel guardian … Hélène is also gone. The heavenly Spouse has placed in his own garden this delicate and charming flower, for which this world had no dew that was pure enough. “Let us be saints,” she writes to me; “it is only at this price that we may purchase heaven.” And I answer her: “It is also only at this price that this life is endurable; that the departures, the separations, the pain of absence, too sensible an image of death, can be courageously accepted.” Dear Kate, where shall we find each other now? May God protect you! Brittany enchants me. I walk along the beach; make people tell me all the legends of the country; hunt with René; but most often slip away into the little village church, or into the chapel of the château. We have an organ, and consequently superb festivals. Our almoner is a college friend of my brother’s; he has been kind enough to undertake Arthur’s education for a time, and we are all very glad of this arrangement; this good _abbé_ is really a learned man; the little girls are profiting largely by his stores of information, and we are busy with collections, botany, maps, etc. This _savant_ is moreover a traveller: he is lately returned from the new world! And hence we have stories of most exciting interest. My Picciola dreams about them. In short, the new-comer has already turned all the heads of the infantine world, and our Breton life will be at the very least as animated and joyous as our life at Orleans.

I am expecting Margaret, who says that she is coming to visit me, without naming the day. Our habitation is beautiful, antique, vast; with halls like those described by Sir Walter Scott. It is surrounded by immense woods, and brightened by a profusion of flowers. There too is the sea, blue and profound, image of life, with its waves and hidden rocks. I never look at it without an inexpressible longing to pass over it to behold again my Ireland. Kate, Kate, what a charm do not memories possess!

René is writing to you. I have not described to you my rooms, so exquisitely ornamented according to my own taste. Let us praise God, my sister!

AUGUST 13.

An unexpected visit; some Irish friends, the W——s. “We come to reconcile ourselves,” said Lady Helen gracefully to me. My mother-in-law gave them a most cordial reception, and they remained with us two days. You may imagine how happy I was. What details we had to communicate! Marie de S—— is at rest in God; no one had written to tell me. Beautiful and holy soul, remember us on high! The old men, almost centenarians, whom we left in our dear native place, are living yet, and death has stricken down another victim, in the brightness of youth and future prospects, George D——, only six days older than I am, and who died far from his home. He was brought back by his mourning family to the vault at V——, where his brother already reposed. He died a really holy death, … that is a consolation. They say that his father is distracted with grief. Dear Isa, whose aspirations tended towards the cloister, is giving up her happiness to remain in the world, there to pray, suffer, and comfort her family in their sorrows. Gerty is grown even prettier than she was—a lily. How much I have been questioned about my Kate!

A letter to-day from Lizzy who lovingly reminds me of my promise. It will be for next spring, I think. I took our guests to the village, the presbytery, the church, the asylum, and the hospital; all of which are either founded or supported by the liberality of Mme. de T——. A carriage!…

It was Margaret, dear Kate; not my Margaret of former times, warmhearted and open, talkative and gay, but Margaret pale, suffering, and yet finding again a spark of joy as she pressed me in her arms. I am going to devote myself entirely to her; she must be cured, and if possible undeceived. Aid me with your prayers!

AUGUST 25.

This dear festival of St. Louis makes me want to write to you. It is five o’clock; René is sleeping soundly; I have slipped on a dressing-gown, and now, after a prayer, I come to you, my beloved Kate, my sister by nature and affection. A balmy breeze reaches me through the half-open window, the aërial concerts are beginning, the universal prayer ascends to God. My soul is glad, like nature. After many hesitations, much feeling my way, and on René’s advice, I addressed myself to Lord William himself.… It was a very delicate matter, and my timidity was up in arms; but Margaret’s life was in question. How I set about it I do not in the least know; my good angel was with me. The excellent lord thanked me almost with tears; the melancholy of our friend was too evident to him, and he had tried in vain to break through the wall of ice that had grown up between them. All is now at an end; and we have convinced Margaret, who is reviving again to happiness. I know not what evil tongue had so poisoned the golden cup of “_the prettiest woman in England_.” The truth is that Lord William’s brother wanted to marry the young, portionless maiden of whom I spoke to you, whose views were above this world and fixed on heaven. Filial piety keeps her where she is, for she attends upon her grandfather—blind, like Homer and Milton, and like them a poet, says Lord William, who, being himself enthusiastic about poetry, was a frequent visitor to his relative, the aged bard, and thus unconsciously gave rise to the absurd story too easily believed by Margaret. How she regrets not having sooner sought into the truth of the matter! I am enchanted at this explanation, and also because my mother insists that our “dear English” shall not leave us for a month. We are planning excursions without end. Lord William and René are inseparable; my sisters dispute as to which shall have Margaret, who is more ravishingly beautiful than ever. Her fine voice rings majestically in the chapel; yesterday we went _en masse_ to surprise Mme. de T—— because it was her _fête_. You cannot imagine the effect of our choirs. René, Adrien, Edouard, everybody, the English peer too, sang. Your Georgina played the organ—not without tears of emotion.… My mother said she was _in heaven_. All day long bouquets and _hommages_ were arriving; these good Bretons are so grateful, so pious! To-morrow we go to Auray, next week to Solesmes, … a long way, … but I would willingly go to the world’s end.

Margaret almost worships the babies. Alix scarcely leaves her; Gaston has his private and his state visits to her. My Picciola is so intelligent that English has soon become easy to her. I converse with her in my mother’s tongue; we pray together. Am I not happy, dear Kate? Everything smiles upon me. Often I meditate upon the benefits which I have received from an all-merciful Providence, and especially upon my happiness in my friends. Apropos to this subject, I recollect a sad but charming remark of Louis Veuillot’s upon departures, those great sadnesses of life: “There are flowers of friendship that we have sown, and which spring up, but which we must abandon when their fragrance is sweetest!”… He goes on to speak of forgetfulness; the mourning wreath thrown by the oblivious world on the tomb of vanished friendships, and sorrowfully says, “All the flowers of human life are perishable!” Is it an illusion of my youth to believe that my affections are like the flowers of heaven, inaccessible to decay, strong against storms?… After the love of God, the first and greatest good, the surest element of even terrestrial happiness, I have friendship, and I rejoice in it with enchantment; then I have the love of my good René, so pure and Christian a love, which makes of our two souls one single being, in an indissoluble union; then reading, with its varied emotions, study, the faculties of enthusiasm, of admiration, of comprehension.… Oh! how fair is life. When I speak of friendship, it is the tender affection of my Kate that is especially in my mind—a tenderness to which I owe all that I am. Dearest and best beloved, I sometimes ask myself how it is that you have been to me a sister so _unique_, and finding no other motive for this choice affection than your loving charity, I bless God, who has permitted this to be in his merciful designs, which I cannot sufficiently adore. When I make my thanksgiving after communion, I am fond of taking a _general survey_ in my heart, so as to include in it names and memories, and after speaking to Jesus of all the souls in whom I am interested, I never fail to ask our rich and mighty Sovereign to bless, together with me, all who love or have ever loved me.…

God guard you, _carissima_!

AUGUST 29.

News from Ireland: Ellen is in great trouble; her son has a mucous fever which leaves small hope of his life. Alas! everywhere there is mourning and death. Poor friend! so Christian and so pious, so courageous under trials, how she must suffer, in spite of her fortitude and resignation! Have you often met with people so sympathetic as this amiable Ellen?—a heart of gold, full of tenderness and devotion, in so delicate a frame. It seems to me as if the tears which she drives back by her mother’s bed of suffering (who is still in great danger, as Margaret has written you word), and by the cradle of her beautiful little Robert, fall on my heart. Let us pray for her!

René is telling you about our pilgrimage to Auray. What happiness to be there with these good and dear friends, and with my mother, whose health is most satisfactory! Why are not you also here, dear Kate? Oh! I never cease to miss you, although I repeat to myself that nothing is wanting to my felicity.

Yesterday was the feast of St. Augustine, the great doctor of love. Would that I could love like him!… M. Bougaud has written the life of St. Monica, which I am told is very fine. Adrien left the book at Orleans. I had read the introduction, which is written in an excellent and elevated style. “It is the poem of the most incomparable love that ever was.” O Saint Augustine, pillar of the church, defender of the faith! pray for those who fight; obtain for them that love which purifies and sanctifies suffering, that holy and perfect love which alone is the life of the soul! I have a special affection for St. Augustine. His was so ardent and enthusiastic a nature; his lofty soul so great, so indomitable, and so athirst for happiness; then, after his conversion, how courageous was his faith, how apostolic his eloquence, and, above all, how mighty was his love of God, which, as it were, consumed him! In all this we behold with admiration the infinite mercy of the Creator. Do you recollect Ary Scheffer’s lovely picture of St. Monica and St. Augustine by the sea? One could spend hours before those already transfigured countenances, studying their thoughts, which are rendered almost visible by the genius of the artist.

Read a letter by Mgr. Dupanloup on the death of Cardinal Altieri. We still live in the times of men like Borromeo and Belzunce; the church never grows old. Cardinal Altieri was Bishop of Albano. The cholera broke out in that small town with such violence that a hundred persons died in a night. Mgr. Altieri assembled his servants and asked if they were willing to follow him to Albano. He set out, accompanied by one alone, and his almoner, and taking with him his will, to which he added a codicil. After three days, spent in heroic acts of charity and devotedness, he was attacked by the malady, and died in the arms of two other cardinals, who, happening to be at Albano when the scourge appeared, had not quitted the post of honor. This death is a great loss to the church. Mgr. Altieri was Camerlinga of the Roman Church, the highest dignity after the Pope. Louis Veuillot, in his biography of Pius IX., says: “There is no name and no character more Roman than that of Altieri.” The cardinal was only sixty-two years of age. Pius IX. at once desired to find him a successor. A messenger of the Holy See was sent to Mgr. Apollini: “It is necessary to set out immediately for Albano.” “I am ready,” was Mgr. Apollini’s reply. Is it not fine? What page of Homer equals this page in the history of the church? The Zouaves are also doing wonders of charity at Albano: making themselves _Gray Sisters_ for the living, and burying the dead; they are sublime. May God have pity on poor Italy! Mgr. Dupanloup concludes his letter by a few words full of sadness and apprehension. O my God! will not the eloquence of genius, the supplications of thy saints, the sufferings of thy martyrs, disarm thine anger? By the side of these solemn scenes yesterday’s paper contained a curious article: the “miracles” of the Zouave Jacob, of whom you must have heard, dear Kate. What times we live in! On the one hand we have spiritism, magnetism, all sorts of communications with demons, and on the other the wonderful development of noble thoughts, institutions of all kinds in aid of every form of misfortune, men of the highest genius raising imperishable monuments to the glory of God and the church! If our time is one of great errors and many troubles, it is also a time of great virtues and noble acts of devotion. Margaret told us that when passing through Périgord she stopped at Cadouin, where the holy _Sudarium_ of our Lord is offered to the veneration of the faithful. Before this august relic she prayed with indescribable emotion for our incomparable Pontiff, who is following in the footsteps of our Saviour up Mount Calvary. The revolution is about to march against Rome; what will be the consequence? “_Tu es Petrus._” … With this word one can understand the peace, serenity, and confidence of Pius IX. Suffer not, O Lord! that so many wandering and guilty sons shall die fighting against their own Father!

* * * * *

SEPTEMBER 6.

The sacrifice is consummated: Ellen has witnessed the death of her baby—her joy and pride. “Her husband comforted and sustained her like a Christian,” Lizzy writes. The paroxysm of her maternal anguish was fearful.

A child should never die before its mother; it is against nature, and is almost more than the heart can endure; the help of God is necessary; let us pray for her, my Kate. This dear, much-tried, heartbroken mother thought of me in her sorrow, and sent me a few lines. You will read them and will weep with me over this page of woe. I seem still to see that charming group: Ellen coaxing Robert to try and take his first steps, and he sending us kisses. All these joys, that golden dawn, those earliest days—who can bring them back to Ellen? May God console her, and may the sweet angel who strengthened Jesus at Gethsemani tenderly wipe away her tears! Margaret is as grieved as I am. Our trip to Solesmes is somewhat delayed; we are expecting more guests. I have just finished a splendid chasuble, which I take the liberty of sending to your address, my dearest Kate—in the first place, that you may admire it, and, secondly, that you may kindly let Mme. G. know about it, as she will have to complete my work. Have I mentioned to you a letter from the Bishop of Orleans to the faithful of his diocese on the festivals of Rome, and the approaching opening of an œcumenical council? It is splendid; there is magic in his style.

You do not forget Zoë de L——? Margaret met her in Paris, _poor_, and looking terribly aged. Through some inexplicable folly, she made an absurd marriage, and the change of position, her unexpected disappointment, the trials of heart and mind she has undergone, have altogether upset her. “It was ten minutes,” Margaret writes, “before I could recognize her.” Perhaps you could see her, dear Kate, and cheer her up a little. _La belle Anglaise_ and I want to be of service to her, and you must be our medium; René is writing to his banker, to place the necessary sum at your disposal. I will enclose the card on which Margaret wrote the address of this unfortunate Zoë.

Dearest Kate, pray for Ellen. There is, then, no such thing as perfect happiness in this world. If it were not for the compassion I feel for those whose troubles affect me so deeply, I should be too happy. How kind René is! He is angelic! I cannot note down to you, or I should have to write volumes, the thousand intimate and charming details which make my life a paradise.

Hélène rarely writes; when she does, it is as a seraph might. She is happy; she has entered into the place of repose which she has chosen, in the _hollow of the rock_, where the dove loves to hide; she has found her ideal. Gertrude reads on her knees the poetic effusions of her child.

Dear Kate, may all heaven be with you!

SEPTEMBER 15.

My dear one, excursions are robbing me of all my leisure, but not of the time to think of you. A pouring rain has interfered with our projects for to-day, and all the children have fled to _Mme. Margaret_, who takes a lively interest in these juveniles. Yesterday was the birthday of this delightful friend. We busied ourselves in preparations, whilst, at my request, Lord William drew his somewhat wondering Margaret away to the park. A solitary little drawing-room was rapidly transformed; it looked so pretty in the evening, with a profusion of flowers and lights, wreaths of ivy twining round the mirrors, and an illumination of the _heroine’s_ initials! She was greatly touched and delighted; Picciola recited some beautiful verses written by Edouard, and we presented her with bouquets, carvings, and paintings. A concert brought the entertainment to a close. Mme. de T—— will not hear of the departure of our dear friends. “Sisters ought not to leave each other before they are compelled,” she says. Kind, excellent mother! Yesterday we walked along the coast so often sung by the poet Brizeux, whom René quotes with so much Breton fire and fitness. “Look there,” Adrien whispered to me, “at all that pretty little brood!” Under the shadow of an oak about a hundred paces from us a dozen children were preparing a _dînette_.[205] How handsome they looked in their tatters, with their healthy and intelligent faces! Arthur had a bright thought: he proposed to Picciola, who was carrying the _cake-basket_, to share theirs among the poor little children. All the babies joined in the festivity, and bonbons and delicacies were freely distributed. Margaret sketched this pretty picture in her album. You see our walks are not without their charm.

On Monday, I visited a pious canoness who lives alone in a sumptuous residence. I was delighted with the kind and cordial welcome she gave me, and spent with her three of the most enjoyable hours I ever passed in my life. Mme. de Saint A—— is fifty-three years of age, though she appears older; she has been exquisitely beautiful. Now she is better than that—she is a saint; and next to the deep joys of the Eucharistic table, I do not think there is any greater enjoyment than to converse with such as she. The old castle overlooking the ocean has an antique and lordly aspect, with a certain character as of something religious, like a cenobite whom death has forgotten, kneeling by the borders of a lake. The sea in this place forms a sort of inland bay, or quiet lake, in which the great trees of the park seem to take pleasure in reflecting themselves. The dwelling has been visited by the dukes of Brittany, and one wing of the castle still bears their name. We ascended the steps of the staircase of honor, up which the noble mail-clad warriors so often rode mounted on their chargers. The room of Mme. de Saint A—— is entirely white, like the soul of the pious lady. It opens into the chapel. On each side of the altar several funeral epitaphs show this temple of prayer to be also the temple of memories. Mme. de Saint A—— showed us some water-colors worthy of Redouté, painted by her great-grandmother; and some wood-carving which excited the liveliest admiration of the gentlemen. It was impossible to quit this Eden; we admired the grottoes and plantations, and remained for _déjeuner_. We seemed to be in another world in this Thebaid of the coast. We kissed the trunk of an immense chestnut whose protecting boughs had overshadowed many generations, and which has a higher title to glory from having in ’93 preserved from revolutionary fury the stone statue of the Madonna which now guards the chapel. I shall never forget this visit—twenty leagues from our residence—nor the expression of that saintly face, the look and words which accompanied the kind pressure of my hand at the moment of departure.

Mme. de Saint A—— has lost all her dear ones by death. God and the poor still remain to her, a heritage worthy of her heart. Her artistic and literary tastes are a great resource for her in her solitude, which is occasionally shared by some friends at a distance, who are faithful to this “_fragment of the past_,” as she said in showing us the castle.

One hall, that of “the libraries,” contains treasures. Adrien, who is an enthusiastic and learned archæologist, eagerly examined its contents. Several rare manuscripts have passed into his possession; we came home laden with riches. My share is a beautiful water-color drawing. Shall we ever see this hermitage again?

Dear Kate, René and Margaret have finished their letters before me. Adieu and _á Dieu_!

Dreamed of Ireland, her emigrants, her martyrs. Oh! how dear our sacred island is to me.

SEPTEMBER 20.

Kind, loving, and beloved sister, three letters in your welcome handwriting are come to me at the same time. Thanks for what you have done for Zoë; she has written to tell me about it, and of your zealous endeavors to make her more courageous. I have no more anxiety about our poor friend since you are in her neighborhood.

René has procured for me _Femmes Savantes et Femmes Studieuses_,[206] by Mgr. Dupanloup.

It is an excellent book, elevated and at the same time practical, and quite in accordance with the views of my dear husband. Our studies together are truly profitable? The good _abbé_ is very alarming just now. He says that blood will be shed in France, much blood; with other sinister predictions. May God guard you, dearest Kate!

The village is in mourning: five deaths this week. One is that of the father of seven children; Margaret is placing six of them with the Sisters at P——. The rich English lady makes herself almost worshipped by our Bretons.

Ellen has written to me; she is more calm, but wonders that she can live.… Her mother, broken down by this last blow, sank three days after Robert. To force her away from the sad associations of home her husband is taking her to Scotland, where they will remain until the spring. I wish they were with us; we would try to comfort them. Ah! Kate, how I pity mothers.

Finished the full-length portrait of René for our mother. How I have enjoyed working at it—dear, kind husband! At this moment he is playing Thalberg’s _Moïse_, and I hasten to join him. I should not be Irish if I did not love poetry and music.

Love me as I love you, dear sister.

SEPTEMBER 28.

I am in a state of transport, dearest! For eight days past we have been almost constantly in the carriage, and have seen Solesmes and its jewels of stone, the handiwork of artists full of faith such as our times do not find in their successors. Only imagine, dear Kate: I saw nothing at Solesmes but the church and Sainte Cécile! On coming out I closed my eyes, the better to recall those visions of beauty before which death would seem more sweet. Beneath an arched roof on the right two personages are placing Our Lord in the sepulchre; these are Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea, the former in a rich Oriental costume and the latter in a dress of the time of Louis XI., which looks singular enough at first sight. Sitting before the tomb, St. Mary Magdalene, bending low, with her head resting on her hands, abandons herself to grief. It is very beautiful Kate. Of all that I have seen that looked _living_ in sculpture, nothing ever impressed me so much. This Magdalene is the jewel of the whole. She seems to live and breathe; nothing could render the expression of sorrow and of prayer in her countenance, nor the naturalness of her posture; one feels as if she might raise her arms, and that her mouth might utter her lamentation; one _feels_ that her eyes are overflowing with tears.… Follow me now into the chapel on the left. Here is the swooning of the Blessed Virgin, in a deep niche over the altar. Again, our Lady, kneeling in ecstasy, supported by St. Peter and St. John, is about to receive communion from the hands of her risen Son. In this mystic idea there is to my mind exquisite poetry. Almost all the apostles and the holy women are there; the figures in this group are very numerous, and there are among them heads of an ideal beauty. I have looked so long at these more than artistic, almost heavenly, works, that they will long remain in my mind. The entombment of the Blessed Virgin faces that of Our Lord, and is strikingly effective. The position of our Lady is admirable, and there is something heavenly in her countenance, which love transfigures even in death. St. John, St. James the Less, Dom Bougner, an abbot of Solesmes, who by a pious anachronism had himself represented in this solemn scene, and another saint, hold the corners of the shroud. All four are excellently rendered. St. Peter is leaning over our Lady, and contemplates her with an indescribable expression of love. This figure is one of the most attractive of all. Behind are the holy women, whose looks betoken the deepest grief, and some of the apostles, who are speaking to each other. All these figures are admirably grouped; not one lessens the effect of the rest, and the whole scene is of touching grandeur. It was difficult to tear one’s self away from the contemplation of those animated and speaking forms.… There are other groups: Jesus in the midst of the doctors, the Assumption, the Coronation; wonderful works by men who have remained almost unknown. Why were you not there, dear Kate? This is always the cry of my heart, which wants you everywhere.

To see Dom Guéranger formed part of our plan. When one has read his _Sainte Cécile_ and his admirable pages on the _Temporal Power of the Popes_, it is a happiness to listen to him in his monastic humility. What a fine head he has!—a countenance so expressive of both intellect and sanctity, and such vivacity and genius in his look! We were present at the Benedictine Office, but went first to Sainte-Cécile, a monastery of Benedictine nuns which Dom Guéranger is building at some distance from the abbey. It will be splendid: magnificent cloisters, and in the middle of the great quadrangle one of those marvellous fountains that we used to admire in the pictures of the cloisters in Spain.

Benediction, in the abbey church, was very beautiful. At the moment when the benediction is given a dove descends upon the altar; the sight is striking when the heart is already predisposed to heavenly emotions. When, at the conclusion, the monks stood up to chant the _Te Deum_, that song of the eternal Jerusalem which I never hear without a thrill of inward joy, I felt an indescribable impression of happiness and peace. Oh! how sweet it must be to serve God thus, and spend one’s life in study and in prayer.

Dearest Kate, may God bless you, may he bless us all, and may he deliver Ireland!

OCTOBER 2.

To-day Sarah B—— takes a lord and master. God grant that she may be happy; that her heart, so upright, delicate, and loving, may not be disappointed! She is in communication with Margaret, to whom she has related the causes of her _almost_ rupture with Mary. Both had suffered greatly from the loss of that affection which for twenty years had filled their life; this marriage draws them nearer together. Mass has been said for her, in this sweet corner of our Brittany, this oasis. Margaret is about to leave us. What bitterness is linked to every separation! How often our heart is divided, our life cut in twain, and our happiness destroyed! We went on Monday to C——, where we have an aunt, superior of a convent of the Visitation. “Convents do not change, like the world,” said René, when we came out from the parlor; “it even seems to me that these ascetic faces do not grow old. And I know men of forty years of age who appear to be sixty, so much have passions worn them out. Why is not every Christian house a monastery? Why do not all men love our good God?”… My aunt was very affectionate; promises of prayers were mutually exchanged.… I am prayed for in many sanctuaries, in many retreats, pious homes of refuge for wounded souls and for timid doves, dwellings where lilies bloom, and where the Holy of Holies makes his habitation. And everywhere, on every coast on which a Catholic hand has planted the Cross of Christ, I am prayed for, in virtue of this great communion of saints, this dogma so divine and so full of comfort, the sweetest of all, it seems to me, giving hope for those who do not yet pray for themselves! Oh! can I wonder that the religious life, to which our Saviour promised a hundred-fold in this world and paradise in the next—this life of self-renunciation and of sacrifice—has stolen my Kate from me? Madame de P——, Lucy’s mother, is seriously ill; and her son the _abbé_, the _grand-vicaire_, the holy priest, the joy and consolation of her heart, is with her. All the _Edwards_ have just left us; Gaston has been ill, and is recovering slowly. His pale, gentle face so little resembles that of the rosy boy who smiled so gaily upon us only a few weeks ago, that we are all pained at the change. I trust God will spare this pretty little angel to dear Lucy; but were the hosts of heaven to open their ranks to receive this little brother, who, however, pitying the mother, would think of pitying the child? Oh! what have I said? In my desire for heaven I was almost forgetting earth!

_Lady Sensible_, Marguérite, is gravely working in the embrasure of the window at a set of baby-linen which she will have made entirely herself. This child will be a remarkable woman; there is something singularly attractive about her; she talks little, but thinks much, and her words are full of solidity and good sense. She is charmingly pretty; last winter, in her little dress of black velvet over a blue silk skirt, she looked like the daughter of a king.

Dearest, here is your letter, in the white hands of Picciola, and a letter from Hélène, triumphantly brought to me by Alix! Kind little angels! who possess the understanding of the heart, and so read mine. Thanks, dear sister; may our Mother in heaven repay to you all the love you bear me!

Margaret leaves to-morrow; she is gone to say good-by to her poor people. What a kind, sweet friend she is! and now the ocean is soon to separate us.

Pray for the travellers, beloved Kate, and for your own Georgina.

SEPTEMBER 13.

This autumn set in icy cold; to-day the weather has been mild and the sun splendid; it was like a resurrection; my spirit revived with nature. How I miss Margaret! She has had a prosperous journey. “The aspect of everything is changed.” God be praised!