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order in this world, the terror of bad hearts, and joy of upright souls-this glory is only the first gleam of that which his heroic and lingering passion is preparing for an approaching


For the comfort, meanwhile, of the weak and timid, we repeat, with the more sagacious minds of our own day, that the future is for the Papacy, not for the Revolution; that the Papacy has already conquered the Revo-, lution. We will conclude by making our own those noble words upon the immortal youth of the Church, spoken by our Holy Father to the representatives of the Catholic youth of Italy, on Epiphany of this year, in the Vatican. We accommodate them with perfect propriety to the supreme office of the Vicariate of Christ, with which he is divinely invested, and which he so gloriously sustains in the presence of God, of angels, of men, and of the infernal Revolution itself: "My sons, let us give battle, and fear nothing. Remember that the enemies of God are vanishing, and the Papacy remains. The Child The Child Jesus fled into Egypt, but in the night-time he was told to return, for they are dead who sought the life of the child.' How many persecutors of the Papacy are dead! After giving vent to their fury, and decimating the faithful who served God, they are dead: and the Papacy is left. Yes; ipsi peribunt, but thou, beloved Peter, living in thy successors-thou, constituted by God his vicar on earth-thou remainest, and thou shalt always remain: ipsi peribunt, tu autem permanebis. Thou shalt remain, young, vigorous, constant, in contrast to the persecutions which purify the church, whose head thou art, wash away its every spot, and make it stronger. Ipsi peribunt, tu autem permanebis. Thou art still

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And you, great Pontiff, in uttering these sublime words, little thought that, three days later, he would perish suddenly who for many years had been the treacherous tormentor of the Papacy in your august person.

Napoleon III. perished uncrowned, humbled, in exile; that Napoleon who, in the intoxication of his empty triumphs, thought to hold in his hand, after your death, the victory over the Roman See, periit. He died, let us hope, repentant; and you, Holy Father, survive him to pray for his peace after death, with the same generous soul that, like your divine Model on Golgotha, always pardoned him in life. He has vanished like a shadow, first from the greatest throne in Europe, then from the sight of men, periit; and the Papacy permanet in you more than ever invincible. You, Pope Pius, for the time a prisoner, continue, from the Vatican, with Christ and in Christ, to reign beloved, blessed, applauded, over all who have a believing heart, an upright soul. Napoleon III. has gone down to that city of the dead which shall form the pedestal of your greatness in all ages: scabellum pedum tuorum; peopled by beings like Cavour, Palmerston, Mazzini, and by a throng of many others, who girded their loins for the mad enterprise of crushing out in his Vicar Christ our God, King of Heaven and Earth.

Osservatore Romano, Jan. 8, 1873.



Is this, indeed, our ancient earth?
Or have we died in sleep, and risen ?
Has earth, like man, her second birth?
Rises the palace from the prison ?

Hills beyond hills ascend the skies;
In winding valleys, heaven-suspended,
Huge forests, rich as sunset's dyes,

With rainbow-braided clouds are blended.

From melting snows through coverts dank
White torrents rush to yon blue mere,
Flooding its glazed and grassy bank,
The mirror of the milk-white steer.

What means it? Glory, sweetness, might ? Not these, but something holier farShadows of him, that Light of Light, Whose priestly vestment all things are.

The veil of sense transparent grows:
God's face shines out, that veil behind,

Like yonder sea-reflected snows

Here man must worship, or be blind.



"PRAY take an easier chair, Mrs. Vanderlyn," says the invalid; "I thank you for your sympathy, and trust my cough has not disturbed you."

"Oh! not at all," says Agnes; "it only made me want to come to see you, and I hope you will not regard it as an intrusion on my part."

"By no means. You are very kind. I see it in your eyes. You do not shun the sick. It is a good heart that leads you to me. I thank you."

These words are interrupted by painful coughing, but, after the paroxysm has passed, she becomes more quiet, and Agnes has a better opportunity of studying her face while they


In spite of her wasting disease, it is a beautiful and saintly face still, and evidently has been much more beautiful in health and youth. Refinement and purity are stamped on every feature, and in every gesture and every fold of her raiment. The small, thin hands, folded over the book in her lap, are those of a delicately bred lady. A heavy plain gold ring, on the third finger of her left hand, is so loose that it is guarded by another and smaller one. These are all the ornaments she wears. A soft, warm wrapper of brown merino, a little white cap of thin muslin which does not altogether hide her abundant dark hair, are all of feminine costume to tell of the wearer's character.

The room is very neat and comfortable, and shows no sign of poverty. On the walls are a few wood engrav

ings, mostly of religious subjects, and a few photograph portraits finished in oils. A crucifix stands on the mantel, and a smaller one, attached to a rosary of Roman pearls, on the table by her side, where also is an exquisite Parian statuette of the Blessed Virgin and Child. Agnes sits on the other side of this table, and, while she converses with her hostess, her attention is drawn to a small book lying near her. Apparently only to read the title, she takes up this book, and opens at the fly-leaf. It is a prayer-book, and, in a lady's writing, she reads:

"Martin Vanderlyn, from his wife.” Although prepared to know the truth, almost knowing it before she came into the room, Agnes feels her cheeks and lips grow pale; but she has always great command of herself, and now has not been taken quite by surprise.

"My husband is not a Catholic, although that book bears his name," says Mrs. Vanderlyn. "Perhaps he is a relative of yours," she adds, looking inquiringly at her guest.

"I never heard my husband speak of any relative of that name," Agnes says. "The name is not a very common one, either. It seems strange that two of us should meet here. Is your husband absent ?" She has remarked that Mrs. Vanderlyn had said, "My husband is not a Catholic," and the avoidance of the use of the past tense gives her the chance to put her question, which she does to cover her own confusion, and mislead the lady as to herself. An expression of pain passes

over Mrs. Vanderlyn's face, as she goes to see this sister, as she some

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Agnes cannot find it in her heart to ask how long it is since he left her. She thinks she knows, and she thinks she understands that Mrs. Vanderlyn does not wish her to know that she is a divorced woman. She respects this as a delicacy of feeling which her own position fully teaches her to appreciate. With her present knowledge of Martin Vanderlyn as a husband, her sympathies are all with his wife. She believes now that it was his fault and not hers which made the trouble between them. Her strong good sense tells her that Mrs. Vanderlyn being a Catholic was no sufficient reason for his separating from her; and she cannot believe that this lady has been a disagreeable companion to live with.

Overwhelmed with all the thoughts surging in her mind, she soon takes her leave, all the sooner that she hears her boy calling to her.

"You have a little son," Mrs. Vanderlyn remarks. "Will you not bring him in to see me? I am very fond of children, and the only one I had is dead; I shall soon meet her, I hope. But to-morrow you will bring your boy to see me, will you not ?" And she holds her hand out to Agnes, and looks wistfully in her face. Agnes is touched almost to tears as she promises.

The next day, with her "curled darling" clinging to her skirts, she

how feels Mrs. Vanderlyn to be to her. Are they not both the deserted • wives of the same man? And she feels that this one is more truly the wife than herself, in spite of all the law can do for her. And it has not escaped her notice that Mrs. Vanderlyn spoke of Martin as her husband still.

As she approaches Mrs. Vanderlyn, little George is hiding his face in her skirts, only allowing himself to look out, from time to time, between his fingers, at the lady. No urging from his mother seems likely to get him out of his intrenchment.

"Let him alone," Mrs. Vanderlyn. says; "that is the way with many children. When we stop urging him, he will show himself of his own accord."

And so he does. After the attention of the two is, as he supposes, removed from himself, the chubby fingers come down, and the bright eyes gaze steadily at Mrs. Vanderlyn. She, becoming aware of this, turns, saying, "What is your name, darling?"

"Martin Van'lyn," proudly speaks out little George, using the name by which his father had nearly always called him, and which he now seems to choose in a spirit of sheer mischief, for Agnes has rarely called him by that name. She had opposed it because it confused the address she used for his father. The child speaks out the "Martin" with unusual distinctness too, although he has oftener called himself "Marty" than Martin. Agnes has never thought of the boy thus betraying her, and she has said truly that his name is George. She is confused, and looks distressed, feeling that Mrs. Vanderlyn will naturally suspect her of falsifying, if not much more.

That lady seems equally disturbed, but in a different way from that

which the child's blunder might be supposed to create. She pauses, stammers, and, in great agitation, looking at Agnes, exclaims:

"Whose child is this? I could almost think I had my own again! Holy Mother, help me!" Then reaching for a little velvet miniature case, she opens it with trembling fingers, saying, "Look at that!"

Agnes looks, and sees the face of a child nearly the age of her own, which is so good a likeness of George that it might be taken for him. What wonder? It is the picture of his half-sister. These children of the same father had inherited a resemblance to his family rather than to himself, and here is little George looking at Mrs. Vanderlyn with the eyes and smile of her own child. Who has not observed how wonderfully lineage will proclaim itself in this way? The poor lady is more overcome by this sight than by any question as to George's name; but that has not escaped her notice. She lays her wasted hand on the arm of Agnes, and says appealingly: "Tell me the name of this child's father! Pardon me! See, I will tell you first why I ask, that you may know why I take this liberty with you. I am Martin Vanderlyn's deserted wife. This is his child's face, and that is your child. He says his name is Martin. Pardon me, dear lady, again, for asking. I do not wish to pain you as I am pained; but what that man did to one woman he may have done to another-deserted her. I have heard that he did deceive another, and married her. I had not believed it, because he came to me for money within the past year, and spoke of returning to me after he had done travelling. I could not believe he had pretended to marry another woman; but with this" (pointing to the picture and to

the boy), "you see I cannot help believing it. Are you that unfortunate woman ?"

She speaks with tender commiseration for Agnes rather than with any animosity toward her. Agnes has stood during all this time, with her hands nervously clutching her dress, and vainly trying to be composed. Of what need, after all, is concealment from this woman, evidently not long for this life, and so full of pity and forgiveness? So she answers:

"You have rightly guessed. This is Martin Vanderlyn's son, and I am what you truly call that unfortunate woman whom he has deserted. But I knew you immediately to be his divorced wife."

"Divorced! who says so? No; I am not that. He would have made me so, but I am a Catholic, and I would not consent to it. I could not. He is my husband still, and, while I live, no law can make another woman his wife. But, oh! this is too cruel to you!" she says, seeing Agnes droop at once. "Did you really believe, dear, that you had the law on your side? You thought he was divorced from me. Ah! no; not even that doubtful right had he to marry you. He has not even the Protestant permission, for he is not divorced from me. Even if the law had so parted us, he ought not to have married another, and I, as a Catholic, could not do so; for you remember our Lord's words that "he who shall marry her that is put away, committeth adultery." I pain you, madam, very much, I know, but I must not deceive you more than you have been deceived already. I have not much longer to live, and I must speak truth. If he ever returns to you, as I once hoped he would return to me, I may be in my grave then. Beg him, in that case, to marry you, else you will never be

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