LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.
FROM THE FRENCH.
Orleans, Feb. 15, 1868.
Dear, sweet Kate, I have seen Sainte-Croix again, and now I write to you. The general installation has scarcely begun; great agitation and noise in all directions. Everybody is surprised to see me so soon settled down and quiet, but Marianne and Antoine are of a fairy-like agility. René is busy; Marcella still asleep, having watched till very late by her little Anna, who was rather feverish.
Thérèse and Madeleine will regularly attend catechism at Sainte-Croix during some weeks, unless their mother consents to their speedy departure. This good and amiable Berthe has promised the superior of —— to send her daughters to her for a year at the time of their First Communion; now she hesitates, and none of us, to say the truth, persuades her to send them—they are so gentle and sweet, so truly two in one.
This is but a sign of life, dear sister. Good-by for the present.
February 17.
My good paralytic showed much pleasure at seeing me again. It is arranged that Marcella and I are to go to her by turns, and Gertrude, who ardently desires some active occupation, claims her share of presents of poor. Not a minute is wasted here, dear Kate. We are keeping the twins, not wishing to place them under any external influence; and although Arthur has entered at the Jesuits’, the good
abbé has consented to remain permanently the guest of Mme. de T——, as preceptor to these lovable children, whom he finds so attractive. Marcella is giving them lessons in Italian. How learned they are already! Every month, in accordance with Adrien’s decision, there are solemn examinations. The delicate little Anna studies with zeal, finding herself very ignorant by the side of the twins.
I have knelt again before Notre Dame des Miracles, and have done the honors of Recouvrance to our fair Roman. Did I tell you that Margaret is a little jealous? “Keep me at least a tiny little corner in your heart, which I see invaded from so many quarters.” Her happiness has undergone no alteration; she is expecting and wishing for me.…
Read Emilia Paula, a story of the Catacombs. Mgr. La Carrière, formerly Bishop of Guadaloupe, will preach the Lent, and Mgr. Dupanloup will speak in the réunions of the Christian Mothers. It is also said, though it is not very likely, that the great bishop will this year deliver the panegyric of Joan of Arc.
Marcella is in a state of enthusiasm. Her heart opens out in the warm atmosphere created for her by our friendship. Anna is well—still a little shy; the delicate temperament of the dear orphan having for so long kept her at a distance from anything like noisy play. Marguérite and Alix teach her her
lessons. What pretty subjects for my brush!
We all communicated this morning, the anniversary of Mme. de T——’s marriage. O my God! what can the soul render to thee to whom thou givest thyself? Oh! how I pity those who know thee not, who never receive thee as their Guest, who never weep at thy feet like Magdalen, who return not to thee like the prodigal, who lean not upon thy heart like St. John. Oh! with the divine and fiery beams of thy bright dawn illuminate this earth, wherein the evil fights against the good.
Still more deaths, dear Kate. See what Isa writes to me: “My grandfather suffers continually more and more from fearful pain and extreme weakness. His patience and resignation are admirable. We pray together; I read him the Imitation; the Sick Man’s Day, by Ozanam, which Lizzy has translated for me, since your friendly kindness made me acquainted with Eugénie de Guérin; also a book most effectually consoling, and to which my grandfather listens with tears. We make Novenas. He has received the ‘Bread of the strong,’ and the help of Heaven cannot fail this manly soul, who has passed through life so nobly.” Jenny has lost her sister-in-law—another house disorganized and without its soul. The little nephew is given to the two sisters, who are going to bring him up and educate him; and Jenny, who had a horror of Latin, is going to learn it in order to lessen its difficulties to the pretty darling.
Mother St. André is in heaven. It makes my heart bleed to think of the grief of Mother St. Maurice. It is so cruel a sorrow to lose one’s mother, and such a mother—an
exceptionally holy soul, friend of the saintly foundress, destined by Providence to such great things; who has known the brightest joys and the most deadly sorrows, seeing her children die after she had given them up to God. What holy joy gladdened her soul on that day when, herself a religious, she beheld her two daughters clothed in the livery of Christ, and her son, her third treasure, the third pearl in her maternal crown, a priest! What a family of chosen ones, and what sorrows! Oh! when this mother, at the same time austere and tender, was called upon to close her children’s eyes, were there not, side by side with the feelings of the Christian and the saint, those also of the wife and mother? Dear Kate, I can understand that a religious loves more deeply than other women. The love of God, sanctifying her affections and rendering them almost divine, communicates to them something of the infinite, which is not broken without indescribable suffering.
I am writing to Mother St. Maurice. How much I pray God that He may console her—he, the Comforter above all others, who alone touches our wounds without wounding us still more!
René is sending you a volume. The affection of all those who love you would fill many. May all good angels of holy affections protect you, dear Kate!
February 26, 1868.
Behold me with ashes on my brow—ashes placed there by the great bishop. “Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.” But, O my soul! it is but the envelope of flesh and clay which must return to dust. The immaterial being escapes the corruption of
the grave; my soul, come from God, must ascend again to him.
Yesterday the dressed-up figures going about the streets were anything but attractive, but there were others elsewhere at which the angels would smile. M. l’Abbé Baunard, director of the catéchisme of Sainte-Croix, a few days ago organized a lottery, with the produce of which some little girls, disguised as scullions, gave yesterday an excellent dinner to the old people of the Little Sisters of the Poor. This feast of charity was a charming idea, bringing together under the eye and the blessing of God smiling and happy childhood with suffering and afflicted decrepitude—poverty and riches, two sisters in the great Catholic communion. And the twins were not there! Our good curé in Brittany requested as a favor that they might make their First Communion in his church. The good abbé is preparing them for it, and the ceremony is fixed for the 2d of July, the Feast of the Magnificat.
We are all in deep mourning for my Aunt de K——, and neither visit nor receive company this winter; thus we shall have more leisure for our different works. Adrien and Raoul were present at the funeral. My mother feels this death very much.
Bought a pamphlet by the great bishop. It is admirable—worthy of Bossuet. What a portrait of the Christian Frenchwoman! What vehement and sublime indignation against those who would make this noble type disappear from our France! What nobility of soul! Oh! if all fathers, if all mothers, heard these accents, which proceed from a more than paternal heart, how they would reflect upon themselves, and long to become
worthy of the mission entrusted to them by Providence. Poor France! what will become of her? I was glad to hear one of the vicaires of Sainte-Croix, M. Berthaud, in speaking of the horoscope of the impious against religion, say: “Prophecy for prophecy. I prefer to believe the words of the Count de Maistre, the noble genius who saw so deeply and so far into the events of the present time, and who said fifty years ago: ‘In a hundred years France will be wholly Christian, Germany will be Catholic, England will be Catholic; all the peoples of Europe will go into the basilica of St. Sophia at Constantinople to sing a Te Deum of thanksgiving.’” God grant it may be so! Lizzy announces to me the mourning of Isa, who is not well enough to write to me. “There is a yoke upon all the children of Adam.” These words of Holy Scripture often come into my mind as I see all around me darkened by mourning. Spes unica! Hope remains, and the love of God shows heaven open. Dear sister of my life, this letter, begun yesterday, is to contain yet a third funereal announcement: Nelly has been suddenly summoned from this world. I know how much you loved her. Thus this time of penitence opens for us. Dead!—Nelly, in her spring-time, her grace, her youth; dead, after a long and holy prayer, which had preceded a walk with Madame D——.
Imagine the distress of this poor mother, roused from her sleep by the cry: “Mother, I think I am dying!” Mme. D—— rushes, terrified, into Nelly’s room; her child embraces her with only these words: “Adieu—on high—heaven!…” and expires.
The whole town is in consternation.
Margaret is inconsolable; all our friends are weeping. What a death! God has spared her all suffering. Let us pray for her, or rather for her unhappy mother; for I cannot believe that Nelly is not in heaven. Do you recollect that she used to be called the Angel in prayer?
René wishes me to stop here. Adieu, dear Kate.
March 5, 1868.
I have been rather ill, dear Kate, and to-day I am beginning to get up. The doctor forbids me emotion, but as soon might he forbid me to live. Marcella has nursed me like a sister. Anna is growing stronger. How pretty she was, playing with her doll near my bed, silently and gravely, without any demonstrative gayety, but often raising her beautiful eyes to look at me!
I have thus missed the two first Lenten sermons. René has never left me a moment. Dear, kind René! how thoughtful he is, even about the smallest details.
A letter from Isa: still in bed; weak, very weak, but wishing to live, that she may be a comfort to her much-tried family. “Aunt D—— finds no peace but when she is with me. Oh! I can truly say with St. Augustine that the Christian’s life is a cross and martyrdom!”
Hear what René was reading to me this morning: “Every Christian,” says Mgr. de Ségur, “receives in baptism the all-powerful lever of faith and love, capable of moving more than the world. Its fulcrum is heaven; it is Jesus Christ himself, the King of Heaven, whose love brings him down into the heart of each one of his faithful. The prospect of eternity keeps us from fainting. How everything there will change its aspect! Tears will
be turned into joy—a joy divine, eternal, infinite, ineffable, of which none can deprive us for ever.”
May God guard you, dear Kate, and may he guard our Ireland, her cradles and her tombs!
March 8, 1868.
Beautiful sunshine; your Georgina in the drawing-room; René at the piano, making the children sing a quartette. This harmony penetrates my heart. All these deaths had overwhelmed me; I have now recovered my balance of mind. Oh! it is undeniably sad to see so many sister-souls disappear; but they go to God. Each day brings us nearer to the eternal reunion; and your Georgina says, with Mme. Swetchine, that “life is fair and happy, and yet more and more happy, fair, and full of interest.”
Yesterday Monsignor preached at Saint-Euverte; I wished very much to go, but the wish was not reasonable. I must wait until Saturday for my ecstasy. Heard a strange bishop this evening. “I will give thee every good thing.” “The eye of man hath not seen, nor his ear heard, nor his heart conceived what God hath prepared for them that love him.” The preacher employed a profusion of words, thoughts, and images which interfered with his principal idea; and it was only with the greatest difficulty that one could keep hold of it under this overflow, this torrent, this avalanche of expressions, which, although rich and well chosen, were far too superabundant. Monsignor was there. How well he would have treated this fruitful subject! With what genius would he have depicted the immense suffering of man, who, being made for heaven, finds happiness nowhere upon earth, is never satisfied, whilst everything
around him is at rest. “Without being Newton, every man is his brother, and, in proceeding along the paths of science, he can repeat that we are crushed beneath the weight of the things of which we are ignorant.”
Lamartine describes this when he says:
“Mon âme est un rayon de lumière et d’amour,
Qui du flambeau divin détaché pour un jour,
De désirs dévorants loin de Dieu consumée
Brûle de remonter à sa source enflammée!”[80]
Dear, sweet Kate, all the lovable little singing party salutes you. God be with you!
March 11, 1868.
Dear Kate, again there are separations and adieux!
George and Amaury are entering La Trappe!—an unmistakable vocation, I assure you. Adrien and Gertrude are so far above nature since they have seen Pius IX. and suffered for him, that they gave their consent at once. Grandmother clasps her hands and utters the fiat of Job. Brothers and sisters wonder and admire. Happy family! All three chosen, all three marked with the seal of God! I should regret them, if I were their mother—so young, so handsome, rich in every gift of heart and understanding. O life of mothers!—Calvary and Thabor!
I knew nothing of it; they feared I should feel it too much. We all went to Communion this morning, and this evening they leave us.
What! have I not yet spoken to you about Benoni, who says my name so prettily, and who is growing superb? It is an unpardonable forgetfulness on my part. It was
a pleasure to see this baby again, and his parents also, so sincere in their gratitude for the little that a kind Providence has allowed me to do for them!
Evening.—They are gone. Adrien accompanies them; and Gertrude, whom I have just been to see, said to me simply: “Dear Georgina, now I can say Nunc dimittis. Will you thank God with me?” I knelt down by her side, breathless with admiration. O this scene of the adieux! Those two noble heads bent down to receive their grandmother’s blessing; the assembled family; the emotion of all; the last pure kisses—all this may be felt, but cannot be described. I know, I understand, how the Christian cannot render too much to God, who has given him all; but my heart is struck by the contrast between La Trappe and the world. On the one side austerities, silence, anticipated death, manual labor, and forgetfulness of earth; on the other a great name, a large fortune, easy access to any position, renown, and glory. Oh! how well they have chosen.
How I love you, dear Kate! How I love Ireland! I speak of it to the children, and love to hear them say to me, as the multitudes of Ireland said to our great O’Connell: “Yes, we love it; we love Ireland!”
March 14, 1868.
Before going to rest, my beloved sister, I want to tell you that I was this morning at Saint-Euverte, and that I have heard the great bishop. Marcella was with me, especially happy, she said, because of the joy which she read in my looks. I sent back the horses, and we came home by the longest way, as the charming Picciola says, under a bright sun, which illuminated
our bodily eyes, whilst the sunshine of the holy and noble words we had just heard illuminated the vision of our souls and opened out to us vistas of beauty. Dear sister of my life, sister unspeakably beloved, I found you on re-entering—a whole packet of letters, in which at first I saw only your dear handwriting. How truly it is yourself! I gave your beautiful pages to Gertrude: she will tell you herself what effect they have produced. Then Madame D—— with a photograph of the departed child—of Nelly dead! How well I recognized her! This image of death moved me with pity for the poor mother, but I felt nothing like fear. Why should death make me afraid? Would the exiled son returning to his father fear the rapid crossing which would restore him to his country, his affections, and his happiness? And where is our country, where are our affections and happiness to be found, except in heaven, in God, who alone can satisfy our desires? Mother St. Maurice only sends me a few words, but so kind and tender. Margaret writes me the sweetest things; she complains of my silence, and informs me that the little cradle she is adorning with so much care and love will soon receive its expected guest. Karl is coming to us; reasons of fitness and of affection have detained him, but his desire is more ardent than ever. Oh! to think of seeing him without Ellen. Kate, what is life?
I am going to sleep, but first I wish to ascertain whether Anna is free from fever. Marcella was uneasy this evening.
They are both asleep, beautiful enough to charm the angels. The little one’s breathing is calm and gentle. I prayed by her, placing
myself also under the sheltering wing of the invisible Guardian.
I salute yours, and embrace you, dearest Kate.
March 16, 1868.
“As on high, so also here below, to love and to be loved—this is happiness.” Oh! how truly he speaks, and how I realize it every day! Your tender affection, dearest Kate, that of René, and of all the kind hearts around me—this is heaven, or, at least, that which leads one thither.
Mid-Lent, and the Feast of St. Joseph—this sweet and great saint, so powerful in heaven. O most glorious patriarch, who didst behold, and bear in thy arms the Messias desired by thy fathers, foretold by thine ancestor David and all the prophets, how favored wert thou of the Lord! Marcella said to me: “I have a particular devotion for St. Joseph, and a boundless confidence in him; I have often thought that he must have known a multitude of things about our Lord which no one has ever known.” O St. Joseph! remember those who invoke you in exile. What an admirable existence! What a long poem from the day when the rod of the carpenter blossomed in the Temple to that when Joseph expires in the arms of Jesus and Mary, the two whom every Christian would wish to have by him when on his death-bed! Never did any man receive a mission more divine than was entrusted by the Almighty to St. Joseph. I love to picture him to myself, grave, recollected, seraphic, accompanying Mary, that sweet young flower whom the angels loved to contemplate, leading her over the mountains to Hebron, to the abode of Elizabeth, then to Bethlehem and the Crib, then into Egypt—a long
and painful journey through the desert. Did those who met the Patriarch, the humble and holy Virgin, and her dear Treasure suppose that it was the Salvation of the world who was passing by?
Evening.—Karl is here, dear Kate, more grave and saintly than ever; his feet on earth, his heart in heaven! He gives us a week. Adrien arrived at the same time—two souls formed to understand one another. Letters from Ireland, where Karl’s departure is causing general regret. We spoke of Ellen—an inexhaustible subject. Karl was moved as he listened to me; there are so many memories of my childhood to which those of Ellen are united, making them doubly sweet.
Marcella, René, and Karl are wanting this letter to send to the post. Good-night, dear sister.
March 21, 1868.
Dear Kate, I send you my notes, freshly made; you will kindly return them to me, that I may send them off to Margaret. We are visiting the churches with Karl. Anna and all the dear little people salute Mme. Kate. God guard you from all harm, dear sister!
March 25, 1868.
Dearest Kate, what will you think of your Georgina getting the Conférences aux Femmes du Monde[81] into a religious house? But my Kate understands me; that is enough for me. O amica mea, gaudium meum et corona mea! The beautiful Saturday did not end at Saint-Euverte: splendid festival at Sainte-Croix, the fiftieth anniversary of the priesthood of the good curé. It was magnificent, and the music also—like the hymns of heaven. To-day the Annunciation,
the commencement of the Redemption. What a feast! How I should like, as in our childhood, to spend the day in prayer!
O sweetest Virgin, what a most fair memory in your glory! Gabriel, one of the seven archangels continually at the feet of the Eternal, spreads his wings, and from the heights of the everlasting hills descends into the valleys of Judea. Celestial messenger, you doubtless cast a glance of pity on the abodes of opulence and the vanities of the world; or rather, you saw them not. Absorbed in your admiration at the mercy of the Almighty, you adored and gave thanks. And now a Virgin of Nazareth, in the tranquillity of prayer and love, is suddenly dazzled by an unknown light, and the archangel salutes her in the sublime words which will be repeated by Catholic hearts to all generations: “Ave, gratia plena!” O Mary! from this day forth you are our Mother, the Mother of our Salvation. O Handmaid of the Lord, humble and sweet Mother! obtain for my soul humility and love.
Hail to the spring, the swallows, the periwinkles, all the renewal of nature! How good is God, to have made our exile so fair! Oh! how I enjoy everything, dear Kate.
Presented Karl with the portrait of Ellen, painted from memory. His silent tears expressed his thanks. I have made him also sit for his likeness; it will be a precious remembrance of this true friend. Who knows whether we shall ever meet again in this world? Thus the days pass away, shared between regret and hope.
The good abbé is delighted with the progress of his pupils. Anna grows visibly stronger. I am reading Dante with René. Ah! dearest, how magnificent it is. Marcella
speaks Greek and Latin, and wishes me to read Homer and Virgil in the original. Wish me good success, dear. A long walk; met a little beggar, whom Picciola fraternally embraced. What a pretty scene, and how I afterwards kissed my dear pet!
Love me always, dear Kate.
March 28, 1868.
Darling Kate, I send you my notes without adding anything, because we have Karl with us for only one more day. O these departures! Laus Deo always, nevertheless.
March 30, 1868.
Dear sister, Karl is gone! I am not sorry; I shall see him again, and he will then be nearer to God. How happy it is to feel that God is the bond of our souls! Yesterday, Sunday, his last in the life of the world, we went together to Sainte-Croix, where we heard a long sermon, a veritable encyclopædia: Godfrey de Bouillon at Jerusalem; Maria Theresa in Hungary, with the shout of the magnates in French and in Latin; the proud Sicambre listening to the Bishop Remy; St. Elizabeth on the throne, and then in penury; St. Thomas writing sublime pages before his crucifix; St. Francis of Assisi receiving the stigmata; St. Bernard; St. Catherine of Genoa; the Crusaders; Magdalen at the foot of the cross; Veronica wiping the face of our Saviour, etc., etc., appearing in it by turns. A day of unspeakable serenity. Karl sang the Lætatus for his adieu. Dearest sister, how happy Ellen must be!
You will see Karl. Tell me if you do not find him transfigured. We read, during his too short stay with us, the life of Mme. St. Notburg, by M. de Beauchesne—another
saint in Protestant Germany, a French saint, though her tomb is there. I have asked Karl to take you this book; read, and see how excellent it is!
And so the month of St. Joseph is ended! O protector of temporal things! guard well all whom I love.
Marcella, my winning Marcella, is a poet; I ought to have told you this. I gave her a surprise: her most feeling lines have been printed in a newspaper, which I managed to put before her eyes. She blushed and grew pale—the first emotion of authorship. Poor heart! for so long severed from love, and which so soon lost that whereon it leaned. “O Madonna mia! how good God is,” she often repeats with ecstasy in admiring her beautiful little Anna, who grows wonderfully. I think this child was too much kept in a hot-house, when she had need of air, space, and movement. I can understand how her mother may well doat on her: she has a way of looking at you, kissing you, and of bending her forehead to be kissed, quite irresistible. Carissima, how I love her, and how fondly I love my Kate!
René is writing to you; everybody would like to do the same.
April 3, 1868.
Feast of the Compassion. Stabat Mater Dolorosa! Have I mentioned to you the new frescoes of Recouvrance, dear Kate?—the birth and espousals of the Blessed Virgin. The first does not impress me; but the second! The high-priest is admirable; his purple robe gleams like silk. Mary is not so beautiful as in Raphael’s pictures. I have undertaken a painting on ivory which I wish to send to the amiable Châtelaine in Brittany, whom I think you cannot have forgotten. I am making
Anna sit for her portrait, she looks so sweet.
Mgr. de Ségur, author of the poem of St. Francis, has just written a tragic poem, St. Cecilia. What a fine subject, and how well the writer has been inspired! Isa must read it. You see whether my life is occupied or not. God, the poor, the family, friendship, study—my mind is full!
The language of Homer no longer appears to me so difficult as at first. But Latin—oh! this is charming, and I delight in it; in the first place, because I am still at rosa and rosarium. What a head Marcella has! She has learnt everything, and sings like Nilsson. If only you could hear her in La Juive! This is profane music; but we have pious also, and Marcella enjoys Hermann.
This note will be slipped into the envelope destined for Karl. Lizzy announces to me her visit. Good-night, carissima sorella.
April 5, 1868.
And so we are in Holy Week, my sister. I have here a blessed palm, sweet and gracious souvenir of the Saviour’s entry into Jerusalem. O King of Peace! bring peace to souls. Have pity upon us; assemble together at thy holy table both the prodigal sons and the faithful; grant peace to thy church! To all troubled hearts, to all those who suffer, to those who are oppressed and persecuted, give the hope of heaven—of that eternal dwelling where all tears will be wiped away, where all lips will drink of the stream of delights, and where every heart will receive the fulfilment of its desires. Why does Lent come to an end? I could listen for ever to the lovely chants of the Miserere, the Attende, the Stabat Mater, and the Parce Domine.
No sermon, to my mind, equals the Stabat Mater, sung alternately by the choir-boys, with their pure, melodious, aërial voices, and the men who fill the nave, and who, varying in their social position, fortune, and a thousand things besides, are one in the same faith, the same hope, and the same charity.
Dear Kate, I shall send you on the day of Alleluias my journal of the week. Thanks for having allowed me to come to you as usual during this Lent; to read you and talk to you is a part of my life.
A thousand kisses, my very dearest.
April 6, 1868.
My sweet sister, I have just come in with René from Mass. We communicated side by side, like the martyrs of the catacombs. As we came out, and while still under the deep impression of the presence of God, René proposed to me a sacrifice—that of not speaking to each other, at any rate without absolute necessity, during this week. My heart felt rather full—it will cost me so much; but how could I help consenting? Oh! but how love longs to speak to the object loved. I shall have to throw myself into a whirl of things, and absorb myself in them, that I may not find this privation quite insupportable.
7th.—Yesterday evening, at Sainte-Croix, Monsignor spoke for about twenty-five minutes. I was too far off to hear, but I was none the less happy. I am reading Mgr. de Ségur; his teaching is gentle and loving, even when he speaks of self-renunciation and sacrifice. Nothing is more comforting than his little work, Jesus Living in Us. I remarked this thought of Origen’s: “Thou art heaven, and thou wilt go to heaven!”—Confession. How
well the good father was inspired! What wise directions! I came out strengthened and courageous; but alas! alas! poor, sorrowful me, on coming in I found a letter awaiting me—a letter from Margaret. Lizzy is greatly indisposed, and obliged to give up her journey. This made me shed tears, and, as René did not ask the cause of my pain, I repented for a moment that I had undertaken so hard a sacrifice. Dear Kate, it was very wrong, and your Georgina is always the same.
8th.—Letter from Sarah, full of joy; her sister Betsy is to be married on the 22d, and wishes for me to be at her wedding. Kind friend! God grant that she may be happy! Until this present time, with the exception of the terrible strokes of death which have fallen not far from her on the friends of her childhood, her life has been calm and happy, almost privileged. She has never left her mother.
Marcella, Lucy, and I are preparing an Easter-tree for all the darlings. I have been studying very much lately; Marcella mia assures me that I make wonderful progress.
Benoni does not expect to share in the festivity, but he must; and how joyfully he will clap his hands at the sight of the playthings hung there for him!
My paralytic told me yesterday that she would like to make her Easter Communion next Thursday—that is, to-morrow. Gertrude and I must rise with the dawn to make an escort for the gentle Jesus, the Comforter of the infirm and poor. Ah! dear Kate, how much I should dislike the life of a Chartreux. To see René and not be able to speak to him, when I feel such a want to pour out my thoughts to him, is a
martyrdom. So far, thanks to our good angels, we have not been found out, and we have not said a single word to each other.
9th.—What emotions! My poor and venerable paralytic has just died in my arms. I return to pass the night by her. Gertrude undertook to obtain René’s permission. She communicated this morning in ecstasy, and blessed us afterwards. As I observed something unusual about her, I begged Marianne to go several times. A long walk to the different sepulchres in the churches with our train of little angels, and without René, who avoids me, from which we returned home at six o’clock. I found a line from Marianne, entreating me to join her as soon as possible; so I hurried away with Gertrude. The dear sufferer had scarcely a breath of life left. “I was waiting for you that I might die.… Thanks!… May God reward you!” Dear Kate, I was ready to drop from fatigue, but I know not what exciting power sustains me.
10th.—O Christ Jesus! who saidst: “When I shall be lifted up from the earth, I will draw all unto me,” draw all hearts for ever unto thyself. René passed the night by the lowly couch with me, and we came home together, still without speaking. This evening, at Sainte-Croix, heard Mgr. Dupanloup. The force and authority of his language make a deep impression upon his hearers. “There is in Christianity everything which can naturally go to the heart of man.” How he speaks of the Crib and of Calvary; of the Mother whom we find with the Holy Child at Bethlehem, and again with him upon the cross! When the clock struck eight, he stopped. How eloquent he is! He quoted our
Lord’s words, “He who shall say Lord, Lord, will not, for that reason only, enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that shall do the will of my Father who is in heaven”; “The same shall be to me as a brother, a sister, a mother”; and this thought of Rousseau’s: “There is in Christianity something so divine, so intensely inimitable, that God alone could have been its author. If any man had been able to invent such a doctrine, he would be greater than any hero.”
Mgr. la Carrière preached an hour and a half. Remarked this passage: “Pilate washes his hands. Oh! there is blood upon those hands. Were the waters of the Deluge to pass over them, still would they keep the stain of blood!” This reminds me of Macbeth, where, looking on his murderous hands, he says:
“What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes.
Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.”
11th.—Was present at the funeral of this saintly friend, whom God had given me through Hélène. Looked through Marcella’s manuscript books, in one of which she wrote a year ago: “Cymodoceus said: ‘When shall I find again my bed of roses, and the light of day, so dear to mortals?’ And all this harmonious page put in his mouth by Chateaubriand. And I, for my part, say: When shall I again find heaven, from whence I feel that I came? When shall I find the happiness of which I dream, and which I know too well there is no possibility of finding here below? When shall I find eternal beauty, eternal light, eternal life? But before that
hour grant, O Lord! that in this world I may find, in the shadow of thy cross, that peace which thou hast promised to men of good-will; grant that, for myself and my child, I may find a little rest after the storm! Give us the heavenly manna; overshadow us with the bright cloud; grant us, above all, to be beloved by thee!”
St. Teresa used to say: “The soul ought to think that there is nothing in the world but God and herself.” René must have meditated on that.
12th.—Alleluia! dear Kate, Alleluia! No more penance, no more of this torturing silence which so resembles death; but now talking to each other without ceasing, songs, letters, walks—and always prayers.
What will you think of my week, carissima? Oh! I could not have borne it longer; I found René too holy for my unworthiness. Not a word, not a look. It was like the visible presence of my guardian angel. How delightful it is to hear his voice again!
Went to the Mass for the general communion of the men; no spectacle on earth can be more admirable or more touching. This scene was worth far more than a sermon—this multitude of men, so perfectly attentive and earnest, singing heartily the sweet hymns they all had sung on the day of their First Communion! And what joy to see in this Christian assembly those to whom I am bound by affection, and to feel myself united in the grand fraternity of the faith to all these happy guests at the Lord’s table!
The benediction was all that can be imagined of religious and magnificent. What singing, what alleluias, making one think of those of the angels! Why do such days
ever end? O risen Saviour! grant that we may rise with thee.
Benoni was out of himself with joy. The meditative Anna jumped about in her delight. The festivity was perfect, and, to crown it, news arrived which I will send you as my adieu. Margaret is at the summit of happiness, the
Doux berceau qu’une main jalouse
Orne et visite à chaque instant,
Charme des songes d’épouse
Doux nid, où l’espérance attend.[82]
has received the little stranger sent by Heaven. Let us bless God, dear Kate! Alleluia! Christ is risen! Happy they who live and die in his love! Alleluia!
April 16, 1868.
Thanks, dear sister! I have translated Mgr. Dupanloup at Saint-Euverte for Isa. Lizzy is better; they had been too much alarmed about her, but they are expecting us there. Lord William sends us the most pressing and affectionate appeals. Sarah also writes to me, gravely this time: “My sister’s marriage will separate her from us. Two sisters will henceforth be wanting to this family group; the one, and that the happiest, enkindled with love for the Best-Beloved of her soul, left the world for God and his poor, and, shortly afterwards, the poor for eternity; the other is going into Spain.”
Imagine Margaret’s joy! Dear, sweet friend, how, with her, I bless God! “No baptism without Georgina.” Oh! how I long to embrace the dear little creature, to whom I send my guardian angel a hundred times a day. I am so anxious he should live!
Walk in the country, alone with René, who read me some letters from Karl, George, and Amaury; the latter will write to their uncles no more. What detachment! René read to me also this beautiful passage from Madame Swetchine from the notes of Hélène: “The day of the Lord is not of those days which pass away. Wait for it without impatience; wait, that God may bless the desires which lead you toward a better life, more meritorious and less perilous; wait, that he may give abundant work to your hands from henceforth laborious, for the opportunity of labor is also a grace by which the good-will of the laborer is recompensed. Let not your delays and miseries trouble you; wait, learn how to wait. Efforts and will, means and end—submit all to God.”
It is not Monsignor who will preach the panegyric. The great bishop waits until next year. It appears that various beatifications are about to be taken under consideration, amongst others those of Christopher Columbus and Joan of Arc. The first discovered a world, the second saved France by delivering it from a foreign yoke—living as a saint and dying as a martyr; the former, a marvellous genius, was tried and persecuted, like everything which is specially marked with the seal of God in this world. I have seen persons smile when any one spoke before them of the possibility of the canonization of Joan of Arc. What life, however, was more extraordinary and more miraculous? Would this shepherdess of sixteen years old, so humble, gentle, and pious, have quitted her hamlet and her family for the stormy life of camps, without the express will of God, manifested to her by the voices? Poor Joan! How
often have I pictured her to myself, after the saving of the gentil dauphin who had trusted in her words, weeping because the king insisted on her remaining. From that moment her life was a preparation for martyrdom. She knew that shortly she should die.
Adrien has given me the history of Christopher Columbus in English. You are aware that this son of Genoa, this heroic discoverer, wore the tunic and girdle of the Third Order when he landed on that shore, so long dreamed of, which gave a new world to the church of God. It is said that this great man had at times ecstasies of faith and love. What glory for the family of the patriarch of Assisi! Edouard assured me yesterday that Raphael and Michael Angelo were also of the Third Order. This austerity appears naturally to suit the painter of the Last Judgment, but I cannot picture to myself the young, brilliant, and magnificent Sanzio in a serge habit. What centuries were those, my sister, when power and greatness and splendor sought after humility as a safeguard, and followed in the footsteps of the chosen one of God, who, in the lofty words of Dante, had espoused on Mount Alverna noble Poverty, who had had no spouse since Jesus Christ had died on Calvary! Poetry was not wanting to the crown of the Seraph of Assisi, himself so admirable a poet. Lopez de Vega was also of the Third Order.
Adrien says that our age has had its Francis of Assisi in the heavenly Curé d’Ars, who is perhaps the greatest marvel in this epoch, fertile as it is in miracles. How much we regret not having seen him, especially as we passed so near!
Picciola has the measles. This pretty child is attacked by a violent
fever; it is sad to see her, but she will not suffer herself to be pitied. “Our Lord suffered much more,” she says. “What is this?” You see, sister, that hereabouts the children of the saints have not degenerated.
Anna, who had the measles last year, faithfully keeps the sick child company. I overheard them talking just now. “Would you like to get well quickly?” asked the Italiana. “Oh! no, I am not sorry to suffer a little to prepare for my First Communion.” “For my part, though, I pray with all my heart that you may soon get up; it is too sad to see you so red under your curtains, whilst the sun is shining out there.” “Listen to me, dear: ask the good God to help me to suffer well, without my mother being troubled about it. We are not to enjoy ourselves in this world, as M. l’Abbé says, but to merit heaven.” I slipped away, lest my tears should betray me: I am afraid that Picciola may also leave us.
Pray for your Georgina, dear Kate.
April 22, 1868.
The wish of this little angel has been granted: her measles torture her; there are very large spots which greatly perplex the doctor. She is as if on fire, but always smiling and thoughtful, and so grateful for the least thing done for her! What an admirable disposition she has! Last night the femme de chambre, whose duty it was to watch by her, went to sleep, and the poor little one was for six hours without drinking; the doctor having ordered her to take a few spoonfuls of tisane every quarter of an hour. It was the sleeper who told us of this; and when I gently scolded the darling Picciola, she whispered to me: “Dear aunt, I heard you mention what the good gentleman said
who founded the company of St. Sulpice: ‘A Christian is another Jesus Christ on earth.’ Let me, then, suffer a little in union with our Lord.”
What do you say to this heavenly science, this perfect love, in a child of twelve years old? O my God! is she too pure for this world? They assure me that there is no danger, but my heart is in anguish. Kate, I do so love this child!
It is to-day that Betsy becomes madame. What a day for her! Yesterday she was still a young girl, to-morrow will begin her life as a wife; she will begin it by sacrifice. Oh! why must we quit the soft nests which have witnessed our childhood and our happiness? Why comes there an hour when we must bid adieu to those who, with their love and care, protected our first years? Poor mothers! you lose your much-loved treasures; they will some day belong to others.
Père Gratry was received at the Academy on the 26th of March. On his reception he made a magnificent discourse. He was presented by Mgr. Dupanloup.
“Gentlemen,” said the father on beginning his address, “it is not my humble person, it is the clergy of France, the memories of the Sorbonne and the Oratory, which you have intended to honor in deigning to call me to the seat occupied by Massillon.
“Voltaire, gentlemen, who occupied the same, thus finds himself, in your annals, between two priests of the Oratory, and his derision of mankind is enclosed between two prayers for the world, as his century itself will also be, one day in our history, enclosed between the great seventeenth century and the age of luminous faith which will love God and man in spirit and in truth.”
Kate, dearest, amica mia, pray for us.
April 26, 1868.
She is better; the ninth day was good. God be praised! Last night, while watching by the sweet child, I turned over Marcella’s manuscript. How the thorns have wounded her! Oh! it is a nameless grief, at the age of twenty years, when the soul is overflowing with life and love, to be forced to shrink within one’s self, to hide one’s sufferings and joys, and repress all the ardor of youth which is longing to break forth. Everywhere in these rapidly-written pages I find this prayer: “Lord, grant me the love of the cross; give me the science of salvation! St. Bonaventure used to say that he had learnt everything at the foot of the crucifix; St. Thomas, when he did not understand, was wont to go and lean his powerful head against the side of the tabernacle; and Suarez, who devoted eight hours a day to study and eight to prayer, loved to say that he would give all his learning for the merit of a single Ave Maria. My God, my God! will the desires which thou hast implanted within me never be realized? Must I lead always a wandering and isolated existence, beneath distant skies, mourning my country and my mother, and seeing around me nothing which could in some little measure replace these two blessings? Must the sensitiveness of my thoughts and feelings be hourly wounded? Lord, thy will be done! And if this is to be my cross, then give me strength to bear it lovingly, even to the end, until the blessed time when thy merciful Providence shall reunite me to my mother!”
My beloved Kate, René is writing to you, and I send this sheet
with his. Whenever I read anything beautiful, I long to show it to you.
God guard you, my second mother!
April 30, 1868.
Complete and prosperous convalescence—laus Deo! I sent you a few words only, dear Kate, on the morning of the 26th. This was a most happy day. Heard three Masses; received, with deep joy, him who is the Supreme Good. It was the Feast of the Adoration. The cathedral was splendid. Sermon by M. Berthaud on the Real Presence. It contained some admirable passages, especially on Luther and the Mass of the Greeks.
On the 27th was at the Benediction. Heard a Quid Retribuant and Regina Cœli which carried one away. In the evening René read with me a page of Hélène’s journal; I should like to enshrine all the thoughts of this exquisite soul. Last year, at Paris, she wrote the following:
“Was present this morning at the profession of Louise de C——. Sermon by the Père G——. I was much moved when the sisters sang the De Profundis whilst Sister St. Paul, prostrate under the funeral pall, consecrated to God for ever her being and her life; then the priest said aloud: ‘Arise, thou who art dead! Go forth from among the dead!’ Happy death! Henceforth Louise lives no more for the world; it is no longer anything to her. She is here below as if alone with God, and with God alone. Happy, says Pope, the spotless virgin who, ‘the world forgetting,’ is ‘by the world forgot.’ O religious life! how admirable and divine. I remember that a few years ago, in the youthful and poetic ardor of my enthusiastic soul, I wondered that the world was not an immense convent,
that all hearts did not burn with the love of Jesus, and thought it strange that any should affiance themselves to man instead of to Christ. What disappointments and misery are in all terrestrial unions! Even in such as are sanctified and blessed is there not the shadow which, on one side or another, darkens all the horizon of this world? No union could be ever more perfect than that of Alexandrine and Albert, and Alexandrine had ten days of perfect happiness, of unmixed felicity—ten days; and afterwards, how many tears for this admirable wife by her suffering Albert, and, later, over his tomb! O joys of this world! do you deserve the name?
“My family has been greatly privileged hitherto, so united, so happy! But I am going away, mixing wormwood with the honey in my mother’s cup. How Aunt Georgina will also suffer! O grief to cause so many griefs! This evening I went to Ernestine’s with mamma. The mother and two daughters were magnificent—just ready to go to the ball. What a contrast! This morning the Virgin of the Lord, this evening the world and its pomps. Mme. de V—— looked like a queen; my two friends were in clouds of tulle. May all the angels protect them! Are there angels at a ball? Oh! it is there above all that we need to be guarded. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God!”
Dear Kate, you can understand how such reading as this consoles Gertrude. Oh! how good God is.
We are going to have great festivities. The Concours Régional[83] begins on the 2d; the emperor and empress will be here on the
10th. On the 12th René and I are going to see you, dear Kate, while all the rest of the family take flight into Brittany. Then, after the best and happiest day of the twins, in July, we shall, I hope, go all together to see “merry England” and our dear Ireland.
Good-night, dear Kate; I have studied so much to-day that my head feels heavy. Adieu, my dear heart, as Madame Louise used to say.
May 3, 1868.
The month dear to poets, and still dearer to pious hearts, is come. Three Masses, visits, a walk on the Mall, a family concert after the month of Mary—this, dearest, is my day. Yesterday René set out at dawn on an excursion with Adrien. They have a passion for these long walks through the woods. While waiting until Marcella could receive me, I plunged into the History of St. Paula, which my mother-in-law has given me. This beautiful book is written by M. l’Abbé Lagrange. A disciple of the great bishop is easily recognizable in these magnificent pages. St. Jerome, whom M. de Montalembert calls the lion of Christian polemics, is there fully portrayed. “This ardent soul which breathes of the desert.” Remarked this passage in the introduction: “God has not bestowed all gifts upon them” (women), “nor spared them all weaknesses; but it is the privilege of their delicate and sensitive natures that the faith, when it has penetrated them, not only enlightens but enkindles them—it burns; and this sacred gift of passion and enthusiasm carries them on to wondrous heights of virtue.”
And elsewhere: “Will not the accents of St. Jerome, filled as they are, according to the expression of
an illustrious writer, with the tears of his time, wonderfully impress souls wearied by the spectacles with which we are surrounded, and which have within them, as the poet says, the tears of all things? For those who have other sadnesses and other tears, inward sorrows, hidden wounds, some of those sorrows of which life is full—these, at least, will not weary of contemplating a saint who has herself suffered so much, and who was transfigured in her sufferings because she had the secret of knowing how to suffer, which is knowing how to love.”
Do you not seem to hear Mgr. Dupanloup in this? “There are times when a struggle is necessary, and when, in spite of its bitterness and dangers, we must plunge into it, cost what it may. No doubt that, as far as happiness is concerned, tranquillity and repose would be far preferable—repose, allowable for timid hearts incapable of defending a cause and holding a flag, or of comprehending a wide range of view, or the generosity of militant souls; but we ought to know how to respect and honor those who engage in the combat—often at the price of unspeakable inward sorrows, and even at times giving evidence of weakness and human passion—in the cause of truth and justice.”
How fine it is! I want to read this book with René. Reading is a delightful relaxation. I sometimes read to my mother, who finds herself more solitary since I became so studious, and since the house is changed into an academy. Highly educated herself, she takes much interest in our studies, but is quickly fatigued. What pleasure it is to sit at her feet on a footstool which her kind hands have worked for
me, whilst she leans back her fine, intellectual head in her large easy-chair; to listen to her narratives, and to revisit the past with her! How truly she is a mother to me! Marcella has an enthusiastic veneration for her, and calls her by the same name that we do. Was not our meeting at Hyères providential, dear Kate?
Picciola is pressing me to go out. Good-by, dearest.
May 8, 1868.
What splendid festivities, dear sister! Sumptuous carpets and hangings of velvet have been sent from the crown wardrobe. The cathedral resembled the vestibule of heaven; and yet I prefer the austere grandeur of the bare columns to all this pomp. It was a beautiful sight, nevertheless, with the paintings, the banners, the escutcheons. It was imposing, but the presence of the Creator was forgotten in the vanities of earth; people were talking and laughing in this cathedral, usually full of subdued light and of silence.
The panegyric was equal to the occasion. I was delighted. What eloquence! It was the Abbé Baunard, the gentle author of the Book of the First Communion and of the Perseverance, who pronounced it.
This quiet city is in a state of agitation not to be imagined; the streets are encumbered with strangers, and there is noise enough to split one’s head. Last year there was a general emulation to point out to me the minutest details of the fête; to-day Marcella was the heroine. I like to see her, radiant, enchanted, eager, while the delicate Anna clings to my arm, her large eyes sparkling with pleasure. We are so numerous that we divide, in order to avoid in some degree
the looks of curiosity. My dear Italians are much disputed for.
The twins care no more to be here. Brittany has for them an invincible attraction. Happy souls, who are about to live their fairest day! Pray for them and for us, dear Kate!
May 10, 1868.
Dearest, the sovereigns are come and gone. Did I tell you about the Concours Régional? Every day I take the little people thither; there is a superb flower-show, orange-trees worthy of Campania, etc.
M. Bougaud pronounced a discourse upon agriculture, and with admirable fitness quoted our Lamartine:
“Objets inanimés, avez-vous donc une âme,
Qui s’attache à notre âme et la force d’aimer?”[84]
But I shall see you soon—a happiness worth all the rest, dear Kate. Shall I own to you that I regret Orleans because of Sainte-Croix, Notre Dame des Miracles, and our poor, besides so many things one feels but cannot express in words?
Benoni cries as soon as he hears us speak of going away. I observed in the Annales the following gloomy words by M. Bougaud: “Gratitude is in great souls, but not in the vulgar; and as the soul of human nature is vulgar, it is only allowable in childhood to reckon upon the gratitude of men; but when we have had a nearer view of them, we place our hopes higher, since only God is grateful.” May God preserve me from learning this truth by experience! Hitherto I have found none but good hearts, the poor of Paradise!
Margaret presses me affectionately to make all diligence to go and embrace her baby. Isa is looking
for me “as for a sunbeam.” Lizzy also unites her reiterated entreaties. Betsy is installed at Cordova, and praises her new country so highly that I am longing to see it.
Dear Kate, the twins are just come to me as a deputation to say that I am waited for, to go in choir to the exhibition of the Society of the Friends of Art at the Hôtel de Ville; it appears that there is no one just now.…
Later I will return to you.
I will not conclude without giving you another quotation from M. Lagrange: “Great sacrifices, which touch all that is most delicate, tender, and profound in the heart, even to the dividing asunder of the soul, according to the words of Holy Scripture, possess a sternness which cannot be measured or even suspected beforehand. There is a strange difference between wishing to make a sacrifice and making it. In vain we may be ready and resolute; the moment of accomplishment has always something in it more poignant than we had thought; the stroke which cuts away the last tie always gives an unexpected wrench. Every great design of God here below would be impossible, if the souls whom he chooses were always to let themselves be stopped by human obstacles.” Kate, Hélène, Ellen, Karl, Georgina, have felt this!
Did I mention to you the impression made on me by a story in the Revue, “Flaminia”? It is singularly beautiful, and quite in agreement with my belief.
Would you believe that here there are Jews and a synagogue, and also an “Evangelical Church”? They say that the minister is very agreeable, and that he goes into society. Protestants inspire me with so much compassion! A Protestant boarding-school
was pointed out to me. What a pity that one cannot snatch away these poor young girls from a loveless worship!
Good-by, dear Kate, until the day after to-morrow. René sends all sorts of kind messages.
May 25, 1868.
Our oasis is resplendent, dear sister. Your good angel Raphael has sweetly protected us; not the smallest inconvenience; the delicious sensation that our sister-souls are more united than ever. To be alone with René, who is worth a thousand worlds—what delight! The air was pure, the country bright with fresh verdure, the birds joyous. Charming journey! At Tours a letter from Gertrude apprises me that all the W—— family is in villeggiatura at X——. We hasten thither, and are received like welcome guests. What a happy meeting!—an enchantment which lasted two days, at the end of which we bade a tearful adieu. But the arrival here—oh! what heart-felt joy! Everybody out to meet us, with flowers, shouts, and vivats. Dearest Kate, earth is too fair!
Marcella is in love with Brittany, our coasts and wild country-places. Everything around us is budding or singing; the children run about in the fields of broom. We read, we play music; and our poor are not forgotten. The twins are preparing themselves with great earnestness. M. l’Abbé gives them sermons, to which we all listen with much profit. Kate, do you remember my First Communion? Good-by, carissima.
May 28, 1868.
René is gone away to see his farms. Why am I so earthly that a single hour without him should
be painful? Adrien was just now reading that fine page of St. Augustine where he says: “Human life is full of short-lived joys, prolonged sorrows, and attachments which are frail and passing.”
When will heaven be ours, that the joys of meeting again may never end? We are preparing some beautiful music for Sunday. Why are not you to be there with your sweet voice, dear sister? My mother would have liked to see you, but she made the sacrifice of not doing so that we might have the pleasure of a tête-à-tête. What do you think of that! Dear, kind mother! Do you know she had a charming and idolized daughter, who died at the age of sixteen? She died here, where everything speaks of her; and it is for this reason that Mme. de T—— likes to return hither, and goes daily to the cemetery. I am told that I resemble her, this soul ascended to heaven, and every one finds it natural that there should be the perfect intimacy which exists between my mother and myself.
Marcella and Greek are waiting for me. Long live old Homer, long live Brittany, long live Kate!
Evening.—It is ten o’clock, and René is not come in. Adrien and Edouard are gone to wait for him, while I am dying of anxiety. Prayers without him seemed to me so sad! My mother also is uneasy. Where is he? Oh! where can he be?
29th.—The night has been a long one. Adrien and Edouard came back after having sought for him in
all the neighborhood. The servants were sent out in different directions. I went in and out, listening to the slightest noise.… Nobody! My mother sent every one away and was praying. Impossible to remain in any one place. I was full of the most terrible conjectures. At last, at four o’clock in the morning, I hear a carriage. It is he! it is René—poor René, covered with dust, more anxious than we, on account of our alarm. Would you like to know the cause of this delay? It is like the parable of the Good Samaritan. René met with a poor old man who had hurt himself in cutting wood, and, after binding up the wound with some herbs and a pocket-handkerchief, he put him in the carriage and took him back to his cottage, which was at a great distance off. There he found a dying woman, who asked for a priest. To hasten to the nearest village and fetch the curé was René’s first thought. There was no sacristan, so René took the place of one, and passed the whole night between the dying woman and the wounded man. The good curé had other sick to attend to, but at two o’clock he arrived, and relieved God’s sentinel[85] (this is what the sweet Picciola calls him), who started homewards at a gallop.
You may imagine whether I am not very happy at this history. And yet I suffered very much; I feared everything, even death.
Love us, dear Kate.
TO BE CONTINUED.
[80] My soul is a ray of light and love, which, being separated for a day from the torch of divinity, far from God, is consumed by ardent aspirations, and burns to reascend to its fiery source.
[81] Conferences for Women in the World.
“Soft cradle which a jealous hand
Adorns and visits every hour,
Charm of the wife’s imaginings,
Soft nest, whereby hope waits.”
[83] Provincial Exhibition.
[84] Objects inanimate, have you, then, a soul which binds itself to ours and forces it to love?
[85] Le factionnaire du Bon Dieu.