Of the three, Picciola is still the most fervent. I am suspected of partiality with regard to her. Oh! if you saw her kneeling in the chapel, when a ray of sunshine plays upon her fair locks, you would say she was an angel. Dearest Kate, the great day draws near! I say nothing about our processions, our lovely reposoirs, the babies scattering roses—I should write until to-morrow. Pray with me.
June 26, 1868.
Dearest, I feel tired after my walk on the sands, and would fain rest myself with you, and talk to you again of the twins and of Anna, whose joy makes me fear for her, so fragile is her pretty frame. Marcella has given me a holiday from my Greek; she and Berthe no more quit their darlings. And I, who have no maternal rights over these almost celestial souls, leave them a little to their mutual happiness, and isolate myself the more with René. Our subjects of conversation are always grave—God, heaven, eternity. We had visitors on the 24th; beautiful fires of St. John in the evening. O son of Elizabeth and Zacharias, voice of one crying in the desert, the greatest among the children of men! give me of your humility, your love of penitence and sacrifice.
Isa sends me a few lines, all enkindled with the love of God. Sarah, returned from Spain, is much amused at certain hidalgos, and quotes me the words of Shakspere: “Were it only for their noses, one would take them for the counsellors of Pepin or Clothair, so high do they carry them and so imposing is their mark.”
I have not told you of our fête
on the 19th for the twenty-second anniversary of the elevation of the holy and venerated Pius IX to the pontificate. What will arise out of all the trials of the Papacy? Solomon, after tasting every kind of enjoyment and happiness, exclaimed: “Vanity of vanities! all is vanity.” It is deeply sad hitherto, but consolation will come at last; it is like a ray from heaven. “All is vanity, except to love God and serve him.” Let us love, then, let us serve, God, who is so full of love. Everything is there! Isa writes to me: “When shall we say, Quotidie morior?” Alas! I have not arrived at this perfection.
My good René has published, in an English periodical, a remarkable article, about which I want to have your opinion. We are convinced here that no means ought to be neglected that may serve the cause of God, and that every Catholic’s sphere of action is wider than he thinks. Oh! how right you are, dear Kate. “All our actions ought to preach the Gospel.”
Was present at a funeral yesterday evening—a young girl of fifteen. I thought of the beautiful verses by Brizeux on the death of Louise. What a picture!—the poor and lowly funeral train amid the magnificence of Nature, who gave to the youthful dead that which was not afforded her by men. I seem still to behold the scene. The place, also, is suitable. I am in presence of God’s fair creation; a thousand birds are singing around me. Oh! these nests, these poor little nests, chef-d’œuvres of love. They showed me lately a goldfinch’s nest suspended as if by miracle at the extremity of a branch at an immense height.
Ce nid, ce doux mystère,
C’est l’amour d’une mère,