Hitherto I have refrained from touching upon that very delicate subject which it is nevertheless necessary that I should approach—namely, the representation of the Sacred Heart. And here I feel myself at ease, having beforehand submitted to all the decisions of the church, and having for long past made it my great aim to be penetrated with her spirit. Like yourself, I have a real devotion to the Sacred Heart, nor do I wish to conceal it. When any devotion takes so wide a development in the Holy Church, it is because it is willed by God, who watches unceasingly over her destinies and the forms of worship which she renders to him. All Catholics are agreed upon this point. It is true that certain among them regard the Sacred Heart as the symbol of Divine Love, and that others consider it under the aspect of a very adorable part of the Body of the God-Man, and, if I may so express it, as a kind of centralized Eucharist. Well, I hold that to be accurate one ought to admit and harmonize the two systems, and therefore I do so. You are aware that it is my belief that physiology does not yet sufficiently understand the mechanism of our material heart, and I await discoveries on that subject which shall establish the fact of its necessity to our life. The other day, at Baillère’s, I remained a long time carefully examining a fine engraving representing the circulation of the blood through the veins and arteries, and I especially contemplated the heart the source and receptacle of this double movement, and said to myself, “The worship of the Sacred Heart will be one day justified by physiology.” But why do I say this, when it is so already? Behold me, then, on my knees before the Sacred Heart of my God, in which I behold at the same time an admirable symbol and a yet more admirable reality. But is this a reason for representing the Sacred Heart in a manner alike ridiculous and odious? I will not here enter upon the question as to whether it is allowable to represent the Sacred Heart of Jesus otherwise than in his Sacred Breast, and I only seek to know in order to accept unhesitatingly whatever with regard to this may be the thought of the church. But that which to my mind is utterly revolting is the sight of the profanations of which these fortieth-rate picture-manufacturers are guilty. What right have they, and how do they dare, to represent hundreds of consecrated Hosts issuing from the Sacred Heart, and a dove pecking at them as they are dropping down? What right have they to make the Heart of our Lord God a pigeon-house, a roosting-place for these everlasting doves, or into a vase out of which they are drinking? What right have they to insert a little heart (ours) into the Divine Heart of Jesus? What right have they to represent to us The truth is that these clumsy persons manage to spoil everything they touch, and they have dishonored the symbolism of the dove, as they have compromised the representations of the Sacred Heart. The dove is undoubtedly one of the most ancient and evangelical of all the Christian symbols; but a certain discretion is nevertheless necessary in the employment of this emblem of the Holy Spirit of God. This discretion never failed our forefathers, who scarcely ever depicted the dove, except only in the scene of Our Lord’s baptism and in representations of the Blessed Trinity. In the latter the Eternal Father, vested in pontifical or imperial robes, holds between his arms the cross, whereon hangs his Son, while the Holy Dove passes from the Father to the Son as the eternal love which unites them. This is well, simple, and even fine. But there is a vast difference between this and the present abuse and vulgarization of the dove as an emblem, where it is made use of to represent the faithful soul. No, truly, one is weary of all this. Do you see this flight of young pigeons hovering about with hearts in their beaks? The beaks are very small and the hearts very large, but you are intended to understand by this that “fervent souls rise rapidly to great perfection.” These other doves, lower down, give themselves less trouble and fatigue; they are quietly pecking into a heart, and I read this legend: “The heart of Love is inexhaustible; let us go to it in all our wants.” The pigeon that I see a little farther off is not without his difficulties; he is carrying a stout stick in his delicate beak, and—would you believe it?—the explanation of this remarkable symbol is, “Thy rod and thy staff have comforted me.” Here again are carrier-pigeons, bringing us in their beaks nicely-folded letters in charming envelopes. One of these birds [who possibly may belong to the variety knows as tumbler pigeons] has evidently fallen into the water; for he is shown to us standing to recover himself on what appears to be a heap of mud in the middle of the ocean, with the motto, “Saved! he is saved!” Next I come upon a party of doves again—always doves!—whose occupation is certainly no sinecure. Oars have been fitted to their feeble claws, and these hapless creatures are rowing. Here is another unfortunate pigeon. She is in prison with a thick chain fastened to her left foot, and we are told that she is “reposing on the damp straw of the dungeon.” Further on appears another of this luckless species, on its back with its claws in the air. It is dead. So much the better. It is not I who will encourage it to be so unwise as to return to life. True, in default of doves, other symbols will not be found lacking. Here are some of the tender kind—little souvenirs to be exchanged between friend and friend, wherein one finds I know not what indescribable conglomerations of religious sentiment and natural friendship. Flowers, on all sides flowers: forget-me-nots, pansies, lilies, and underneath all the treasures of literature: “It is a friend who offers you these”; “Near or far away, yours ever”; “These will pass; friendship will remain.” “C’est la fleur de Marie Que je vous ai choisie.” (N.B.—This last is in verse.) I know not, my dear friend, whether you feel with me on this point. While persuading myself that all these playfulnesses are very innocent, I yet find in them a certain something which strikes me as interloping, and I do not like mixtures. We have also the politico-religious pictures. Heaven forbid that I should speak evil of the fleurs-de-lys which embalmed with their perfume all the dear Middle Ages to which I have devoted so much of my life; but we have in these pictures of which I am speaking mixtures which are, to my mind, detestable, and I cannot endure this pretty little boat, of which the sails are covered with fleurs-de-lys, its mast is the Pontifical Cross, and its pilot the Sacred Heart. Is another allusion to legitimacy intended in this cross surrounded with flowers and bearing the legend, “My Beloved delights himself among the lilies”? I cannot tell; but if we let each political party have free access to our religious picture-stores, we shall see strange things, and then Gare aux abeilles!—“Beware of the bees.” One characteristic common to all these wretched picturelings is their insipidity and petty childishness. They are a literature of nurses and nursery-maids. The designers must surely belong to the female portion of humanity; for one is conscious everywhere of the invisible hand of woman. One is unwilling to conceive it possible that any one with a beard on the chin could bring himself to invent similar meagrenesses. These persons are afraid of man, and have wisely adopted the plan of never painting him, and of making everybody under the age of ten years. Never have they had any clear or serious idea of the Word, the God made man—of him, the mighty and terrible One, who pronounced anathema on the Pharisees and the sellers in the Temple. They can but represent a little Jesus in wax, or sugar, or treacle; and alarmed at the loftiness of Divinity, and being incapable of hewing his human form in marble, they have kneaded it in gingerbread. And yet our greatest present want is manliness. Truly, truly, in France we have well-nigh no more men! Let us, then, have no more of these childishnesses, but let us behold in the divine splendor and perfect manhood of the Word made flesh the eternal type of regenerated humanity. Summer storms are fleeting things,SUMMER STORMS.