I have made my confession, and am now prepared to receive the holy communion. I never remember to have been so calm, or to have felt so much quiet in my soul. It is an inestimable blessing to be at peace with God and with one's self. How solemn and how sweet are the ceremonies of our holy religion! What a happiness to have been brought up in the knowledge of its mysteries! I have an excellent confessor, the Abbé Baudoin; he is very popular among the ladies of the court, because he is a Frenchman. But, popularity aside, he would still be the confessor of my choice; he is a worthy and a holy man, possessing all the virtues taught by Christ; one follows his counsels with respect; his views of religion console and show one the way to heaven without forcing one entirely to quit the earth. I passed several hours with him, and he knew how to reach my heart, even while condemning my faults. He caused me to feel humiliated for my sins, without crushing me, or driving me to despair; he showed me the futility of all human things, the sadness and emptiness of all pleasures arising from vanity and self-love.... Indeed, during a few moments, I thought seriously of consecrating my life entirely to God, and of becoming a gray nun in the convent under the Abbé Baudoin's direction.
I was measuring my cell, and counting the number of steps I could take in my new asylum; I thought my resolution nearly taken, when my maid entered and began to tell me some trifle concerning the prince royal's huntsman!... The chain of my holy thoughts was immediately broken, and I strove in vain to relink it; I could remember but one point, and that was, that the Abbé Baudoin had told me it was possible to secure one's salvation even while living in the great world, and that this difficult struggle, when brought to a victorious conclusion, was as pleasing to God as that virtue which had never dared the combat.
Why, then, should I throw myself into a world of sacrifices, whose extent is unknown to me, and perhaps beyond my strength? I will follow my destiny, while maintaining the purity of my conscience. Yes, I swear never to commit any action unworthy of the name of Krasinski. If I sin, alas! it is through too much pride; my desires are placed very high; the Abbé Baudoin does not blame me; he says that ambition is criminal only when it leads us from the path of virtue.... What God requires, is a heart prepared for every sacrifice—a will ready to yield all for His sake; and I feel that I possess this disposition; I experience an indefinable quietude, and my soul is comforted. This week has seemed to me a foretaste of heaven; I have seen no one but the nuns and my confessor, the sole confidant of my thoughts and feelings, and the time has passed rapidly and without tedium. To-day I am once more to find myself in the great world. I am to witness the ceremonies of Holy Thursday in the castle. I am very curious to see this religious solemnity.
NOVEMBER.
Low the leaves lie in the forest; on the damp earth, brown and chill,
Gather near the evening shadows. Hark! the wind is sorrowing still.
Vanished are the pine-crowned mountains, hidden in a dusky cloud;
See the rain, it falleth ever from the wan and dreary sky:
Rusheth on the swollen streamlet, wildly whirling, foaming by;
And the branches, leafless waving, in the Fall wind low are bowed.
See, the golden-rod no longer bends its yellow-plumèd head,
By the roadside lies it faded—'mid the grasses—pale and dead;
While alone the stately mullein rears its brown and withered crest.
Quiet skies of early Autumn mirrors now the lake no more,
But its waters struggle fiercely, laden storm-clouds flying o'er,
And the rain it falleth ever, and the wind will never rest.
Once the hills were clad in scarlet: vanished all their beauty now;
Perished now the crown of glory that encircled then their brow;
Low the crimson leaves are lying, and the withered boughs are chill;
Faded are the purple daisies, and the little pool looks sad,
Missing now the gentle flowers that once made it bright and glad;
For the rain it falleth ever, and the wind is never still.
Closer fall the gloomy shadows, and the forests drearier seem,
Still the leaden clouds are flying, rusheth wilder yet the stream;
And the reckless wind is telling now a wild and fearful tale,
While the trees all listen trembling, and the mullein bows its head,
And the dusky lake grows angrier, and the dark pool mourns its dead;
For the rain it falleth ever, and the winds but louder wail.
THE ASSIZES OF JERUSALEM.
There is in the Royal Library at Munich a room called the Cimelian Hall, in which the manuscripts and works with binding richly ornamented in gold and precious stones are kept. Many a visitor to this hall has felt deep interest as his eyes have rested upon an open manuscript, to be seen through the glass doors of its case, written with inverted strokes and adorned with various colored initial letters. The interest has risen on learning that this contains the 'Assizes of Jerusalem,' of which there are but few manuscripts in existence—one at Venice and several at Paris. This work is in the old French language, and the frequent recurrence on the open page of such words as jurés, larcin, vol, meurtre,[1] in connection with the word 'assises,' leads the visitor to suppose that this may be a judicial report of remarkable criminal cases—a kind of 'Pitaval.'[2]
But these yellow leaves contain one of the most important documents connected with the history of civilization which the night of the middle ages has given us: it is indeed an invaluable inheritance from that period—nothing less than the laws of the kingdom of Jerusalem, as founded by the Crusaders at the end of the eleventh century.