occasionally and very suddenly, and for a brief space of time, to his disciples, in order to satisfy them of the certainty of his resurrection that they might be witnesses of it; and for the purpose of instructing them concerning the mission he was about to commit to them for publishing his gospel to the world. His appearances to his disciples, and his intercourse with them after his resurrection differed very strikingly from those before his crucifixion. Before his crucifixion he always appeared as one of them, and subject to the same conditions and accidents, except sin, and entered fully into their feelings, and freely into conversation with them. After his resurrection his body 6eemed to have new and wonderful properties, which belong not to matter. He appeared among them in closed rooms, suddenly, without opening the door, and as suddenly vanished out of their sight, as a spirit is supposed to vanish into thin air.* His conversation was brief, solemn, and accompanied with a peculiar awe and power. His body was no longer the natural body that was crucified on the cross and laid in the sepulehre, but it was now a spiritual body; for, as St. Paul says, "there is a natural body, and there is a spiritual body." The change in him from a natural to a spiritual body by the resurrection, is the illustration of the change which will take place in hi3 children. His soul also participated in the wonderful advance which the resurrection made in the condition of his being, and hence gave forth the heavenly manifestations witnessed in his occasional intercourse with his disciples.

And yet even these wondrous appearances of the Lord failed to keep the disciples free from doubt . So slow were they to admit the miraculous story, instead of eagerly following cunningly devised fables, that they seem to have resolved on resuming their former occupation,

• The Evangelists convoy the same idea of the appearances and disappearances of Out Lord, after his resurrection, u is found in the ancient classics, and still entertuned, concerning the appearances and disappearances of departed persons, or supernatural beings. Our Lord had tiie power to become visible or invisible at pleasure. Luke »ys, M And their eyes were opened, and they knew him; and he vanished out of their sight." Not that he removed tram their vicinity, hut that he became invisible to them. So £neas, in the sack of Troy, was separated from his *ife Creosa, who perished unexpectedly. While he was Marching for her, Virgil makes JEneas say, the mournful gboct and shade of Crcusa appeared before his eyes, her figure larger than the life, and spoke to him. As ho was about to reply to her, and throw his arms around her aeck, ttnu&sque recessit in auras, she vanished into thin air.

la the same manner, Shakespeare makes the witches nuUh.

Bi.fQ.uo. The earth has bubbles as the water has, And these are of them:—whither are they vanished?

Macbeth. Into the air: and what seemed corporal melted, *J breath into the wind.

which suggests the probability that they had relinquished all hope of the speedy establishment of the kingdom of God, as promised by their lately crucified Master. As they had been called by the Lord from the shores of the Sea of Galilee, so now, in their disappointment, they return thither; and, after consultation, Peter said to them, "I go a-fishing," that is, I will resume my former occupation, since I see no signs of the kingdom of God; and it is now more than a month since the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth. The other disciples said, "We also go with thee." We too will resume our former occupation. The Lord saw their despondency, and heard their consultations. The sun went down, and thus screened from the intense heat of an eastern sun (for it was in the month of May), "they went forth, and entered into a ship immediately, and that night they caught nothing." As the day dawned, and they neared the shore to rest, they saw a stranger standing on the beach. The mildness and majesty of his mien, and the gentleness and tenderness of his address threw a spell over the wearied and desponding fishermen. He said, " Children, have ye any meat?" They answered, "No." "Cast," said he, "your net on the right side, and ye shall find." The sudden and miraculous success opened their eyes, and one said, "It is the Lord." Peter, with his characteristic impetuosity, threw himself into the sea, and hastened to the feet of his Master. So profound and convincing was the effect of this sudden appearance of the Lord, that the disciples durst not converse with him, only as he drew them on by questions.

His followers and friends seem after this to have assembled at Jerusalem in expectation of some decisive event connected with the promised kingdom of God. Doubtless the mysterious influences of the Divine Master had drawn them to the city. The time of his ascension was at hand. Preparatory to this, he joined them and gave them more particular instruction concerning the mission he was about to commit to them. As Jerusalem was to be the centre of this divine mission, he commanded them that they should not depart from the city upon their mission until they should receive power from on high to qualify them for it. But this divine power, the Holy Spirit, which was to be given them, and which was wonderfully shed upon them on the day of Pentecost, was not sufficient to qualify them for their heavenly work. It is particularly recorded, "Then opened he their understanding that they might understand the Scripture." How long the Lord "assembled together with them at Jerusalem" is not certain. The impression made by the Sacred History is, that he was with them for several days, explaining "all things written in the law of Moses, in the Prophets, and in the Psalms concerning himself." (Luke, xxiv. 44.)

When he had fully instructed them in the Messianic Scriptures, he prepared for his ascension. The power of his presence drew his friends as well as his disciples close around him. And in the dusk of the evening, that he might escape the notice of the multitude, he passed out of the city eastward, crossing the Kidron, and wound round the southern flank of Mount Olivet, all following slowly and in silence, while he announced to his disciples the import and prospect of their perilous mission. "Ye shall be witnesses unto me in Jerusalem, and in all Judea, and in Samaria, and unto the uttermost parts of the earth. Go ye, therefore, into all the world, teach all nations, and preach the gospel to every creature, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. All power is given to me in heaven and in earth, and lo! I am with you always even unto the end of the world."

As he pronounced these words he had advanced round the southern flank of the mountain, leading his disciples, "as far as to Bethany." There, as he uttered the last words of the divine benediction, he lifted up his hands, spreading them out, perhaps over, and perhaps touching the heads of his apostles. While in this act he was parted from them. He threw aside the restraint which for the time weighed down his glorious resurrection body, and it rose majestically and was carried up into heaven; and the clouds received him out of their sight, into that spiritual and glorious world where he sat down on the right hand of the throne of God, to make intercession for us.

It was at nightfall, and the parting was so solemn and glorious, and his pathway to heaven so resplendent, and the majesty and benignancy of his ascending person so enrapturing, that his friends stood motionless and speechless, "gazing up into heaven," through the bright opening which his ascension had left in the sky. There probably they would have continued to stand had not the spell been broken by two of the heavenly visiters who had descended to witness the ascension. From the midst of the illuminated olouds, where they lingered in pity and admiration of the astonished and bereaved disciples, they descended to the earth, and "stood among them in white apparel, and said, Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing

up into heaven? This same Jesus which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven." The charm was broken. Ascending Mount Olivet from the edge of the village of Bethany (for this was as near, and a more private way back to the city), they halted on the summit to look once more into the heavens, after their ascended Lord. But the sky had recovered its usual serenity, and spread out its calm blue canopy, lit up with the countless stars of heaven. On the spot where they halted, the piety of subsequent ages erected a magnificent church, and that same piety, sublimated into enthusiasm and credulity, transferred the scene of the ascension from the humble village of Bethany, far down on the southern flank of the mountain, to its summit. Hence the church, which is seen in the engraving, is called the Church of the Ascension. It is about half a mile due east from St. Stephen's gate, and about three hundred feet above the city. It is alone; neither tent nor hut is near it. And the only worshippers in it are a few monks; sometimes of the Greek order, and sometimes of the Armenian ; as the gold of the one outweighs, in the judgment of the Pacha of Jerusalem, the gold of the other. And not unfrequently very unchristian contests occur for the possession of the church; and in these contests, it has more than once been reduced to ashes. The traveller sees it from the northeast part of the city, sitting beautifully on the sacred Mount of Olivet; and if his piety or curiosity should lead him to ascend to it, he will be shown the footprint of our Lord, impressed in the solid rock, as he made the first bound towards Heaven. To this he will kneel, and will kiss it, if his faith waver not; or will turn away with regret and sorrow at the weak superstition that guards and worships an object Bo obviously apocryphal. In tho general uncertainty, and frequent absurdity of the sacred places shown to the traveller in the Holy Land, the free and intelligent Christian will see the wisdom and goodness of God. Had he designed those spots to be reverenced and worshipped, he would have provided for the certain knowledge of them. But in the kingdom of his Son he has made the divine glory and power to appear in the new and divine life which the gospel imparts to individuals and to nations, and not in sacred localities, or buildings, or relics.



I Iooked upon thy youthful face, It sccmed as though the gates of heaven

In all its beauty bright, Had been unclosed awhile;

Till like a sunbeam through a eloud, So radiant was that face of thine,

It gleamed with sudden light; Lit by that sunny smile.



The Bride of Christ! oh, at those words there swept

Bright glories through my spirit! I was deaf

To the deep anthem. Prelate, and cowled priest,

The dim cathedral walls, the kneeling crowd,

The lattice where the black-veiled nuns looked through,

All parsed away from mine enraptured eyes!

I saw no more thy bowed form, oh my mother!

Nor his who stood far down the aisle of columns,

Hiding his bent brow with his mantle's foldl

It seems not long since I, a little child,

Trod yon cathedral floors, and in deep awe

First crossed my forehead with the holy water.

It seems not long, Jacopo, since we twain

Prayed, kneeling at one shrine; together winged

Our mated voices like paired larks to heaven,

Or, hand in hand, walked where the garden fountains

Cleft the grim lion mouths!

Have patience, Father,
For I am 'worn with fasting and much prayer,
And tears flow readily. How many days
Have I lain prostrate at the altar's foot,
The marble striking death into my heart,
Speaking no word, partaking of no food
Save water and the crust that gave me strength
To move rny lips in prayer! How oft till morn,
My forehftad pressed against His icy feet
Who hangs upon the cross, have I lain here
With but one grim companion. Kven thou,
Symbol of death, gaunt prophet of the tomb,
That in thy cavernous eyes dost hold the night,
Glaring beside my rosary and missal!

Thou knowest well my father was a noble,
That he lived gaily, making his great wealth
The slave of pleasure. I remember still
Revels, where wine flowed free, and festal times
That filled our lone vast palace by the sea
With guests and music. Then, at early twilight,
There ever came a young, bright girl, who took
Me, the weak child, within her gentle hold;
Smiling so softly, while my faint hands passed
Over the roses in her hair, the pearls
Clasped on her throot, and round, pure, dewy arms.
Ginevra! oh I loved to sjwak her name!
I loved my nurse to bear me to the window,
Where, lying on her shoulder, I could mark
My sister's white robes floating through the trees;
My sister, as she spake, or walked, or rode,
Great nobles at her side, who smiled and bent
Their plumed heads to catch her lightest word!

Rut this was for a season—Many months

The palace was deserted. Then, alone,

We wandered freely through the vacant rooms,

I, and my nurse Guiseppa. She would pause

Sometimes, by pictures of worn saints and martyrs;

Saint Lawrence in the flames, his lifted face

Pull of sublime forgetfulncss of pain;

Or Stephen, stoned and prone; perchance, to mark

Pale hermits watching in their forest caves,

With lamp and book, the inner darkness shapen

Into black fiends; or, sometimes, oh my soul!

An Ecce Homo, with dim, upturned eyes,

And red drops trickling from the crown of thorns!

All these Guiseppa scanned with reverent face,

I. in her arms held level with the canvass,

hooked on in childish fear.

There came a message
That said Ginevra, weary of the court,
Returned to us alone.

Twas early noon;
I, overwearied, dreamed upon my couch,
And when I woke, my sister stood beside me—
Ginevra! no! Ah, heaven! was that Ginevra
Who quivered at my fear, and in the sunlight
Stood shivering ere she bent and faintly pressed
Her lips upon my brow!

I never knew
What sorrow, like a tearful angel, rent
The veil between my sister's heart and God.
Her brow was as the forehead of a saint,
Bearing the marks of thorns, and on her face
None looked, except to breathe a sigh that tracked
Some upwinged thought to heaven. Oh, to my sense
Hor beauty was unreal; whether she prayed,
Kneeling beneath the altar lights, a glory
Tremulous in her hair; whether we twain
Paced the long galleries, where ranged silver sconces
Studding the walls, cast down before our feet
Black shades like chasms; whether to her voice
I listened, while the stealthy-footed night
Passed by unchallenged! As a captive stands
Vacantly gazing at the world without
Through his barred prison windows, all his heart
Busy with other scenes, so looked the soul
Through her blue, holy eyes. I loved her well—
I stopped my play to watch if she passed by,
Or if she mused beside the gallery windows,
As was her wont, I, stealing to her side,
Stood tiptoe, that my arms might clasp her waist.
And sometimes, cloistered in her chamber, there
We read and talked, till purple twiligftt stains
Sank through the marble pavement. In that room
There hung a copy of a rare old picture,
The Marriage of Saint Catherine.

I remember
That she grow farther from me. day by day,—
I guessed not wherefore. Over her blue eyes
The lids drooped heavily, as lilies loll
Against the swell of waves. No echo tracked
Her footsteps through the vaulty corridors;
And often in the night I saw her rise
To gaze upon Saint Catherine's blessed face,
Or prone before the crucifix, lie there
Praying till dawn.

Once more Ginevra stood
Flower-crowned and jewelled, but beneath the light
Of tall cathedral tapers. From the crowd
Quick sobs burst audibly; the very priests
Looked with sad eyes; nuns to the lattice pressed
And blenched away; but she unconscious stood
With folded hands and looks upeast, as though
The vacant space were legible to her gazing.
Then my fair, haughty mother cowered for fear,
My father's gay lips whitened.

From her brow
The wreath was taken; gem and bridal dress
Stripped from her consecrated form, her head
Shorn of its wavy wealth; and now, Ginevra,
Wrapped in the grave's pale robes, with limbs composed,
Looked marble In her coffin. Father! nay?
Forgive mo! let mo weep! For when again
They bade her rise, lo! in her symbol shroud
The nun lay dead I

We knew bright, silent angels
Had gently loosed the clinging arms of life,
Claiming their Lord's affianced. So she passed!
I bear upon my breast the cross that wore
Its outline upon hers.

Thou eamest, Jacopo,—
Playmate and friend!

Do you remember now
How, while you twined the vine leaves in my hair,
I told you saintly legends I When we saw
Fair pictures in the clouds, you made them limn
Chariots and battling horsemen, but to me
Came trooping angels I

Still my sister's chamber
Seemed hallowed by her presence. Crumbling wreaths
Dropped from the crucifix: her favourite books,
Their pages blistered by her frequent tears,
Lay open as she left them, marked with flowers.
Or pencilled down the margin by her hand.
But most I loved the picture of Saint Catherine,—
She kneeling, while the holy child whose touch
The virgin guided, on her finger placed
The marriage ring, his face in lovely wonder
Raised questioning to his mother's.

To that place

I crept at noonday. There I treasured all

Linked with GinevTa's memory. 'Twas now

A garland we had woven; now a kerchief

That kept the faint rose odour she had loved.

I vexed my childish brain with pondering o'er

The books she prized. These, histories of saints ,

Temptations, miracles, and martyrdoms,

I peopled all the dark nooks of the palace

With phantoms of their raising. There, concealed

All through the slumberous noontide, first I read

Of Augustine, who heard the voice of God

Speak to him in the garden, and of her,

Holy Teresa, who stood face to face

With Mary's son, and carried to tho tomb

Remembrance of the vision. When I saw

How laying down love, wealth, the pride of birth,

Bowing her shoulders for the cross, this one

Frail nun obtained a saint's repute, becoming

Founder of monasteries, and of a host

The spiritual mother, all my soul

Thrilled with the rapturous history. I could dream

Only of mysteries; or if light shapes

Beckoned me to the world, there slid botween

Visions of her who o'er an open book

Hung pondering steadfastly; one pale, fair hand

Outspread upon the page, and one that held

Her brow within its hollow. Womanhood

Came, and my heart's betraying echoes scarce

Answered her loitering footfall. Life grew vague,

Nothing approached me nearly.

The first star
Was a true prophet of thy step, Jacopo I
My visions fled when up the flinty paths
His courser's hoof struck flashes. With a jest
My father greeted him; my mother gave
Her white hand freely, while her laughter mixed
With their gay talk, and i. a space apart,
Smiled him glad welcome, with my every pulse
Answering the cordial music of his voice.
Oh, he was changed! I darod no longer chide
When his bold mirth trod heedlessly too close
To holy ground. I heard with eyes abased,
Rebuke awed into silence. II- had sprung
Suddenly to full manhood. In his words
There was an athlete's sinew, though they played
With great things carelessly, as a fresh wind
Provokes the sea to laughter, aud his pride
Ever seemed well placed, like a castle set
Upon a mountain. All my womanhood
Did homage to his strength. The life that coiled
Lazily at my heart leapt through my veins
With crest uplift, if mid the halls I heard

His footfall ring. Oh, Father, when he left,

Gone was tho smile trom sweet Saint Catherine's lip!

And the grave saints frowned on me. and my thoughts

Shapen to prayer, put on unholy guise,

Mocking my vain devotion! Marvel not—

I was a child. Ginevra fled the world,

Like a chased dove that calms its panting heart

Under green forest boughs. Life stood unmasked.

And pleasure mocked her like a garland twined

Round a drained wine cup. As a vine that grows

Over some marble urn, a bird that builds

Under the cornice of some shattered temple,

Making its ruin echo with delight,

So to her heart, rent, filled with bitter dust,

Came one bright hope. Alas! my thrilling soul

Still quivered in the bended bow of life.

Youth was too mighty! I grew faint. My heart

Leapt at a quick word, and light tremors ran

Painfully through my limbs. My brain waxed dizzy

Over my books, and I would ponder hours

Ere I could wrest its meaning from the page

1 strove to read; or if I knelt to pray,

My aimless thoughts went wandering blindly on.

The prayer I said suspended. Outward things

Unchallenged touched my senses that dull stupor

Muffled like sleep.

I stood within Saint Peter's And heard tho Miserere. Through the twilight Burned thirteen starry tapers. One by one, Amid tho chanting of the Lamentations, These vanished, till tho last and brightest, Christ. Sank into darkness. With that hope's extinction, Like a retreating wave, the chant withdrew Beneath the cave-like shadows. Rippling echoes Tracked it to silence. Father, on my lips The stillness pressed like a remorseless hand! Above, tho gray-winged twilight, like a moth Clung to the arches! I did strive to pray, But through my soul the slow-paced, cloistered thoughts Trod, saying "Miserere!" Deep the pause That from the shores of that hushed music stretched Like a black-throated chasm! I grew sick Hearing the echoes sound it! While I gasped, As 'twere a bird borne over an abyss On one bruised wing, athwart the chapel roof Fluttered a voice so sad, my panting heart Breathed in one gush of tears. I doubt not, Priest, White angels listening in God's presence then Leant on their harps and wept! The low notes failed Exhaustedly. But as they ceased, oh heaven! As 'twere a scimitar quick bared, a shaft Hurled by a giant, a prolonged, loud shriek Leapt through the gloom, and like a dart rebounding Fell, shivered into echoes! Holy Mary I My every pulse thrilled with a separate pain! All through tho crowd a light electric shiver Passed like a link. All dimly from mine eyes Fled the dark forms of priest, and cardinal, And heaven's vicegerent in his pontiff robes. I must have fallen but for one steadfast arm Girding my waist like iron. Scarce I marked How the whole choir with thick, sore sobs bewailed Christ's death. I know not what of sudden brightness Burst on my dazzled sight. Dispute it not! I saw the darkness cloven by wings that took Light like a prism, and when the rifled gloom Closed on their upward flight, my senses, prone, Met its returning pressure!

**••** This was April; And ere my dumb soul spake again, the grape Was purple on tho hills. Oh, I was weak As a young child! Jacopo in his arms Would bear mc to the sea-shore, where I sat Long, vacant hours, numbering the waves, Counting the drifting clouds. They sang me songs— The music pleased me, but the married words

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