carry them on, consciously or unconsciously, into exaggerated or fictitious statements.

In the biography of Catherine we have striking instances both how the real becomes, by exaggeration, transformed into the miraculous, and also how the purely illusory comes to be narrated as a real event. That Catherine's fasts were as prolonged as nature could sustain, is the actual fact; that "she remained wholly without food for many years " is the exaggeration of an age delighting in the miraculous. That Catherine saw visions from the age of six years old that in one of these visions she was married to Christ himself is the fact; that these visions were objective realities of some kind, and not the mere coinage of the brain, was the interpretation of an age that could believe that St Paul and St Peter, and Christ himself, would descend to earth and make themselves in some manner perceptible by her. It is not necessary, however, to suppose that all her contemporaries would listen with credulity to her dreams, or treat them as anything but dreams-it is quite enough to account for a biography such as Raymond's, that there were a certain number of such faithful disciples. We may be sure that during Catherine's life there were many mockers, many sceptics; but these would not prevent the biography from being written, from being read, from being preserved. The biography lives, the mocking sceptics die and are forgotten. We must not make the blunder of supposing that Father Raymond is a representative of all Siena.

Catherine was, no doubt, in the first instance, the sport of her own delusions; she detailed as fact what was mere imagination. But persons who find themselves objects of wonder, have an irresistible temptation to increase the wonder by deliberate inventions of their Thus to the two modes we

own.

have already mentioned, in which the imaginary becomes mingled with the real, must be added this third-the wilful invention of one already accredited with some supernatural gifts and revelations. Catherine's account of the manner in which she learned to read and write must, even in the construction of the most charitable, be ranked amongst the inventions of her own mind.

But in the life of Catherine the miraculous events are really not the most difficult of explanation. It is this poor fanatical woman, scourging herself three times aday till the blood streams from her," wearing a chain of iron round her body, which gradually eats its way into her flesh, fasting till the bewildered brain can no longer discriminate between reality and its own thought—to whom the government of Florence applies to negotiate a peace with the Pope! It is to this visionary person-to this somnambulist, as some might now be tempted to call her that grave historians attribute the return of Pope Gregory from Avignon to Rome! Extraordinary as she may have been in some of her psychological developments, we cannot but suspect that she was made, in some measure, the tool of abler and more crafty minds. There must have been some secret history here that would alone enable us to understand these events as related to us. We have her letters, but what portion of the letters printed as Catherine's are really her composition we have no means of judging. Are all genuine? a few? none?

But we must not be led further into what is always a tempting problem-this mixed character of folly and of piety, of craft and delusion, of tool and artificer, of ignorance and ability. All we pray for is, that we may have only to study it in the past, and that it may no longer appear in any part of Christendom as a false exemplar of Christian excellence.

8.12 P.M., a fine April evening. A hansom cab rattled up to the door of a "noble mansion" in Grosvenor Square.

The impetuous horse had scarce been jerked into a halt when a young gentleman emerged on the pavement, together with a gibus and white cravat. Slipping a shilling into the driver's hand, he gave a loud and hurried knock at the closed portal. The sound had not vanished when, the door opening widely, Mr Augustus Bromley marched through rows of servants into the inner hall.

"Am I very late?" he inquired confidentially of the elderly valet who received his cloak, evidently no new acquaintance.

"Not very, sir, but dinner is served, and my master is coming down stairs."

Sure enough, as he spoke, the portly stomach of Sir Jehoshaphat was seen descending, his white waistcoat heading the goodly procession.

Slowly and mournfully did the procession proceed, as is the custom in this melancholy island. Sir Jehoshaphat smiled on the youth. in the hall with grim hospitality, but without a word. The worthy man was not wont to utter before his soup.

Meanwhile Mr Bromley stood near the baluster," hat in his hand, and famine in his face."

Slowly and sadly did the guests troop in, while our Augustus stood watching the couples with a longing, inquiring look.

It was a great banquet this dinner of Sir Jehoshaphat. A new dining-room had been added to the "noble mansion" in Grosvenor Square, to celebrate the addition of another million or so to his fortune. A dinner was to be given in honour of the room, and my lady had culled the choicest names from her visiting-book.

Sir Jehoshaphat had insisted only on one guest. It was Mr Augustus Bromley.

No wonder, then, that Lady Coxe was rather reserved in her method of addressing the tardy arrival.

"Ow de do?" she bowed terribly as she passed him, bringing up the rear of her splendid company.

Mr Bromley bowed low, as with a look of mingled relief and disappointment he offered his arm to Letitia, Miss Coxe, who fluttered like an angel of thirty in the wake of her ample mamma.

As the company was being distributed round the table, the young man once more cast his eye over the party, lest peradventure he should have missed, in the hurry, the features he was seeking.

But no; there he saw the dukes and privy councillors gathered together by Lady Coxe; elder sons and younger sons, dullards and wits; but nowhere could he find that one guest on whose presence he had counted. So, turning to Letitia, he joyfully addressed her.

"Well, Miss Coxe, have you been going out lately a good deal?"

"Not very much," answered Letitia curtly, as she elected for clear soup. Miss Coxe was of an age to appreciate the merits of that amphibious edible.

"Not very much, Miss Coxe?" rejoined Mr Bromley, as he modestly chose the portion of turtle, the pendant of his neighbour's pottage.

"No, Mr Bromley, not very much."

"How's that?"
"Why, really"

"I'm sure not from want of invitations?"

"Oh dear, no!" answered Miss Coxe, although such was pretty much the fact.

"From want of inclination, perhaps?"

Letitia smiled. Turbot was before her, and for the moment she could not speak. At length she paused.

"You know I never go to balls," she said. "I think the eldest of four sisters should have done with such frivolities, and for the last ten days there has been nothing else."

66

'Very kind of you, I'm sure, Miss Coxe, to give them up to your sisters. But you are so kind."

Miss Coxe smiled again, and betook herself for consolation to a patty.

Thus far the wily Bromley accompanied her; and now, having seen her lips glued for some seconds to a pink and open glass, containing an effervescing fluid, he proceeded to cross-examine his neighbour with no slight skill and subtilty.

"What do you think made me late to-day?"

"I am sure I don't know." "I don't think you can keep a secret, Miss Coxe."

A cutlet stifled the remonstrance. “Indeed I can," murmured at length the virgin.

"Then I may tell it you later. But first you must tell me some secrets." "I'm sure you're laughing at me, Mr Bromley."

"Contrariwise blessing"For shame, Mr Bromley." "I beg your pardon-very wrong, I know; the bad effects of a careful education. But first, is Lady Coxe very angry with me for being so late?" 66 Not very."

"Oh, Miss Coxe, how roguish is that smile!"

Letitia was tackling the mutton. "And now, do tell me how are your sisters."

"Which of them?" Miss Coxe did not inquire without a reason. "All! why are they not here tonight?"

66

Missy is not out yet." "But the others-Miss Florence and Miss Constance ?"

"I will let you into a little family history. They are both going tonight to the ball at Conisbro' House. They were afraid of spoiling their dresses if they came down to dinner, as afterwards there would not be time to dress; so they will not make their appearance till later."

Mr Bromley was not ill-pleased at the information. He himself was going to the ball. With due reticence, however, he suppressed all appearance of emotion.

66

And are you not going to the ball? It will be nothing without you."

"Do you really think so?" murmured Letitia, with an anxious softness in her tones.

Bromley felt himself as on the verge of a precipice. Turning to his left, he opened fire on his other neighbour.

The neighbour was a stout gentleman, hitherto intent on the occupation of the hour. He was a celebrated physician, of great wealth, addicted to feel the pulse of the Stock Exchange as well as of patients, an old bachelor, director of assurance companies, a man of few words but of many meals.

Bromley knew the gourmand slightly, and with much plasticity addressed him.

"Very good mayonnaise." "HEAR, HEAR!" answered the Doctor.

"Truly admirable," continued Bromley.

"HEAR, HEAR!"

"We had a house dinner yester

day."

66

Hear, hear! What did you have?"

"We began with a dozen of oysters each, which Lucullus might have envied.”

"Too many; eight is quite enough before dinner. I hope you put a

little touch of cayenne in the pepper-castor."

"Of course we did." Bromley looked at his neighbour as though injured by the doubt.

"Hear, hear!" rejoined the latter, apologetically-" and what next?"

"A bisque' soup-admirable." "Hear, hear! Does your chef understand that little invention of Careme's as to curing the tails? It is a wonderful art. Take of carrots sliced one ounce, of sugar one ounce, ordinary pepper one table-spoonful "

"He told me that he had made a special study of that point," interrupted Bromley.

"Hear, hear!" the Doctor spoke but faintly. Bisque was a topic of constant heart-burning between himself and his cook.

At this moment Letitia, indignant at the desertion, interrupted her neighbour.

"Papa is speaking to Dr Leadbitter," she remarked; and sure enough Sir Jehoshaphat was chanting to his customer from the centre of the table, where, by Lady Coxe's orders, he had taken up a position opposite herself.

"Do you recollect that piece of plate, Leadbitter?"

The middle of the table exhibited a perfect oasis of palm-trees and camels, with springs of water and turbaned figures.

"Hear, hear," answered the Doctor.

"What is it?" asked a duke, good-naturedly.

66

"That superb epergne," continued Sir Jehoshaphat, was presented to me for my exertions on behalf of the new Bombay Steam Company."

"Hear, hear," from Dr Leadbitter.

"And what is this?" asked a wit, mildly, and nodding towards another piece of plate exhibiting a vessel gradually sinking into the

waves.

"That was given me by my brother Directors after twenty years'

constant attendance at the Rara Avis Marine Insurance Office."

"Ah, Sir Jehoshaphat, that's what you call making insurance doubly sure."

"Blagden's in luck to-night," whispered a fellow-wit to his neighbour; "and that's not always the case. I saw him reading the inscription round that silver sea. He's short-sighted, and couldn't conceal his exertions. Then he led the way to the plate, and brought out his little sentiment."

The second wit's neighbour-a young lady just out-felt awed at her companion's severity. In fact, Lady Coxe had made the usual mistake of inviting more than one wit. She had asked three, not including Dr Leadbitter, who, by his own family, was considered to trench on that order. Dr Leadbitter was, nevertheless, very good-natured. So, apropos of the insurance office, he thought to tell a story redounding to the credit of his host.

"Do you recollect, Sir Jehoshaphat, what our worthy chairman said on that occasion? Well,' says he, 'now that you've got the ship, I hope you'll always keep your head above water.""

"That's worthy of Blagden," whispered Whiting, the rival wit, to his frightened associate, while Dr Leadbitter repeated the point— I hope you'll always keep your head above water."

66

A sickly smile passed round the table.

"Talking of Rara Avis," began Blagden, "I've heard a new interpretation of that well-known passage."

"Heaven help us!" gasped Whiting, "when he once begins on those philological discussions."

The fact is, that Blagden and Whiting are two deadly enemies.

Whiting is a man of some power in repartee, and of considerable information. He is very amusing and anecdotic. Some people go so far as to say that he prepares himself for dinners by a preliminary course of reading. Be this as it may, he

is very pleasant at a dinner-table, and makes the time pass pleasantly.

Blagden, on the other hand, is a man of very small powers, and entirely destitute of any humour soever. True, he reads much, and amasses information; but his manner of retailing his goods is dreary in the extreme, and the effort is so evident to sustain a part into which he has been forced by a curious dispensation, that his jokes, except to the dullest, sound like a knell.

The third wit was completely in the background. He was one of those men who shine only in a choice society.

So Whiting and Blagden had it to themselves. The dukes and privy councillors, the dowagers and damsels, were content to listen, and the two wags reigned supreme in the new dining-room.

Blagden had for the moment possession of the tribune. Rara Avis was being discussed with much

acumen.

He had come to the words "nigroque," when Lady Coxe, with the temerity of ignorance, came to the rescue of her guests. The conversation rolled towards Whiting. He was to be the arbitrator of an appeal.

"Ho! I'm sure 'e can tell us," exclaimed Lady Coxe; "'e knows everything."

So the question was put to Mr Whiting; and Bromley leant forward, not without some curiosity, to hear the wit's answer.

"Ho, Mr Whitin', can you tell us, do now, 'oo is that delightful foreigner we met a month ago at Lady Moorpath's. Lady Moorpath says 'e's so delightful."

"As I had not the honour of being at the ball, I must first, as a lawyer, ask the name of the party." Lady Coxe was puzzled. She was conscious of a certain deficiency in French, and was reluctant to expose her vulnerabilities to the dinner-table.

A supernumerary kindly relieved her.

"We were talking of Count Rabelais de Chinon."

"Oh, now I have it. Well, I do know something of the gentleman- a very pleasant agreeable man."

"Yes, I wanted to ask him today, only some'ow or other I couldn't," retorted Lady Coxe, with a glance at Bromley, that partly revealed to him the cause of that lady's displeasure.

"But do you know anything of him?" inquired Sir Jehoshaphat, in a tone intended to be easy and careless. "Is he of a great family?"

"Why, yes," answered Whiting. "He claims a lineal descent from the author of 'Gargantua.""

"Now, that is a pretty mistake," interrupted Blagden, glad to have caught his rival tripping. "Rabelais was a priest, curate of Meudon."

Whiting cast a glance of compassionate scorn on the unfortunate wit.

"I was not aware that his priesthood need make any difference."

The answer created some sensation. Some of the elders smiled. Others looked grave. The young men grinned. The young ladies were unconscious-all except Letitia. Letitia blushed. But then she was thirty. As to Blagden, poor man, he was covered with confusion and distress at not being able to floor his antagonist.

66

The clerical rule was very lax in those days, as you, as a student, ought to know, Mr Blagden," continued Mr Whiting, with severity. "The Rabelais of the present day declare their ancestor to have been married, as were his friends the Cardinal Castillon and Bishop Montluc. You must recollect, Sir Jehoshaphat, the celebrated epigram of the day on the subject.'

"Oh, very well, very well, Mr Whiting," answered the baronet, with a cool assurance worthy of a better cause.

And Whiting felt rejoiced at the little fraud. He had escaped the task of repeating the epigram of