human hearts, lie buried in the cells and walls of the old abbey of Farmontier, from the days when the abbess Burgundofarro, Baroness of Burgundy, held royal sway over a colony of lovely young Anglo-Saxon maidens of rank, even down to the seventeenth century, when its halls became the favored retreat of the French nobility. The monastery of Chelles, also, in those days, ranked in popularity and success with Farmontier, and divided the honors among the Anglo-Saxon élève. There are so many moving historic associations connected with the names of Clairvaux, Citeaux, and the Paraclete, that no individual experience of these first impressions could add to their renown. A vision arose, as we stood in the old halls, of that noble cavalcade of twenty young men, with the angelic Bernard for leader, who were all eager to doff the insignia of rank for the monk's cowl and lonely cell, and only a misty vapor seemed to veil the past from the present. Rich as are all the associations of these fanes, in classic erudition, illuminated art, and ascetic sanctity, two names above all else have stamped with renown these crumbling relics of the past. The name of Abelard and Heloise live as representatives of the powers of religion, to elevate and sanctify human affection. And here let me observe that in all researches into these hidden lives, no point appears more strikingly touching than the preservation through all asceticism of that attribute of love, which forms the first and strongest link between God and his creatures. Love, human love reigned and was fostered in the heart of these virgin brides; the nearer they drew to God, the farther they separated from the vanities of the outer world, so much the more tenaciously did they cherish those ties, which, germinating in nature, were now hallowed by religion, though above all else were kept in subordination to

that supreme love which is due to God alone. Montalembert, in his Monks of the West, gives many touching episodes, illustrating this fact, in cases of special devotion between women in the same convents; a devotion that reads much more like romance than reality, and which serves to prove that so long as the material and spiritual elements of being commingle, so, too, must love, grief, and joy be essentially incorporated as a need of every human heart. Neither were these emotions confined to their own cloisters, but they went forth in blessings of prayer and affection to their bishops and friends of other orders. Intermingled with the "pedantry and verbiage" in the voluminous tomes of Aldhelm, Abbot of Malmesbury, there still flows a refreshing and elevating simplicity in his expressions of affectionate interest, as evidenced in his correspondence with the nuns of distant cloisters. The correspondence maintained between Saint Boniface, after he went to Germany, and the AngloSaxon nuns, to whom he had been so long both father and friend, also gives the most impressive and touching evidence of the depth and purity of affection that may legitimately exist through religion between those of opposite sex. Strong as appear some of the expressions, yet no pure mind can read those "voices of the soul" that come to us from out the dim shadows of past centuries, without feeling how deep and essential to all life is the immortal vitality of the affections. "It would be singular," says the learned ascetic, Père Lacordaire, "if Christianity, founded on the love of God and men, should end in withering up the soul, in respect to everything which was not God." Truly we pity those who, like a recent writer in the Galaxy, can perceive only the lowest grade of carnal love in the sacred friendship and affection that united the souls of Jerome and Paula, of Francis Assysium and Clare, of

Francis de Sales and Madame de Chantal. One must be thoroughly imbued with the spirit of religion to comprehend its mysteries.

The basis and golden rivet of such affections was Christ, but so long as the mere earthiness of love can alone be comprehended, we need not wonder that the higher mystical essence can claim no loftier attribute in the mind of the materialist than that of "a passion half smothered in the superstition of a creed."

Amid these restless wanderings from cell to shrine, I learned that at a certain monastery of the order of La Trappe could be found accommodations prepared for such worldlings, who longed to shut out the world, and hold communion for a time with the spirit only. The austerity and asceticism of this order were so rigid that only those who can believe in the perpetuity that dwells in a divine mission could realize that an uninterrupted succession of such votaries still keep those cold, comfortless walls glowing with the fervor of love, prayer, and the most heroic self-abnegation, and this too, in different parts of the world, throughout the changes and strife of centuries. Never did extremes more bravely meet than between the easy, courtier life of the founder, and the rigid rules of selfannihilation that he originated for this order of La Trappe. In this, surely, he found some expiation for the dissipations so contrary to the dignity and vows of a cleric, but which were then only too common among the retainers of the licentious court of Louis XIV.

abbey of La Trappe. Within its walls he assumed the habit of the Cistercian, and after being appointed abbot in 1664, he thoroughly reformed the order, and restored it (according to Butler) to the primitive austerity that had distinguished it under the rule of Saint Bernard and Saint Benedict. The most momentous eras in the lives of nations or individuals often have their source in some seemingly trifling incident. But God chooses small means to work great results; thus the flickering light of a little taper changed the whole current of De Rancé's life.

Few men in that day stood free from the servitude of some fair Omphale. De Rancé possessed one among the court beauties, who engaged the fullest strength of his love. To be ever near her, or to gaze even at a distance, formed the main charm of his life. At one time being obliged to leave the court circle on business for a short period, it was agreed between them, when the time for his return drew near, that his fair Guinevere should place a lamp burning in the window of a tower that communicated by a private staircase with her apartments in the palace. It happened, however, a few days after his departure, that this beautiful siren was prostrated by the small-pox; that fearful disease so prevalent and fatal at that epoch. So great was the panic among her friends, that all, save one faithful attendant, deserted her. But feeling anxious to learn the progress of the disease, it was agreed among them that in the event of a fatal termination, a signal light should be placed

JOHN LE BOUTHELIER DE RANCE, voluntarily renounced all the pleasures of the court and the world. He sold his paternal estates, resigned three abbeys and two priories, and distributed the proceeds among the poor, reserving only for himself the

ber. By a singular coincidence or providence, when the lady died, the old nurse innocently placed the lamp of death in the same niche that had been destined for the light of love alone. It happened that De Rancé returned that very night, and wild with passionate longing to see again the idol from whom he had been so

long separated, he rode at once to the garden, and beheld with a throb of delight the promised beacon. Making his way uninterruptedly, he mounted the stairs, but was somewhat surprised to see the doors of her suite of chambers all standing open, and he was struck with the air of desertion and carelessness that met him on every side. Still, the promised light had summoned him, and was she not ever true? So, quelling his doubts, he proceeded, until coming to the bed-chamber of his love, he stood on the threshold, and called, once, twice, thrice, her name. But neither sound nor motion greeted him in response, and the velvet drapery of her couch was drawn closely together. A sudden nameless dread of some spectre-presence seized upon him, and rushing over to the bed's side, and raising with cold trembling hands the heavy drapery, his gaze fell, not upon the lovely and beautiful form of his adored mistress, but a black, bloated, shapeless face was before him. Nothing but the golden maze of her splendid hair, as it flowed in rich wavy masses over the pillow, remained to tell him that this hideous, appalling semblance was all that remained of his earthly idol. Thus, through suffering and sorrow, came to this man a regenerated heart; through this baptism he learned the lesson that began when, from out of Eden, the sorrowing pair took "their solitary way." God wanted him; he heard the call, and looking neither backward or forward, followed whither it led.

But to return to my mission. The place sought was found, it matters not where, for it suits me just now to follow the example of Jean Paul Richter, and ignore all geographical distinctions. A wing of the building connected with the chapel was assigned to the visitors; a frugal, but comfortable, table was furnished and attended by one of the brothers. No charge was made, but every

visitor left a gratuitous donation. A large room, wainscoted, and ceiled with rich Gothic carvings, with a centre pendant of the Holy Spirit, and a niche at either end, holding a stone carving of our Saviour on the Mount in one, and a life-sized Madonna and Child in the other, formed the architectural adornments of our apartment. For furniture, there were primitive shelves, carved years and years before by some member of the order, and now filled with an excellent assortment of books in all languages, and many valuable MSS., some of which had been rescued from the cellars of the deserted and denuded monasteries of Mount Athos. Many of the books were of priceless value for their rare illuminations, workmanship, and antiquity. Two oil paintings of great merit hung beneath the niches. One of these, a monastic ruin, from the first glance possessed me with an influence that I could never throw off. I felt, as I studied the details of the design, that the heart of the artist was therein entombed, and that a life-history lay hidden in every line and tint of the canvas. A few straight-back chairs. and a table in the centre of the room completed its adornment. Here it was that the reverend abbot, a man of rare endowments and exceptional force of character, came three times a day to conduct the retreat for the six wayfarers who had come to this refuge in search of consolation. His large knowledge of the world, his logical deductions and conclusions regarding all important events connected with Church or State, seemed more like intuition than the result of study or observation. He had held his present post through successive elections for forty years, and though an old man, yet bore all the marks of middle age only. You thought of the Prophet Elias, as you looked into his serene, grand face; or of the royal bearing of Saul, as he entered or left the room. After our retreat was closed, and on the last

day of our happy sojourn, I was standing, as was my daily custom, before my favorite picture, when the reverend abbot entered the room. "You seem so deeply interested, my child," he said, "in that painting, in that painting, that I think the life of the author might afford you profitable instruction. Our rules require that each member of our order shall write his own biography, recording the various phases of experience through which he passed while in the world, and during his monastic life. These chronicles now exist from the foundation of the monastery to the present time. The life to which I now call your attention stands by itself, even in a history wherein truth is proved to be more marvellous than fiction."

He left the room, but soon returned with a large folio, which was marked on the back in large German text, with the title and date of the year to which its record belonged. Laying it on the table he turned the leaves slowly, and his face assumed a sad expression as if some painful memory possessed him; then pointing to a page in the middle of the book, I read in beautifully executed, illuminated letters, this caption :

THE LIFE OF ARMAND FRANCOIS DE LA PLACE.

I CANNOT reproduce literally the first era in this biography. Suffice it to say that it was the naïve record of a life that had known only the innocent incidents natural to youth. It was the outpouring of a soul that, like the young Samuel, seemed to have listened and obeyed only the voice of God, for through every word and thought rang the tone of an exultamus Deo. After following several pages in this strain, there came, under a certain date, a sudden change of tone, as some sad memory or painful longing might awake in a joyous heart; next a discordant strain followed, until at length all the former harmony appeared to have died out of this bright life. A foreboding

No

silence, epitomized by a long blank page followed. Turning the leaf, a drawing in crayon then appeared. It might have been intended for the chaos that typified the deluge. A black, lurid sky, through which the forked lightning played, casting its flashes upon a wide waste of water that broke in angry surges over a rocky bed. No sign of life or of land was visible; only in closely studying the sketch, for it riveted every faculty, you at last discovered one diminutive rift in the angry heavens, and through this there gleamed faintly a single star. written poem could have rendered the allegorical lesson more graphic than did the genius that created this impressive sketch; and I felt intuitively that it was a symbol connected in some way with the chronicle that had ended so abruptly. With eagerness I read the pages that followed. By a special privilege I was allowed to copy them, with the understanding that they should be held sacred and inviolable, until certain events and conditions should be accomplished. That time has long since past, so I am free, and thus translate from the original.

THROUGH pride and ambition, Lucifer and his cohorts lost heaven; through a kindred spirit of discontent and rebellion an unfortunate man left an earthly paradise for a wilderness of tares. Thus whispered the voice of the tempter: "Why dost thou bury thy beauty and thy gifts in this desert? God has bestowed upon thee rare talents. Thou art hiding thy light under a bushel, instead of letting its effulgence shine for the benefit of thy fellow-beings. Thou canst make no progress in thy heaven-born art within these gloomy walls. Go forth then, and develop those powers that were given thee to increase a hundred fold. Hitherto