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points to the general feeling against the court of Rome.
But if these two publications have met with a truly popular reception from all classes of readers in Italy, there is a third, greatly differing from them in style and composition, which, though favored with a less glaring success, merits in a higher degree the attention of a close observer of what is really at work in Italy. This is The Mediatore, a weekly periodical appearing at Turin, and edited by Father Passaglia, who, with the assistance of one fellow-laborer, writes himself almost the whole of it. His periodical, as regards the movement in the strictly ecclesiastical sense, is out and out the most important publication that has yet appeared, and a real sign of the times. It is entirely devoted to arguing against the attitude of the court of Rome, on grounds exclusively taken from the most orthodox canonical doctrine. Precisely what is likely to appear tiresome and not to the point in its mode of reasoning for the general reader constitutes the peculiar attraction and value of the periodical to the ecclesiastical classes, who are there supplied with the one kind of argument which, because it accommodates itself to their particular horizon of thought, is to them the most telling. Also, it is because Father Passaglia feels how much must depend for the success of his efforts upon the incontrovertible strictness of his reasoning that he has avoided inviting fellow-laborers to his assistance. The whole value of the publication, as a means of influencing the minds of devout churchmen, would be at once destroyed were it ever to fall into language which the wakeful vigilance of Rome could convict of being not orthodox. Therefore, with immense labor and wonderful assiduity, Father Passaglia, week after week, himself addresses the Italian clergy in papers full of his own profound and vast theological reasoning, which are attaining a circulation that is rendering the court of Rome furious. We are informed that the Mediators, which has been started only a few months, numbers already two thousand subscribers, and that among its eager readers are not a few bishops. That it ever can become a great popular periodical is not to be expected. Its scope is one that cannot allow it to become so. It addresses itself simply to a class, and that class it addresses
powerfully and effectively. This is known in the court of Rome, and a subject of sore annoyance to it; for so thoroughly respectful and proper is the language employed, that many are the priests who have nevei ! taken any hostile decision against the temporal power, and who yet read with interest the Mediatore. Next to the first great public protest put forth by Father Passaglia in his celebrated letter to the bishops, this pariodical of his is undoubtedly the most important thing he has done, for thereby he has contrived a means of carrying successfully the seeds of liberal thought into fields which are notoriously the most difficult to reach, and the most stubborn in resisting such cultivation. Already, indeed, the prog* ress made good is visibly and unmistakably apparent. The ecclesiastical opposition to the present attitude of the Holy See is gaining confidence to come forward and avow its opinions. It is no longer skulking in the timid retirement of troubled minds, trembling at the bare thought of daring to say openly a word in dissent from the Pope. The clergy are growing strong in their conviction of the canonical soundness of their views against the temporal power, and have begun not to flinch from speaking their mind to the Pope. This must be taken as the capital step due to the particular action of Father Passaglia's example and argument. ! It is acknowledged in the Vatican that tb» Pope has received appeals from members of the Italian clergy urging him to resign hia j temporal authority, as hurtful to the Church j in the present state of the world. It is, however, there affirmed that these appeals are utterly insignificant, proceeding either from reprobate priests, or from individuals who had not the strength of mind to resist coercion, but who mostly have privately sought the Pope's forgiveness for an act committed under pressure. This is the story freely circulated by the great upholders of the Vatican, but which we have reason to believe utterly without foundation. Whafri ever appeals the Pope may have received as yet are merely desultory effusions on the part of individuals. There is at the present moment, however, on foot a great collective declaration in regard to the temporal powei I by the Liberal clergy in Italy, which will i soon be published, with the names of its ] subscribers; and the appearance of this dooument will enable everybody to judge himself as to the extent of the movement, and the character of its supporters, while it must impose silence upon the false statements that could be freely indulged in by the court of Rome as long as the whole matter was in a state of suspense. If the names are in number and character anything like what we have good grounds for expecting to see attached to the document, its publication will prove an event, and it will then tax even the monstrous audacity of the French Ultramontanes to persevere in their swaggering assertion that no genuine Catholic, and no one truly imbued with the doctrine and
spirit of Roman divinity, is to be found amongst the enemies to the Pope's temporal power. The work now in progress in Italy, under the influence of Father Passaglia and some other theologians, is one of great and sterling value, for it is changing the hostile temper of a large and most important Catholic body upon the point the most vital to the lasting success of an Italian Kingdom; and it is as a standard whereby to mark the growing strength of this rising flood of opinion that we draw attention to the rapidly increasing mass of anti-Papal literature in Italy.
The Walled Lake.—The wonderful Walled Lake is situated in tlio central part of Wright County, Iowa. The shape of the lake is oval. It is about two miles in length, and one mile wide in the widest part, comprising an area of Bome 2000 acres. The wall inclosing this hike is over six miles in length, and is built or composed of stones varying in size from boulders of two tons weight down to small pebbles, and is intermixed with earth. The top of the wall is uniform in height above the water in all parts, which makes its height to vary on the land side according to the unevcnness of the country, from two to twelve feet in height. In the highest part the wall measures 1'roin ten to twelve 1'cet thick at the base, and from four to six at the top, inclining each way—outward and inward. There is no outlet, but the lake frequently rises and flows over the top of the wall. The lake at the deepest part is about ten feet in depth, and abounds with large and fine fish, such us pike, pickerel, buss, perch, etc. The water is as clear as crystal, and tlieru is no bubbling or agitation to indicate any large springs or feeders. Wild fowl of all kind arc plenty upon its bosom. At the north end are two small groves of about ten acres each, no timber being near. It has the appearance of having been wnMcd up by human hands, and looks like a huge fortress, yet there are no rock in that vicinity for miles around. There are no visible signs of the lake being the result of volcanic action, the bed being perfectly smooth ami tlie border of regular form. The lake is seventeen miles from lioon River on the west, eight miles from Iowa on the east, and about one hundred miles from Cedar Rapids. It is one of the greatest wonders of the West, and has already been visited by hundreds of curiosity seekers.
Statue op Hali.am In St. Paul's.—An addition of a most interesting character has recently been made in the fine array of monuments
in St. Paul's Cathedral—a statue of the historian Hallam having just been placed in that walhalla of illustrious Englishmen. The statue is of pure white marble, is seven feet six inches in height, and has been erected by public subscription in commemoration of tlie esteem in which this distinguished writer is held by hit numerous admirers. The historian is represented holding in his right hand a pencil, and in his left a manuscript or note-hook, under which are placed a volume of each of his two principal works, "The Constitutional History," and "The Middle Ages." He wears the robe of a doctor of civil law.
Great pains have been taken by the sculptor to imiko the drapery at once graceful and natural, and as much as possible to represent the texture of the dress. In these aims ho has been very successful, and we are accordingly pleased, but nowise surprised, to learn that Mr. Thced's work has received the unqualified approval of the committee to whose cam the erection of the statue has been entrusted, most of whom were personal friends of Hallam, all, as well as his family, considering the likeness admirable.
New Mode Of Gold Minino.—The gold miners of California have had the felicitous idea of attacking with water the masses of sand and earth forming the auriferous deposits. The water is brought in pipes and thrown in powerful jets upon the soil, producing an astonishing action in levelling the mounds and washing out the nuggets of gold. At Brandy City, in the hilly county of the northern parts,'there are numerous rich diggings, but the soil is very hard, and the application of water has proved highly beneficial, and rendered the work incomparably more rapid and more productive. One of the columns of water there falls for more than eighty yards, and detaches great musses of earth, while at the same time it washes and separates from it the gold it contains.—London litview.
THE WATER BABIES: A FAIRY TALE FOB A LAND-BABY.
i.v THE j:i'.\ . PROCESSOR KIXGSLET.
Hence, unbelieving Sadducees,
Once upon a time there was a little chimney-sweep, and his name was Tom. That is a short name, and you have heard it before, so you will not have much trouble in remembering it. He lived in a great town in the North country, where there were plenty of chimneys to sweep, and plenty of money for Tom to earn and his master to spend. He could not read nor write, and did not care to do either; and he never washed himself, for there was no water up the court where he lived. He had never been taught to say his prayers. He never had heard of God, or of Christ except in words which you never have heard, and which it would have been well if he had never heard. He cried half his time, and laughed the other half. He cried when he had to climb the dark flues, rubbing his poor knees and elbows raw; and when the soot got into his eyes, which it did every day in the week; and when his master beat him, which he did every day in the week; and when he had not enough to eat, which happened every day in the week likewise. And he laughed the other half of the day, when he was tossing half-pennies with the other boys, or playing leap-frog over the posts, or bowling stones at the horses' legs as they trotted by, which last was excellent fun, when there was a wall at hand behind which to hide. As for chimney-sweeping and being hungry and being beaten, he took all that for the way of the world, like the rain and snow and thunder, and stood manfully with his back to it till it was over, as his old donkey did to a hail-storm; and then shook his ears and was as jolly as ever; and thought of the fine times coming, when he would he a man, and a master sweep, and sit in the public house with a quart of beer and a long pipe, and play cards for silver money, and wear velveteens and ankle-jacks,
and keep a white bull-dog with one gray ear, and carry her puppies in his pocket, just like a man. And he would have apprentices, one, two, three, if he could. How he would bully them, and knock them about, just as his master did to him; and make them carry home the soot sacks, while he rode before them on his donkey, with a pipe in his mouth and a flower in his button-hole, like a king at the head of his army. Yes, there were good times coming; and, when his master let him have a pull at the leavings of his beer, Tom was the jolliest boy in the whole town.
One day a smart little groom rode into the court where Tom lived. Tom was just hiding behind a wall, to heave half a brick at his horse's legs, as is the custom of that country when they welcome strangers; but the groom saw him, and halloed to him to know where Mr. Grimes, the chimney-sweep, lived. Now Mr. Grimes was Tom's own master, and Tom was a good man of business, and always civil to customers, so he put the half-brick down quietly behind the wall, and proceeded to take orders.
Mr. Grimes was to come up next morning to Sir John Harthover's, at the Place, for his old chimney-sweep was gone to prison, and the chimneys wanted sweeping. And so he rode away, not giving Tom time to ask what the sweep had gone to prison for, which was a matter of interest to Tom, as he had been in prison once or twice himself. Moreover, the groom looked so very neat and clean, with his drab gaiters, drab breeches, drab jacket, snow-white tie with a smart pin in it, and clean, round, ruddy face, that Tom was offended and disgusted at his appearance, and considered him a stuck-up fellow, who gave himself airs because he wore smart clothes, and other people paid for them; and went behind the wall to fetch the half-brick after all: but did not, remembering that he had come in the way of business, and was, as it were, under a flag of truce.
His master was so delighted at his new customer that he knocked Tom down out of hand, and drank more beer that night than he usually did in two, in order to be sure of getting up in time next morning; for the more a man's bead aches when he wakes, the more glad he is to turn out, and have a breath of fresh air. And, when he did get up at four the next morning, he knocked Tom down again, in order to teach him (as young gentlemen used to be taught at public schools) that he must be an extra good boy that day, as they were going to a very great house, and might make a very good thing of it, if they could but give satisfaction.
And Tom thought so likewise, and, indeed, would have done and behaved his best, even without being knocked down. For, of all places upon earth, Harthover Place (which he had never seen) was the most wonderful; and, of all men on earth, Sir John (whom he had seen, having been sent to gaol by him twice) was the most awful.
For Harthover Place was really a grand place, even for the rich North country: with a house so large that in the frame-breaking riots, which Tom could just remember, the Duke of Wellington, with ten thousand soldiers and cannon to match, were easily housed therein; at least, so Tom believed; with a park full of deer, which Tom believed to be monsters who were in the habit of eating children; with miles of game-preserves, in which Mr. Grimes and the collier-lads poached at times, on which occasions Tom saw pheasants, and wondered what they tasted like; with a noble salmon river, in which Mr. Grimes and his friends would have liked to poach; but then they must have got into cold water, and that they did not like at all. In short, Harthover was a grand place, and Sir John a grand old man, whom even Mr. Grimes respected, for not only could he send Mr. Grimes to prison when he deserved it, as he did once or twice a week; not only did he own all the land about for miles; not only was he a jolly, honest, sensible squire as ever kept a pack of hounds, who would do what he thought right by his neighbors, as well as get what he thought right for himself, but what was more, he weighed full fifteen stone, was nobody knew how many inches round the chest,
and could have thrashed Mr. Grimes himself in fair fight, which very few folk round there could do, and which, my dear little boy, would not have been right for him to do, as a great many things are not which one both can do, and would like very much to do. So Mr. Grimes touched his hat to him when he rode through the town, and called him a "buirdly awd chap," and his young ladies "gradely lasses," which are two high compliments in the North country; and thought that that made up for his poaching Sir John's pheasants; whereby you may perceive that Mr. Grimes had not been to a properly inspected Government National School.
Now, I dare say, you never got up at three o'clock on a midsummer morning. Some people get up then because they want to catch salmon; and some, because they want to climb Alps; and a great many more, because they must, like Tom. But, I assure you, that three o'clock on a midsummer morning is the pleasantest time of all the twenty-four hours, and all the three hundred and sixty-five days; and why every one does not get up then, I never could tell, save that they are all determined to spoil their nerves and their complexions, by doing all night, what they might just as well do by day. But Tom, instead of going out to dinner at halfpast eight at night, and to a ball at ten, and finishing off somewhere between twelve and four, went to bed at seven, when his master went to the public house, and slept like a dead pig: for which reason he was as pert as a game-cock (who always gets up early to wake the maids), and just ready to get up when the fine gentlemen and ladies were just ready to go to bed.
So be and his master set out; Grimes rode the donkey in front, and Tom and the brushes walked behind; out of the court, and up the street, past the closed window-shutters, and the winking weary policemen, and the roofs all shining gray in the gray dawn.
They passed through the pitman's village, ail shut up and silent now; and through the turnpike; and then they were out in the real country, and plodding along the black dusty road, between black slag walls, with no sound but the groaning and thumping of the pitengine in the next field. But soon the road grew white, and the walls likewise; and at the wall's foot grew long grass and gay flowers, all drenched with dew; and instead of the groaning of the pit-engine, they heard the skylark saying his matins high up in the air, and the pit-bird warbling in the sedges, as he had warbled all night long.
All else was silent. For old Mrs. Earth was still fast asleep; and, like many pretty people, she looked still prettier asleep than awake. The great elm trees, in the goldgreen meadows, were fast asleep above, and the cows fast asleep beneath them; nay, the few clouds which were about, were fast asleep likewise, and so tired that they had lain down on the earth to rest, in long white flakes and bars, among the stems of the elm-trees, and along the tops of the alders by the stream, waiting for the sun to bid them rise and go about their day's business in the clear blue overhead.
On they went, and Tom looked and looked, for he never had been so far into the country before, and longed to get over a gate, and pick buttercups, and look for birds' nests in the hedge; but Mr. Grimes was a man of business, and would not have heard of that.
At last, at the bottom of a hill, they came to a spring: not such a spring as you see here, which soaks up out of a white gravel in the bog, among red fly-catchers and pink bottle-heath and sweet white orchis; nor such a one as you may see, too, here, which bubbles up under the warm sand-bank in the hollow lane, by the great tuft of lady ferns, and makes the sand dance reels at the bottom, day and night, all the year round; not such a spring as either of those: but a real North country limestone fountain, like one of those in Sicily or Greece, where the old heathen fancied the nymphs sat cooling themselves the hot summer's day, while the shepherds peeped at them from behind the bushes. Out of a low cave of rock, at the foot of a limestone crag, the great fountain rose, quelling and bubbling and gurgling, so clear that you could not tell where the water ended and the air began; and ran away under the road, a stream large enough to turn a mill: among blue geranium and golden globeflower and wild raspberries and the birdcherry with its tassels of snow.
And there Grimes stopped and looked; and Tom looked too. Tom was wondering whether anything lived in that dark cave, and came out at night to fly in the meadows. But Grimes was not wondering at all. With
out a word, he got off his donkey, and clambered over the low road wall, and knelt down, and began dipping his ugly head into the spring—and very dirty he made it.
Tom was picking the flowers as fast as he could, and a very pretty nosegay he had made. But when he saw Grimes do that, he stopped, quite astonished; and when Grimes had finished, and began shaking his ears to dry them, he said,—
"Why, master, I never saw you do that before."
"Nor will again, most likely. Twasn't for cleanliness I did it, but for coolness. I'd be ashamed to want washing every week of so, like any smutty collier-lad."
"I wish I might go and dip my head in," said poor little Tom. "It must be as good as putting it under the town-pump; and there is no beadle here to drive a chap away."
"Thou come along," said Giimes, " what dost want with washing thyself? Thou did not drink half a gallon of beer last night, like me."
So little Tom was forced to come along, looking back wistfully at the cool clear spring.
And now they had gone three miles and more, and came to Sir John's lodge-gates.
Very grand lodges they were, with very grand iron gates, and stone gateposts and on the top of each a most dreadful bogy, all teeth, horns, and tail; which was the crest which Sir John's ancestors wore in the Wars of the Roses; and very prudent men they were to wear it, for all their enemies must have run for their lives at the very first sight of them.
Grimes rang at the gate, and out came a keeper on the spot, and opened.
"I was told to expect thee," he said "Now, thou'lt be so good as to keep to the main avenue, and not let me find a hare or a rabbit on thee when thou comest back. I shall look sharp for one, I tell thee."
"Not if it's in the bottom of the sootbag," quoth Grimes, and at that he laughed; and the keeper laughed and said,—
"If that's thy sort, I may as well walk up with thee to the hall."
"I think thou best had. It's thy business to see after thy game, man, and not mine."
So the keeper went with them; and to