closed his dear eyes, deprived of sight, and perhaps of feeling. I whispered close into his ear the name so beloved, Albert! I had nothing more tender to say to him than this word which expressed everything I felt. I wished that the last sound which should fall upon his ear should be my voice, growing fainter and fainter until it was lost in the distance and darkness of that gloomy passage, which leads at last into the light. Alas! my voice, like myself, was obliged to remain on the confines, obliged for the first time to be separated from him. O Pauline! I was strong then, unnaturally strong. I was still stronger for three days, then I commenced to grow weaker and weaker, and each morning I seemed feebler than the night before." This estimable widow of twenty years, always ardent and always perfectly natural, expresses a truth even in her first sensations. Little by little sorrow intensifies, courage fails, despair commences. The sympathy of friends, which had until then a little occupied, distracted, and deadened the pain, without healing it, becomes colder and more distant, and the soul is enveloped in the icy shades of silence and solitude.

ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE.

"To tell me at my age that all happi ness is passed, that makes me shudder, and yet my only rest will be to feel entirely inconsolable, for I should loathe myself if I felt that I could again enjoy the amusements of life, or look upon the world otherwise than I do now. Albert was to me the light which colored everything. With him pearls, jewels, pretty rooms, beautiful scenery, appeared to me lovely. Now, nothing charms me. I have but one wish, to know where he is. To see if he is happy, if he loves me still; to share all things with him now as I promised to do on earth before God."

Yes, the faithful widow sees nothing, she is ever with the absent; it is not he who is dead, it is the world which has gone from her, which is shrouded in darkness. But in the long weary

hours, when she listens to the plaintive murmurings of her own heart, the Christian widow hears another voice of heavenly music, and angels whisper in her ear those gentle words, "Blessed are those who weep, for they shall be comforted." "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." It is not only in heaven that pure hearts see God, they see him everywhere on earth, in all objects, in all creatures-in all events they recognize him, they contemplate him. An unexpected brightness is introduced little by little into this desolate life. The world is colored anew; obscured by sorrow, it is transfigured by faith.

She who is afflicted is not consoled, she is accepted, supported; from this day a miracle commences. She whose affections have been riven, seeks to love again in making friends for him whom she has lost, in interesting for him the saints whom she invokes, the poor whom she assists. Some days after the death of Albert, Alexandrine sold a beautiful pearl collar, a relic of happy days, and she wrote:

"Pearls! symbol of tears!

Pearls tears of the sea,

Gathered with tears in the depths of the ocean, Worn often with tears in the midst of the pleasures of the world;

Resigned to-day with tears in the greatest of human

sorrows.

Go, dry tears, by changing into bread."

The love of the poor became for this young Christian a sublime consolation-the love of Jesus Christ in the persons of the poor-the love of the poor in the thought of Albert. To love the unhappy when we are unhappy is an exquisite sign of perfection in our poor human nature, but a sign happily very common. Is it not much more difficult when we suffer to love the happy-not to be impatient of their pleasures, to lend ourselves to them, and though our own hearts are for ever shut against joy, to be able to rejoice with those who rejoice? Le Récit d'une Sœur shows us the Christian widow in the midst of her family, among her young sisters and brothers, smiling, amiable, communicating, no doubt, by her presence

to the pleasures of the house the tinge of melancholy which ever belongs to the joys of earth.

The commencement of the second volume of Madame Craven's history is occupied with the tableau of the interior of her family, who were united at the Chateau of Boury during the years 1836, 37, and '38, which followed the death of M. Albert de la Ferronays. Obliged, by the diplomatic career of her husband, to change frequently her residence to go from Naples to Lisbon, to London, to Carlsruhe, to Brussels-Madame Craven was almost always separated from her parents and her sisters. To this separation we owe the correspondence which serves today to interest and console us.

The description of the interior of the Chateau de Boury, depicted in these letters, resembles a conversation, where each speaks in his turn and with his own peculiar accent. But I will pass over this family picture to return to Madame Albert de la Ferronays, the principal character in my story.

In the month of October, 1837, they removed the body of Albert to Boury, in order to bury it in a sepulchre, where they had arranged two places without separation.

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"Yesterday, alone with Julia, by the aid of a little ladder, Alexandrine descended into the excavation in order to touch and to kiss, for the last time, the coffin in which is enclosed all that she loves. In doing this she was on her knees in her own tomb. On the stone she had engraved: What God hath put together, let no man put asunder." In 1838 she rejoined her mother in Germany, where she spent the second anniversary of the 29th of June. From Ischl she wrote to her sister a touching description of the death of a young priest, who died of consumption eleven months after his ordination. From Germany Madame de la Ferronays went to Lumigny, from thence to Boury; and when the family resolved to pass the winter of 1839 in Italy, she returned with a sad delight to this beautiful country, where she had been so happy.

She wished to revisit all the scenes of her past happiness-to see again the rocks, the trees, the mountains, which had been witnesses of her felicitynot without tears, but without complaining; with the sweet serenity of perfect resignation. "It is here," she said, "that I have been so full of bliss that this world and life appeared too beautiful." After the description of the second journey to Italy, there follows the account of the successive deaths of M. de la Ferronays and the young daughters, Olga and Eugenie. At this time, always absolutely sincere, incapable in anything of being carried away by feeling, Alexandrine thought of entering a convent; she relinquished the idea, but resolved to live in poverty for the poor. From this day she dreams no more, she writes no more, she acts. Her love expresses itself in joyous accents, in words of heavenly sweetness, accompanied by austere virtues. It is the miracle and the triumph of true piety. What is this? demands a disdainful world. Who is this devotee, draped in black, who ventures out in the most inclement season, laden with bundles? Has she paralyzed her heart? Does she love no one? Is she a piece of mechanism, passing from the dreary garret to the dark cellar in the poor neighborhood which surrounds her? No; this widow is a great lady, bearing one of the oldest names of France. She is going to visit the dying, to supply them with clothes and food, to teach their ignorant children; and on her return she takes her pen, and from this heart, which you believe cold and frozen, flow forth these words: "O my dear sister! can I fill you with joy and cour age in writing? Would that it were in my power; you do not know how I love but you will know in eter. nity, where we shall enjoy each other's, love fully and completely."

you,

This devotee paid a visit to another devotee, an old Russian lady, of whom she writes: "I have seen Madame Swetchine; this delightful, excellent woman told me that we ought not to

speak ill of life, for it is full of beauty; and yet this woman, so tender and so pious, is overwhelmed with moral and physical suffering. She said to me, I love what is, because it is true; I am contented.' The longer I live the more I wish to have my heart filled with love, and only with love.". Of all Alexandrine's former pleasures, the sole relaxations she permitted herself were music and reading. Part of her time she spent in Paris in the hospitals, which she entered with the joyous, animated air of a young girl who sets out for a fête, or a warrior who returns from battle. She ended by hiring a little room in the Rue de Sèvres in order to live more plainly. Her sisters, in looking into her wardrobe, found that it contained nothing. She had robbed herself to give to the poor. This noble woman had but one cause -the cause of God. She became the generous servant, almost the soldier of the church, interesting herself in the cause of freedom, contributing to foreign missions, seconding the educational projects of her friend, M. de Montalembert; and, from the quiet of her little chamber, giving forth her money and her prayers for the service of God. Madame Craven, in a letter, dated the 31st of July, thus writes: The evening of my departure from Boury we went into the cemetery to pray. Alexandrine knelt beside Albert's tomb, on the spot which, twelve years before, had been prepared for herself.. I was on my knees by Olga. The night was warm and beautiful. As we strolled slowly home, I turned and admired the setting sun, which was embellishing, with its many colored rays, this sad spot. I love the setting sun,' I exclaimed. 'Since my sorrow,' replied Alexandrine, 'the setting sun Imakes me sad. It is the precursor of night. I do not like the night. I love the morning and the spring-they bring before me the reality of life that never ends. Night represents to me darkness and sin; evening the transitory nature of the world; but morning and spring give

me promise of the resurrection and renewal of all things. As we continued our walk, Alexandrine said.: Rest assured that all that pleases us most upon earth is but a shadow; that the reality is alone in heaven. What is there upon earth so sweet as to love? And I ask you if it is not easy to con ceive that the love of the divine love ought to be the perfection of this sweetness?—and is not this the love of Jesus Christ? I should never have been comforted if I had not learnt that this love exists for God, and is everlasting.' I replied, 'You are very happy so to love God.' She answered me—and her words, her expression, her attitude will remain ever engraved on my memoryO Pauline! should I not love God? should I not be transported with joy when I think of him? How can you imagine there is any merit in this, even that of faith, when, I think of the miracle that he has wrought in my soul? I loved, and desired the joy of earth-it was given to me. I lost it, and I was overwhelmed with despair. Yet, to-day my soul is so transformed that all the happiness I have ever known pales and grows dim in comparison with the felicity with which God has filled my soul. Surprised to hear her speak thus, I said: If you had offered to you a long life to be spent with Albert, would you accept it?' She replied, without hesitation, 'I would not take it.' This was our last conversation, and as I saw her then I see her now, with a flower of jessamine in her hand, her face lighted up with heavenly beauty; and so she will ever appear to me until I meet her again where there will be no more parting." Alexandrine died some months after, on the 9th of February,

1848.

If the angels could die, they would die as she did. Her last words to Albert's mother were : "Tell Pauline it is so sweet to die."

On the 14th of November of the same year, Madame de la Ferronays rejoined her husband, her son, and her three daughters. On the tombs of

THE literary portion of English and French people take little interest about what philosophers and romance writers are doing on the outer borders of Europe. Scarcely does an editor of a literary journal direct his subscribers' attention to the current literature

of Russia, Norway, Spain, or Portugal. The most universally-read Englishman would be puzzled if you asked him who is the Dickens or the Braddon of Transylvania, or if anything worth reading has lately appeared in the Portuguese province of Alentejo. Thanks to the talents and the genial disposition of Frederica Bremer, and the vigorous and original character of Emily Carlen's novels, and the interest excited for Norse literature by William and Mary Howitt, we have become familiarized with the popular

literature of Sweden. Worsae and Andersen have made us attend to literary sayings and doings among the meadows and beechwoods and harns of the Danish Isles. The efforts of Count Sollogub and one or two other enlightened Russians have failed to dispel our apathy on the subject of native Russian literature, and at this moment we can recollect among the contents of our own reviews and maga zines for five or six years back, only two notices of the productions of living Spanish novelist or romancist. Either we (English and French) are too much absorbed in our own literature, and consequently negligent of that of our neighbors, or those neighbors are producing nothing worthy notice, and in either case our efforts will scarcely turn public attention into a new channel. Our intention is merely to advert to some literary features in the life of the Spain of the present day. We shall not find her altogether neglect

In the article on Cervantes which appeared in the University for August, allusion was made to his imprisonment and harsh treatment in a

certain town of La Mancha. It is the same whose name, he says, in the does not choose to remember. It has commencement of Don Quixote, he been ascertained that this village of unenviable reputation is Argamasilla; and the very house where he resided against his will, and dreamily arranged the plan of his prose epic, has been identified. The Infanta Don Sebastian has purchased it, with a view to its preservation, and a patriotic and spirited printer, Don Manuel de Ribadeneira, has obtained permission to work off two impressions there of the Life and Adventures of the ingenious Hidalgo, Don Quixote. One is, in the Paris idiom, an edition of luxury, intended for the libraries and salons of the great, the other a carefully executed but low-priced edition for the populace.

The English cannot be accused of

*See CATHOLIC WORLD for October, 1866.