servants of God, we must be made children of God.

Since then, I have lost those restless yearnings for an earthly home. I have a home in Heaven, and my Father has sent me hither, for a little while, to call more of His children to Him, and to minister to all who need: thus journeying, and singing as I go, I am hastening homeward. I am happy, and can rejoice heartily in the happiness of Nannerl and Reichardt. In the convent, as well as else. where, we can bear one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.

And, perhaps, in this tumultuous world, it is well that there should be some set apart on high, so that the strife and eager chases of the present may sound to them faiut as those of the past, with no seasons but the seasons of heaven; like church-towers rising above the common homes of men, yet echoing with deep tones their joys and sorrows, and telling them, amidst their toils and pleasures, how the time -is passing.

Yet, if any ask my advice as to leading a religious life, I usually say, "My child, in your home you are sure God has placed you. There He is sure to bless you. Be quite sure that He calls you away before you change. He knows what work to give His servants, and in good time He is sure to let them know."

April 13.-S. Justin, Martyr.

I am just returned from a preaching tour amongst the villages of the forest (anciently called of Odin), with two choristers and a deacon, to celebrate the mass, and preach the Easter sermons.

Much grieved at discovering in some of the peasants' houses a superstitious reverence and fear of the old heathen gods (or demons)—the people in many places using pagan charms and incantations against them, and even endeavouring to propitiate them with wheaten cakes and other offerings. I told them that either the old gods and goddesses were nothing, and therefore could do nothing either for or against them: or they were fiends, and God was stronger than they; and that, when affrighted at night, or in lonely places, they should have recourse to prayer and to the sign of the holy cross. Some places, where the apparitions and wicked demons seem to have been more than commonly malignant, I purified and exorcised, sprinkling them with holy water. Nevertheless, in my sermons, and at all times, I told the people, that it is only sin which gives the devil

power over us, and that none but those whose hearts are turned to God, through hearty repentance and true faith, are safe anywhere. I mourn much that these things are not oftener proclaimed by our brethren; also, that they have given the peasants images of saints instead of their old gods-which they often confound, in their blindness, in a very profane

manner.

As we went on our way, I and my com panions made the woods resound, from time to time, with Psalms and holy hymns, thus lightening the way; and thus also, towards nightfall, effectually keeping the powers of darkness avaunt, the deacon Theodore being of somewhat a fearsome spirit. At other times, I meditated on some holy text, the theme of my next day's discourse, refreshing myself with the living bread wherewith I afterwards fed the people. At night, we cut down branches from the trees, and made palisades around our beasts of burden, which carried the holy vessels and vestments; lighting watchfires, also, to away wild beasts and other evil

scare

things.

Once I awoke at dead of night, hearing a strange rustling amongst the fir twigs which covered the ground, and a cracking of boughs, mingled with stifled, unearthly cries. More over, by the moonlight, which came down in strange and shifting patterns on the bare trunks, and on the ground, I perceived some dark object flitting rapidly away amongst the distant pine-stems. Whereat I arose, and, stirring the watchfires, commenced singing the fourth Psalm in a loud voice. When I had concluded the last verse, crossing myself on brow and breast, I laid me down in peace and slept.

In the morning our best ass was gone. Without it we could scarcely proceed, the other beasts being slow-paced and old; yet without it we feared to return, the creature being a favourite with our lord the Abbot. Wherefore, kneeling down, we laid our trouble before God, pleading that it was His errand on which we were jour. neying, and telling Him of our sore need; our lord the Abbot being withal a man of a hasty spirit. How marvellously He heard the prayers of His servants, the sequel will show.

A few days thereafter, I preached in a certain village, on the commandments, dwelling, amongst the rest, on the sin of theft. Great power was present to smite the consciences of the hearers. Many wept, and before the close of my sermon one came forth, and before

them all cried out, "Lay on me what penance you will. It is I who stole the Abbot's ass."

The whole assembly were greatly moved, and would have fallen on the thief, but, hastily descending from the pulpit, I went to him, and as he knelt before me, I said,

"Thou seest, my son, that the eyes of the Lord are in every place, seeing in the darkness of the pine forest at midnight, as in the assem. bly at midday. Thou canst not fly from Him, for He is everywhere; thou needest not fly from Him, for He is ready to forgive. It is because thou hast not known His grace, that thou hast despised His law. But, if now thou repentest, and with thine heart believest, I, although a sinner as thou art, absolve thee from thy sin." He had been a very fierce robber, the terror of the neighbourhood.

After the service he brought the ass to the door. As I left the place, the people thronged around us to seek my blessing; and lifting up my hands I blessed them, many weeping and kissing my hands. But I turned and said, "Mourn not, my brethren, that ye see me no more; but look, I pray you, to Him whose arms were stretched out on the cross to save you-whose hands are lifted up always to bless you. Look to Him!"

The robber went forth with us, although the deacon Theodore much misliked his company. He spoke not a word for many miles, walking, with head bowed down, at my ass's head.

At last, as it grew dusk, and we were entering on a thick part of the Odenwald, said to be infested with plunderers, brother Theodore came to my side and whispered,

"Were it not better to send this man away? He have too many friends here."

may

But I answered, in the words of the wise king, "The hearts of men are as the rivers of water; He turneth them whithersoever He will. Let us not hinder His work on this poor soul."

At length the shadows fell around us, and, coming to a glade of the forest, we alighted for our night's encampment. The robber continued with us, serving us much in hewing branches and lighting our fires, he being more skilled in such work than we.

After offering our vesper prayer and hymn, I laid down to sleep, none making me afraid. The robber sat watching the fires, whilst brother Theodore lay, with half-closed eyes, watching him. But the peace of God kept my heart, and I slept soundly.

About midnight I awoke, startled by the crackling of the watchfires. The robber sat close to my head, stirring one of the fires with a huge pine-log. I arose and seated myself opposite to him.

"Father," he said, leaning on the log, his dark strong features glowing in the red light, "thou art a man of peace, but thou hast courage; knowest thou who I am ?"

"I know, my son," I replied, " that thou hast been a great sinner; but I trust One stronger than thou is melting thy heart."

"I am he whom the peasants call Otho the Thunderbolt," he said. "My name has been a terror to thousands, yet thou fearest me not. I have many bold followers in this forest; if I were to give one of my gathering-cries, in half an hour you would see fifty men around these fires."

"The Name of the Lord," I said, "is more terrible than yours, my son; but to those who trust in it, it is a strong tower: the righteous runneth into it, and is safe. The voice of the Lord is stronger than yours; and legions of His angels encamp around those that fear Him. I have not much courage, but I have faith, which is stronger."

"I know it, father," he replied; "I, too, know that the voice of God is strong, for it has made my heart tremble like a reed. He is mighty, and He is against me, for I have sinued."

"Nay, He is for you," I said, "for He came to save the sinner."

Then he unfolded to me the terrible story of his life of violence, and I unfolded to him the good tidings.

It was a strange chapel-the wind roaring in the tops of the pine-trees, and driving the clouds overhead; and a strange audiencethe wolves howling around the fires-the chief of a robber band; but are not all places holy for holy words?

And the heart which had never quailed before man, but had quivered in the grasp of the Almighty, melted as a child's at the story of the love and sacrifice of Jesus.

"I will return," he said, bitterly, "if you will not receive me; but it is scarcely possible for one like me to lead an honest life amongst those who have known me. They would say, 'The old wolf has clothed himself in sheepskin, but he shall not deceive us by that.""

"Go, then," I said, "and seek to restore your comrades, and afterwards repair to Marienthal: there ye shall all find an asylum and a sanctuary."

Before the morning broke he was gone.

The sun arose, throwing slanting rays up across the pine-stems, the birds awoke and sang, and the leaves trembled and glittered with the drops of dew-and we went on our way rejoicing for, that night, had not the Day-spring from on high arisen on one who sat in darkness and the shadow of death?

:

Otho the Thunderbolt, and three of his companions, are now inmates of our Abbey. We think it best to employ them as much as possible. They therefore fell our firewood, draw our water, keep our cattle, and help to clear more of the forest for tillage. The rest of their time they spend in learning and reciting Psalms and litanies, and in listening to our solemn services. Otho, moreover, contrives to find leisure to weave mats and nets, the price of which he lays up for future restitution.

This event has greatly strengthened those amongst us who are truly seeking to lead a religious life, and has urged us afresh to prayer. But some, alas! continue idle and vain, caring for none of these things-for here, as elsewhere, our Lord and the devil have both their disciples.

June 7.-Vigil of the Nativity of St. John the Baptist.

We have entertained an angel since last I wrote. The holy Abbot Bernard, of Clairvaux, has stayed with us a day and a night-ever memorable at Marienthal. He came to preach the Crusade.

It is marvellous into what a ferment his coming has thrown the whole of Germany. People flocked from the towns and villages to meet him, bringing with them the sick on litters, that he might heal them with his touch -those esteeming themselves blessed who could kiss his hands. The churches were filled, and even the churchyards, when he preached, and men have taken the cross by hundreds. At Marienthal the peasants wept and sobbed at his sermon, although they could not understand a word he said-at which I marvelled greatly.

Scarcely could they have received the Lord Christ Himself with more devoted reverence: indeed, I wonder much that they should pay such homage to the words of His servant, and so little to His own. I fear for them, lest they be honouring the voice more than the words. Yet truly he is a man of a noble presence, and of a very lowly mind.

In the pulpit his eyes flash like flame, but in the confessional they are soft as any dove's. His stature is low, but his brow and bearing are so calm, and so full of gentle command, that the proudest bow naturally before himnot thinking of refusing what he never thinks of demanding. He seems worn out by the fervour of his piety and the severity of his life; yet the ardour which is wasting his frame is mild as the first sunshine of May to all else. At the Abbot's table more than once, I heard him laugh joyously as a child. Nevertheless, there is something in him I would shrink from encountering as a foe.

He gave a lamentable account of the world and the Church-bishops and priests buying and selling holy things, Christian princes fighting one another: and, meantime, the Turk ruling in the Holy Land, and the hereticsCathari, Paulicians, and Manichees-poisoning the wells of Christian life within the camp.

There are many of these heretics, he says, on the Rhine, and in Bohemia, and the south of France, who deny the Divine authority of the sacred priesthood, and mock at the holy sacraments, mimicking them in their ecrets assemblies-all the more dangerous, the holy Abbot says, because of the blameless, moral lives of many of them, and their upholding their errors from the Holy Scriptures, which they know and pervert in a wonderful manner. Yet is he averse from killing them, having compassion on their lost souls, and dreading the effect of public executions in spreading their madness, and giving notoriety to their errors.

He is also very earnest against the recent slaughter of the Jews on the banks of the Rhine, which some have rashly styled a "crusade," saying, that the true weapons wherewith to conquer them are the Word of God and prayer. Many have already been converted by these means.

Note.-Why not the same for the Turks? They are, however, without question, very wicked and obstinate infidels, and have no right to the Holy Land.

July 29.-SS. Peter and Paul.

I have done a deed this week, whether good or evil I shall know hereafter, but otherwise I could not do.

When I went to Magdalis's cottage this morning, I found her wringing her hands and weeping bitterly, the room unswept and in disorder, and Karl standing with folded arms before the fire, looking very sullen and determined.

"What is the matter ?" I exclaimed; "what has happened ?"

"Nothing!" replied Karl, gruffly, "but that my mother does not want to spare me to be a soldier of the holy Cross."

"Nothing!" sobbed poor Magdalis; "will Father Bartholomew call that nothing ?-for an only son to leave his widowed mother to the mercy of strangers, that he may go and be killed amongst the heathen Turks and Jews."

I could not altogether approve of Mother Magdalis's view of the Holy Wars, but neither did I feel sure of the genuineness of my fosterbrother's vocation to fight in them. He is at best but a wilful lad, although sound at the core, and for some months he had been growing weary of the monotonous toil of his peasant life. Wherefore I represented to him that the call must be very strong which could make it a duty for him to desert his mother, and asked him, since the redemption of the Holy Land lay so very near his heart, when this loud call from Heaven had been vouchsafed him.

He looked puzzled for an instant; then, drawing his hand impatiently through his long brown hair, he said,

"You know well I am no scholar: about calls and vocations I understand very little; but this I know-half the next village are going to Palestine, and the lord of ErbachErbach has promised to make me his armourbearer if I will go. And how expect a young fellow like me to toil away his youth in earning a scanty pittance of daily bread, when he has the chance of seeing the world, and coming back rich enough to be head peasant of the district in a few years ?"

"How many came back from the last crusade?" moaned Magdalis. "Ask the old men of the village that!-and who would not rather be a serf of the good monks of Marienthal, than a retainer of the proud lords of Erbach? And Nannerl, too, how she will grieve-and poor little Gretchen!"

"Gretchen will not care," said the young man, colouring. "Gretchen's grandfather was

a merchant of one of the free imperial cities, and she says she will never wed a serf of the soil."

"What does it matter what that silly child says?" said Magdalis, half-petulantly; "you will be killed, and then she will be as sorry as any of us, poor vain wench!"

Karl's lip curled, but he did not look altogether displeased.

"The War of the Cross is a holy war," he said; "and if I die, mother, you will know that I am safe, and Father Rudolph, who preached the crusade on the Rhine, says one wound from the Turk is worth fifty Pater Nosters."

Magdalis was too wretched to controvert either his theology or his purpose; but as I looked at his manly form, and his bold, bright eye, I felt still more doubtful as to his heavenly vocation to the Cross, and I said, "Well, I would not interfere with a pious vow, Karl, but I came to tell you that the old Abbey huntsman died last week, and I thought you might have filled his place, as you are a famous marksman." Karl turned suddenly to me,

"Well, Father Bartholomew," he said, after a short pause, "I am no scholar, and, as I said, know little of calls and vocations-after all, it might be a mistake;-could you really get me appointed Abbey huntsman-and made free ?"

"I might try, Karl," I said; "but far be it from me to tempt you to resist a call from Heaven, or to neglect a sacred vow."

Karl rubbed his forehead and looked up and down, half puzzled and half convicted; at length he stammered—

"I am a poor unlettered man; I do not know that it was exactly a vow, Father Bartholomew: and even if it were, could you not perhaps manage that for me too?"

I could not help smiling as I shook his hand and took leave.

In a few weeks Gretchen is to be married to the Abbey huntsman. The saints intercede for me if I have done wrong! After all, Karl will be in the service of the Church.

And I sometimes wonder if the Saviour cares as much for His deserted sepulchre as so many now do.

Are not His living habitations far better? "The poor ye have always with you." "In that ye did it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye did it unto Me."

And St. Paul writes to each one of the faithful: "Know ye not that your bodies are the temples of the Holy Ghost ?"

Why, then, travel so far to the site of an overthrown temple and an empty tomb?

"He is not there; He is risen." He is not there only, for, where two or three are in His name, there is He.

St. Peter, St. Paul, St. Thomas, St. Bar-
tholomew, and all the holy Apostles
and Evangelists;

St. Stephen, St. Clement, St. Pothinus
with thy companions;

St. Irenæus with thy companions;

St. Sebastian, St. Laurence, and all the holy Martyrs;

St. Augustine, St. Ambrose, St. Gregory, and all the holy Doctors;

HE day has been too hot. The night is sultry. You are nervous and restless. No place so good as the bed, and to the chamber you repair, hoping soon to lose all remembrance of your cares and troubles in sleep.

The light is extinguished, and you resign yourself to the pleasing sensations of approaching rest. When, lo! a thin, piercing sound salutes you! It needs no interpretation. It is a mosquito come a-serenading. Is there any trumpet that can wake a nervous man more quickly or more entirely? Every sense is attent. Now the sound comes near, now recedes, now it is lost. It soon comes again, and, watching your opportunity, you give yourself a broad slap upon the face, hoping that the mosquito shared it with you! For a moment he seems dead. You experience a minute satisfaction of petty revenge. But soon the inevitable sound comes again, but with a hither and thither motion. You are acutely attentive. This time, to make sure, your hand is disengaged, and lies outside of the coverlet, ready for a surprising blow. He alights. You feel his delicate touch upon your forehead. Quicker than winking, your hand follows him with such a slap as makes the room echo. But he is quicker than you are, and, besides, sees in darkness much better. He is off like a sprite, and sings and pipes in a distant corner.

By this time you are quite excited,—you discourse: "The thief, if he would hold his peace and come and eat his fill, and be off, he should be welcome. But the intolerable piping is worse than a surgeon's lancet."

Suppose, my friend, that you should get up, light the gas, hunt for him! You had better close the blinds, for, however suitable your condition may be in itself considered, yet, if seen from a neighbour's window, a nightcapped man in search of a mosquito, at twelve

All the holy Pontiffs,

All the holy Monks and Hermits, All the holy Virgins and Widows, Omnes sancti and sanctæ Dei, Orate pro me,

if I have erred.

at night, must subject himself to some ridicule. There, now, return to your work. You can. not find him? After all, perhaps that last slap did the business for him. It certainly did for you. See how red your much-abused face is! Why not let him take a little blood out of it? It would be improved.

The hero returns to his couch, and the tiny foe returns to the hero. Again the horn sounds, again he strikes out at him, and again misses. At length tired out, the victim falls asleep. The little trumpeter draws near and sounds a challenge. He circuits all about, and sings every note in his serenade. At length he alights upon a chosen spot, and having satisfied his hunger, retires to some dark corner, overswollen, to collapse and die.

All this would not be worth telling but for its application. I see on every hand men engaged in beating themselves on account of fears, cares, frets, and petty annoyances.

The mother sits by her child slightly ill. She imagines all possible evils,-she torments herself for hours and days at possible but improbable results. It is a mosquito game. The real evil is petty, and if quietly taken would soon cease of itself. But she must punish herself by every ingenious imagination. Love has its mosquitos. How many sounds does jealousy hear! How many dreads does anxious love breed! How many nameless fears, and how many "what ifs"!

Much of the anxiety of business is mere mosquito-hunting. When I see a man pale and anxious, not for what has happened, but for what may happen, I say, "Strike your own face, do it again, and keep doing it, for there is nothing else to hit."

Everybody has his own mosquitos, that fly by night or bite by day. There are few men of nerves firm enough to calmy let them bite. Most men insist upon flagellating themselves for the sake of not hitting their troubles.