diers, the five thousand camp followers and riff-raff of Italy-all were free but the Romans themselves. These abstained from taking any part in the mockery, partly through disdain and indignation, and partly owing to the intimidation of bands of roughs hired by the Italian party to keep them away from the booths.

When the election was passed the results were engraved on marble and set up at the Capitol, proclaiming that "40,785 votes had been recorded in favor of Victor Emmanuel's rule over Rome and Italy, and only forty-six against it." Experienced politicians well-versed in electioneering business were afterwards inquisitive enough to make a calculation as to "what time should be necessary to record the above number of votes at the given number of booths, allowing the usual time to each. voter." The result of the problem was that several days should be necessary, although a few hours had sufficed for the election itself.

But the mock election satisfied the tender consciences of the usurpers; for that same evening a decree was issued proclaiming papal rule at an end, Rome of the Popes and martyrs snatched from the Holy See and incorporated with "United Italy." Thus fell the temporal power of the Popes in the person of gentle old Pius IX after a period extending over a thousand years, during which it has witnessed the rise and fall of numberless dynasties.

After thirty-five years of "United Italy" regime, it should be interesting to compare the positions of the despoiled and the despoiler to-day, as well as the manner in which Divine Providence has dealt with each. The year 1905 has shown forth the Holy See to be more powerful, more far-reaching in its influence, more saintly and prosperous than it ever has been since that day, twenty centuries ago, when the Lowly One handed the keys to the Galilean

fisherman. That on one side the order, "Go ye, therefore, teach all nations" has been faithfully executed, and on the other, the promise, "Behold, I am with you all days" is being loyally observed, may be seen in a striking manner by one standing at the great bronze door of the Vatican for one hour. Prince and beggar, rich and poor, the learned and illiterate of every station in life pass under its portals to throw themselves at the feet of the Universal Father. The world pours its money and its love into his hands; while its rulers seem to vie with each other in doing him honor. When Leo XIII received the Triple Crown scarcely a sovereign in Europe was on friendly diplomatic relations with the Holy See; now, not only are connections most cordial, but nearly all look to the "Prisoner of the Vatican" as common arbitrator. Experience shows us the truth of the concluding words of Pius IX to the Diplomatic Corps as to the immortality of the Catholic Church. After being exposed to the storms and rains of nineteen hundred years, the "Rock" stands as firm and impregnable as ever. And with the flag bearing the motto of "restoring all things in Christ" floating above it, a new soul—or rather, the old one rejuvenated-seems to inspire it anew.

But how do things fare with the occupants of the stolen palace on the Quirinal Hill? With the exception of a crowd of mercenary satellites and an occasional tourist anxious to see the interior of the buildings hallowed by the residence of so many Popes, all pass them by either with indifference or contempt. The sovereign of United Italy has been always one of the most miserable men in the kingdom; for as his throne was set up by violent means, it has now to be maintained by armed force. Universal strikes and unveiled discontent constantly menace the Parliament, whilst Parliament, in turn, threatens its master. The wild vapor

ings of Socialists, Anarchists, Garibaldians, and Masons keep the air redolent of revolution and the people in a state. of alarm. The efforts of the Government in aping the manners of a firstclass Power makes Italy only too frequently a subject of banter, as a slender. purse can but badly meet the demands of the pride-swollen Government. What wonder is it then to hear that the Dowager Queen Margherita-who is so well and so deservingly loved by all classes in Italy, and particularly in Rome -had almost succeeded in inducing her consort, King Humbert, to abdicate his shaky throne. Perhaps no more unsettled people with higher ideals can be found in the world to-day than those of Italy. Well aware that their country is at least fifty years behind many of the other Powers, they are absorbed in elevating her to a high level, but are impeded by political intrigues and ambitious factions. Such will be the state of public affairs in United Italy, in the opinion of profound thinkers and sharp politicians, while the Vicar of Christ has to remain the "Prisoner of the Vatican." For months past the atmosphere of the Eternal City has been full of rumors regarding the prospect of a no distant reconciliation between the Vatican and the Quirinal and none are more alive to its necessity than the two parties themselves. However, many, very many, things of moment must come to pass before such a happy state of affairs can be brought into existence.

But why is Italy behind the rest of the world? Italians are naturally highly intellectual; their minds are full of religious ideals and longings after truth and justice. At whose door then must the blame be laid that, from a scientific standpoint, many other parts of the world have left them, as a body, so far behind in the race for learning and material progress? The answer is that the revolution of 1869 threw back all attempts at progress. The expenditure of

"scudi," that were very badly required for other purposes, in helping Victor Emmanuel to overthrow the Papal Government beggared the state; the propping up of his throne by the hard, grinding taxation on all classes makes efforts at progress to a great extent ineffectual. To these reasons may be added two others: one is the inane attempts of the Italian Government to pose as a great Power and imitate the actions of such countries as America, England, Germany: the other is the want of cooperation on the part of Italy's numerous progeny of political factions to serve the mother country. With regard to the first cause, we must remember that Italy is financially pauperized; yet mammoth monuments must be raised to her revolutionary heroes; her king is one of the best paid monarchs in the world, and vast sums are voted for the reception of princes who may deign to visit her officially. Take one instance to illustrate what we state-the "huge and hideous buildings of the new 'Ministero della Finanze,' commonly called the 'Public Debt,'' as Rev. Mr. Hare (the bigoted Protestant clergyman who rarely lost an opportunity of attacking everything connected with the Papacy, who died a fervent Catholic, and whose last regret was that he could not live to revise his books and expunge everything anti-Catholic in them) designates it. Listen to Marion Crawford speaking of this building: "The Roman curses it for the millions it cost; but the stranger looks, smiles, and passes by a hideous building three hundred yards long." Such is the edifice necessary to hold the national purse. As to the second reason, little explanation is required. In Rome itself, Monarchists, Socialists, Republicans, Anarchists and Masons may be seen constantly at dagger's ends; while the Papacy, to save the supporters of the usurping king from being crushed out completely and thus destroy the last vestige of law and order, has permitted

999

all Catholics in Italy to join hands with the Monarchial party under the direction of their Bishops. This generous act of Pius X towards his enemies on the Quirinal Hill in the interest of law and order saved Italy from a perilous position and has given her a new lease of peace; but how long she will be able to enjoy it is a question that might well puzzle the keenest observer of public affairs.

Though the government of temporal matters does not now pertain to the Vatican, the policy of Pius X resembles in many respects that of Pius IX. Firmness and forbearance are its chief characteristics, the only difference between them being that, while the latter was "deserted by all the great Powers," the former has the hearty support of the world.

FTEN a succession of tones appeals to one with greater force than a sermon. Music, at times, will have a hundred tongues where the spoken voice would carry only an over-familiar message.

Loitering here in Italy, I chance upon many an out-of-the-way haven of seclusion. This evening at dusk I have crept into an old cathedral-what matters its name or the exact spot where it is passing from a hallowed old age into its final rest?-and there is no one here to remind me that I am in an every-day world. I am alone with the giant pillars, each one a dumb historian of all the ancient glory and sacred associations that it has been the witness of. sciously I bend my head and with closed eyes lose myself in meditation.

Uncon

Soon a faint tone seems to form itself in the stillness. I listen reverentlyand an unpreached sermon sinks into my soul. Through an open door of the church leading into the vaulted cloisters, there comes the far-away sound of many voices in subdued, harmonious unison. The monks are chanting at eventide.

Greedily I strain my ear that not one note of the medieval chant may be spilt as it is wafted to me here in the furthest shadow of a transept. A steady flow of melody, faint but uninterrupted, reaches me in its unbroken rhythm; only the echoes express any human emotion. The music does not swell, nor vibrate, nor thrill. It quavers not, nor melts into delicate tones, nor flares up in paroxysms of pain, nor does it burst forth in a rhapsody of gladness. No: with gentle insistence it voices the nothingness of earthly things; it expresses by its convincing evenness the inevitableness of life; it breathes the calmness that comes from resignation; and it bears aloft in its reassuring vibrations the blessed hope of a happy future.

The tranquil voices of the monks carry to me the message: "Restlessness, begone; peace, enter in-forever and ever, for time everlasting." Suddenly the cloister door slams to with a rude bang-and I am left alone with the hollow air and the unfruitful silence, as, by a single breath, all of the melodic prayer is mercilessly hushed.

T was Lady Day in August. A beautiful day for a beautiful 902 fete, but torrid. In Paris it can be torrid; but even though it be very hot, one does not mind on a feteday, because there is joy in the air and the undrunk wine of delight courses in the veins of the light-hearted throngs who are out to enjoy the happiness of the children.

The children are the lords and queens of creation on these festival days. They are the idols of the hour; yet they are not spoiled by the idolatry that is lavished on them by parents and relatives and friends. They are French children, and so they can never be rude or impolite, even in the height of their play. They may become semi-delirious with the enjoyment of the game of romps, but they will not yell or get angry or play the greedy or selfish. They are too well trained to forget themselves so.

It was, by a charming coincidence, Michelle Colbert's birthday, too. She was ten years old that happy fete-day. So she came, attended by a troop of little maidens nearly about her own age, schoolmates, to attend the grand High Mass in the glorious Church of St. Sulpice, in many-mooded Paris.

Michelle's mother would gladly have accompanied her idol to the great church on the occasion but for the fact that she must remain at home to prepare the forenoon meal for her husband, who was the captain of the Pompiers for the district. His hours were strict; he must be at his post punctually lest a firealarm should be sounded just after the departure of his lieutenant. The service is military, and military precision marks. the arrival and departure of members of the corps, both officers and men.

But, much as she would have loved to be with Michelle at church that Lady Day, a thousand times more would Madame have given were her husband there, too. But, alas! that was beyond her hope. Captain Colbert, though a loving husband and tender parent, was afflicted with that indifferentism toward the future which is the heritage of Voltaire and the Revolution. He never attended church save when he was compelled to do so by some extraordinary public ceremony. The fact that he was a pompier-that is, a fire-fighting commander-always gave him an excuse for staying at his post.

And, oh, the pity of it! He was so good a man, so sober, so fond of his neat home in the old house on the Rue de Vaugirard-the old house which had once been an appendage of that Carmelite convent where fell hundreds of priests imprisoned there when first flamed out the fiery breath of the Revolution, in the memorable September of 1792. There must surely be something hallowing, Madame thought, in the atmosphere of such a place. Others might regard it with awe and shuddering, but she believed it to be holy, and so she never suggested that their quarters be changed. As for Captain Colbert, he had no sentiment on the subject one way or the other. He was, or had been, a fighting man, and death or its associations had no terrors for the soldier who was also the unbeliever.

Strange inconsistency of human nature! While Captain Colbert was thus indifferent or apathetic about man's greatest concern in regard to himself, he was quite the reverse as regarded his pet, Michelle. On Sunday mornings, if he thought she was lingering overlong at breakfast or at her toilet, he would

call out to her a warning that she was in danger of being late for church, and bid her hasten. "It is such bad form," he would say, "to be late going in at any public function." Madame noted this fact, and noted it with secret pleasure, but prudently made no outward comment on it. She was a wise womanone of the rare ones who could keep her thoughts to herself when necessary.

It was enough to look at Madame to be convinced that such was the case. Large and stately in form, unlike most Frenchwomen, her face was sweetly grave and thoughtful, and her eyes, which were gray, were beautifully spiritual and tender in expression. Michelle inherited her physical gifts to a large extent; but from her father she had taken the bright vivacity and happy adaptativeness which made her a general favorite among her youthful companions. It was a charming sight to behold a bevy of these at home when some parent gave a birthday party. Here some of their male companions used sometimes be invited to join in the gaiety; and it was amusing to behold the incipient spirit of coquetry in the behavior of these "petites dames" and little cavaliers. Michelle moved among these gay spirits with the grace of a leading sprite, attired in gauzelike white dress, with a wide blue or pink sash, sometimes an exquisite band of lace around her throat-one of her mother's family treasures; and her crisp curlsof an indefinable color, sometimes. golden-brown, sometimes hazel in the shade-bound in a rippling knot with a rich fillet of crimson or green ribbon. Such delightful pictures do these French children present at these happy reunions that it is little wonder they are looked upon by their adoring parents as beings of a brighter sphere than this.

One trait of Michelle's especially endeared her to her mother-her great gift of piety. This developed at an unusually early age. The glorious stained

glass windows and pictures in St. Sulpice she would gaze at with rapt delight for long stretches. On one painting in especial would she often linger. It was that of the Virgin learning to read. This creation of the artist possessed a kind of fascination for the meditative "enfant de Marie." Its exquisitely thoughtful eyes seemed to be gazing into her own-into her very soul, she used to fancy—and claiming her as her own. At night-time often did they haunt her dreams, and sometimes she used to fancy that that sweet childish maid spoke to her in dulcet, lisping accents, but in a strange tongue, as though she would have her do her some favor.

On the great plaza in front of the church were seated several visitors, waiting for the bell to peal out its majestic note of preparation for the High Mass from the great northern tower. The pavement was almost dazzling from the fierce brilliancy of the sunlight that beat on it; and the shadows of the tall, broad plane-trees that line the approach showed dense purple as they fluttered to and fro over the blindingly white floor. Still, hot though it was, the senses were cooled by the sight of the soaring waters of the great central fountain, and by their plashing turbulence as they were thrown back from their assault on the blue dome above into the spacious cool basin, where, in the niches of the sculptured inside rim, stand the statues of Bossuet, Fenelon, Massillon and Flechier, lending a sense of tranquillity to the scene, suggestive of cool retreats and mossy cells where monk and hermit loved to meditate, in the heart of the scorching desert, beside some salubrious

oasis.

An elderly lady was among those who had been waiting for the bell to announce the beginning of the service. She was seated on a bench beneath one of the trees. Many others had sought similar shelter all around. A gravelooking gendarme, in green jacket and