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au tisfactui y
THE CATACOMBS OF ROME.
When the Goths descended upon Italy,
ravaging the country as they passed over
it, and sat down before Rome, not content
with stripping the land they fo reed their
way into the catacomus, searching for trea
sure, and searching alio, it scents most
likely, for the bodies of the martyrs, whom
their impet•fect creed did not prevent them
from honoring. After they retired, in the
short breathing-space that was given to the
unhappy city, various popes undertook to
do somothi ng to restore the catacombs,—
and one f them, John 111, [A. D. 560-
574] ordered that service should heves ,
formed at•certain underground shrines, and
that conlles and all else needful for this
purpose should be furnished from the Iht
°silica of St. John Lateran. Just at the
:close of the sixth century, George the
•Orcat [590-694] again appointed stations
in the catacombs at which service should
•be held on special days . in the course of
the year, and a curious illustration of the
veneration to which the relics of the saints
were then field is afforded by a gift which
he sent to Theodelinda, queen of the
Lombards. At this time the Lombards
were laying all Italy waste. Their Arian
zeal ranged them in religious hate against
the Yoman Church,---but Theodeliuda
was an orthodox believer, and throngh her
Gre izory hoped to secure the conversion of
her husband and his subjects. It was to
her that he addressed his famous Dialogues
filled with the most marvellous stories of
holy nien and the strangest notions of re
ligion. Wishing to satisfy her pious de
sires, sod to make her a very precious
gift, lie sent to her many phials of oil ta
ken from the lamps that were kept burn
trig ol the shrines of the martyrs in the
catacombs. It was the custom of those
who visited these shrines to di,t handlcer
chiefs, or other bits of cloth, in the reser
voirs of oil, to which a sacred virtue was
supposed to be imparted by the neighbor
hood of the saints ; and even now may of
ten be seen the places where the lamps
were kept lighted.
But although the memory of tnose who
had been buried within them was thus
preserved, the catacombs themselves and
the churches at their entrances were fall
ing more and more into decay. Shortly
after Gregory's death, Pope Boniface IV.
illustrated his otherwise obscure pontificate
by seeking from the mean and dissolute
Emperor Pantheon for the purpose of con
secrating it for a Christian church. The
glorious temple of all the gods was now
dedicated [A. D. 608, Sept 15] to those
who had d:splaced them, the Virgin and
all the Martyrs. It new name was S.
Marta ad Martyres—and in order to sanc
tify its precincts, the Pope brought into
the city and placed under the altars of his
new church twenty•eight wagon loads of
hones, collected from the different cata
combs, and to be those of martyrs• This
is the first. notice that has been preserved
of the practice that became very general
in later times of transferring bodies and
bones from tneir graves in the rock to new
ones under the city churches
Little more is known of the history of
the catacombs during the next two centu
ries, but that for them it was a period of
desolation and desertion. The Lombard
hordes often ravaged and devastated the
Caminna up to the very gates of the ci
ty, and descended into the underground
passages of the cemeteries in search of
treasure.. of relics, and of shelter. Paul
about the middle of the eighth century
took many bones and much lashed from
graves yet unrifled, and distributed them
to the church -s. He has left a record of
the motives that led* him to disturb dust
that had rested so long in quiet. "In the
lapse of centuries," he says, 'many ceme
teries of the holy martyrs and confessors
of Christ have been neglected and fallen
to decay. The impious Lombards utter
ly ruined them,—and now among the
faithful themselves the old piety has been
replaced by negligence, which has gone
so fur that even animals have been allowed
to enter them, and cattle have been stalled
within them." Still, although thus dese.
crated, the graves of the martyrs contin
ued to he an object of interest to the pil
grims, who, eves in these dangerous times
from year to year came to vist the holy
places of Rome; and itineraries, describ
ing the localities of the catacombs and of
the noted tombs within them. prepared for
the guidance of such pilgrims, not later
than the beginning of the ninth century.
have been preserved to us, and have affor•
Awl ocoonl3ol unil trkllcl irrtnrtrlnnl itcmictitnro
in the recent invesiigations
About the same time, Pope Paschal I.
[A. D. 817-824] greatly interested him
self in searching in the cataeotnbs for such
bodies et the saints ns might yet remain
in them, and in transferring these relics to
churches and monasteries within the city.
A contemporary inscription, still preserved
in the crypt of the ancient church of St
Prassude, (a church which nll lovers of
Roman art and legend take delight in,)
tells of the two thousand three hundred
martyrs whose .emains Paschal had placed
beneath its altars. Nor was this the only
church so richly endowed. One day, in
the year 821, Paschal was praying in the
church that stood on the site of the house
in which St. Oecilia had suffered martyr
dom, and which was dedicated to her hon.
or. It was now one of the oldest 'churchs
in Rome. Two centuries before, Gregory
Lhe Great, St. Gregory, had restored it,—
for it even then stood in need of repairs,
and now it was in greater need than ever.
Paschal determined, that he would rebuild
it from its foundation; but with this deter
ntinution came the desire to find the body
of the Saint, that her new church might
not want its most precious possession. It
was reported that the Lombards had sought
for it and carried it away, and the knowl
edge of the exact pitted of the grave, even
was lost. But Paschal entered vigorously
on the search. He knew that she had
been buried in the cemetery of St, Collis.
tus, and tradition declared that her sepal.
chre had been made near the Chamber of
the Popes. There he songht, but his seek-
ing was vain.
On a certain dny, however,—and here
he begins his owe story,—ln the 0 hurch
of St. Peter, as he sat listdning to the har
mony of the morning service, drowsinesi
overcame him, and he hill asleep. As he
was sleeping. a very beautiful maiden of
virginal aspect, and in a rich dress, mood
before him, and looking at him, said,-
4, We return thee many thanks; but why
without cause, trusting to false reports,
host thou given up the search for me ?
Thou host been so near me that we might
have spoken together."
The Pope, as if hurt by her rebuke,
and doubtful of his vision, then asked the
name of her who thus addressed him.
“If thou seekst my name," she said, "I
ain called Cecilia, the handmaiden of
"How can I believe this," replied the
sleeping Pope, "since it was long ago re
ported that the body of this moat holy
marty was carried away by the Lombards.
The Saint then told him that till this
time her body had remained concealed ;
but that now he must continuo his search,
for it pleased God to reveal it to him ; and
that her body he would also find other bo-
" LIBERTY AND UNION, NOW AND FOREVER, ONE AND miEPARABLE.
dies of saints to be placed with hers in her
new-built church. And saying this, she
Hereupon a new search was begun, and
shortly after, "by the favor of Glad, we '
found her in golden garments, and the
cloths with which her snored blood had
been wiped front her wounds we found
rolled up and full of blood at the feet of
the blessed virgin."
At the same time, the bodies of Valeri
an, l'iourtius, and Maximus were found in
a neighboring cemetery, and, together
with the relics of Pope Urban,—as well
as the body of St. Cecilia,—were placed
under the high altar of her church. The
cypress coffin in which she had been rev.
erently laid at the time of her death was
preserved and set within a marble sarcoph- I
agus. No expense was spared by the de
vout Paschal to adorn the church that had
been so signally favored. All the Art of
the time (and at that time the arts flourish
ed only in the service of the Church,) was
called upon to assist in making the new
basilica magnificent. The mosaics which
were set up to adorn the apse and the arch
of triumph were among the best winks of
the century, and, with colors still brilliant
and design still unimpaired, they hold
their place at the present day, and carry
back the thought end imagination of the
beholder a thousand years into the very
heart of this old story. Under the great
Mosaic of the apse one may still road the
inscription, in the rude Latin of the cen
tury, which tells of Paschal's zeal and
Rome's joy, closing with the line,
"Boma resultat ovans semper ornata per
(To Lc continued.)
gk. Vitning *tug.
It was not in the year of fairies—of wee
godmothers, sometimes old ladies with
crutches and goggles and sometimes floa
ting erpionrpa in rrngAnrrinr rnhoo nnrl
wands, sprining out of ros s and lillies, or
anything as sweet and beautiful; but it
was in the year of spirits, 1800, that our
heroine lay. just ono day, by her mother's
Of course she was very small, and was
hidden carefully in blankets, to be found
only when visitors of near relationship
hunted her up, one to exclaim, 'What a
dm ling ?' and another, *What a head of
It was owing to this same head of hair
that she was ever found ; for the little
round blank head wag the only evidence,
at first sight, that anything but a little bun.
dle lay there so well preserved.
When the privileged visitors had depar
ted and she rested quietly, the mother's
mental eyes wandered over the globe, and
could see nothing in all the treasures of
gold and silver on Broadway—in dazzling
cases of diamonds, rubies and pearls, in
London and Paris fashion-marts—in fa
bled stock of riches gathered in royal trea
sure houses, including the greatest gem
yet found, or the greater that yet lay se
' cretly sparkling in toe bosom of mother
earth—that could buy h•:r baby ! No di
amond had such sweet eyes and rosy
mouth set in it. What, then, was it worth
if never so large ? Could any pearls
equal those body fingers ? The mothers
thought if she should be queen of She
ba, going to another Solomon, she didn't
see how she could show him the riches of
the world in a better form titan in her ba
Don't laugh at this beautiful young
mother; for although another Solomon
might conclude, in his great wisdom, that
Mrs• B 's baby was not a condensed in.
ventory of the wonders of the earth, yet
let Mrs. B. think so; it is very delightful
to her and will help her to gain strength
and good health.
Mrs. B. lay in the twilight tranquility.
The busy nurse had carried away the
tray, and down stairs with cook in the
kitchen's gossip•warmed nook, forgot the
lady and the baby.
Mrs. B. didn't care ; she listened for a
foot on the stairs.
It came—The quick bounding step,
two staris at a time. (The young mother
and first•born, in the darkened room up
stairs, draw the young father with wonder
ful power to a great demonstration of
speed. What a pity that he should grow
laggard witt the etgth or ninth !)
He comes. 'the pure white cheek has
a pretty glow upon it, from even the little
excitement, and the lips are parted with a
smile ere the door is opened oy a cautious
The young father enters with scarce a
creak to his boots, and it is quite agreea
ble to them that the kitchen vuiy; for the
nurse can be spared a little longer.
HUNTINGDON, PA., WEDNESDAY, APRIL 14, 1858.
It is of no use to mention dotnils in this
connubial case. Ve know that there are
kisses and fond words, an - , that our racy
is of course regarded with unmixed en
The nurse comes up too soon and too
suddenly, but don't see anything of the
young couple's fondness—she's particular
ly anxious about setting a mtraight toilet
cover a little straighter, and newly arran
ging the very orderly looking articles on
the farther burnau. She is an exemplary
and faithful nurse !
Night comes. The exemplary nurse
has steeped herself in sleep to such a de
gree that the voice of mother and rest•
lessnees of baby cannot move her to more
than a pat on nothing at all, instead of the
precious bundle, ancr whispered !hush !
hush !' like the maudlin whisper of a
man in his cups
The mother soothes, and does the gen•
uinc patting, pitying the elderly female,
who is perhaps so tired, from running up
It was pleasant, :vhen the baby went to
sleep, to lay there and think of all her
She thought of what her baby would
be—very lovely; for the families on both
sides said it was already remarkably so,
and she was sure it would grow up beauti.
ful. Already there was astonishing, full
ness of brow. Everybody was speaking
of that—that is, both the families were
speaking of that, And this was mind,
perhaps genius. it hadn't cried above its
breath since the tint hour of its birth;
and what could better betoken an amiable
and gentle character
'What,' thought the happy mother,
'should I ask, if a fairy should stand sud.
denly upon the bedpost, with one foot in
the air, as they are always represented,
with airy garments and a waving wand,
and should say to me in a low, sweet tone
, W hat gift shall the powers of fairy land
bestow upon the child of your love!'
She was sure she couldn't tell ! The
very bright. There was every reason to
believe that her disposition was very
sweet. A wonderful purse that filled up
itself as fast as it was emptied, might be
very useful if the times continue hard;
this was the only thing she could think
But money seemed such a low subject!
for the thoughts, when she took a careful
peep at the pretty creature, which she was
'so glad she did'—ior there lay the baby
with one dear, sweet hand quite over its
head; such an alarming position, the
nurse had said, for its intellect.
With a little trembling at her darling's
narrow escape. the mother brought the lit
' tle hand carefully down, and put a fold of
blanket round it to keep it from endanger
ing it again.
Then she laughed to he rself at the idea
of fancying what she should say to a fairy
on her bed-post when fair'es had gone
from the earth so very long ago, And
with a smile she fell asleep, although she
still felt wide awake.
Somebody spoke to her! Not a fairy
but something belonging to 1800 which
I Bald :
'What good do you ask for your child I'
There was nothing to be seen, but the
voice was strong, yet gentle, that repea
'What good do•you ask for your child?'
The mother, calmed to thoughtfulness
after the playfulness of her last thoughts
seemed to answer:
'My darling has sweetness. loveliness,
a promise of intelligence; what can
you give her to crown these ?'
will help her to speak the holy and
pure truth, while surrounded by the
fashionable deceit and falsehood. On ev.
err small or great occasion of her life• her
lips will only open to speak the pure un
shackled truth. Shall the gift be hers 1'
'My child's sweet mouth never to open
to speak an unrue word ? Oh I blessed
and power and blessed giver, accept my
The baby moved : the mother suddenly
awoke, and for a moment listened for the
voice of her dream. But although she
listened in vain, there was in a heart a
voice as clear and real as the baby's cry
now in her ear. 'Always truthful.' Hea
ven itself was gained for her child, with
the immortal gift?
Oh ? bonny youth—with eyes like sum
mer stare, with heaven's morning smile—
when storms are in the secret places,
known only to bitter hearts or disappoin•
ted age—when the great, wild ocean is a
emilling- lake and deep, broad lakes are
mirrors only of the trees and birds on wing
of the moonlight and the stars—Dora was
an embodiment of all thy graces and all
thy hopes—of all thy sweetness and all
thy joy ! .
Dorn, the tiny creature of the quiet
birth-room—she with the small, round
head and bundled limbs—had grown thro'
all the actual devournients of doting pa
rents and admiring friends, to a beautiful
child of ten years old. The small, round
head had kept its prettiness, only to be
improved up'n by time ; and the small
white hands were still so small and white
only more plump and full of work, from
an active spirit.
If she did a naughty thing, from baby
impulse, or childish thoughtfulness, and
was asked about it. the child's blue eyes
!coked straight into the eyes which ques
tioned of the truth, and the child's lips
willingly answered to the command—
'You have been naughty, Dora ; tell me
some other time.'
'Shall I only tell the truth when it says
something pleasant to you ?' So sharp a
question. pierced very deep. And Mrs.
B. allowed, that evening to the unmoved
reader of the news, that Mrs. Brown was
somewhat sarcastic, and perhaps her nose
did show it some.
Dora heard it, and knew that the acid
of the cranberry tart had passed away.
'My Darling Dora,' said Mrs. Brown,
one oay, :your mother is the sweetest wo•
man. and your papa such an agreeable
man. Now don't think lam trying to
find nut your secrets, pet.' And Mrs. B.
laughed quite naturally, it was such a
pleasant fancy to ascertain it the quiet
and intelligent husband of her friend ap.
preciated her •
Dora was willing to avoid an answer,
and made an effort very gracefully to do
so; but Mrs. Brown knew very well that
she should get the truth, if anything, and
The mother loved the friend of her girl-
so she mentally clutched the little truth
hood more than ever for the words, and teller, and would not let her go.
:Come, there's no escape, my Dora,'
this mother was like most others, as w©
can plainly see. said Mrs. 8., with a very lovely smile,
'What a dear, good, constant friend ,is which didn't seem to warm the child,
Mrs Brown I' said Mrs. Beals to Mr.
'what does papa say about Mrs. Brown?—
haven't you ever heard ?'
Beals that night at tea.
'Very,' said Mr. 8., quietly; and as he have heard papa say somt thing about
sipped his tea, inquired, without a smile you, Mrs. Frown; but [think 1 must not
that Mrs. B. could see— say,' says Dora quietly.
Friends, relations, acquaintances, tho't
it beautiful— spoke in raptures of the
trait which prollised such a noble wom
anhood. How much they all loved truth
fulness !--How much they all enjoyed
those pure blue eyes, dotvo in whose
depths lived Truth in its fabled well—na
ked and pure, with no mortal garments
of flaunting flattery or false gems !
, What a sweet treasure you possess !'
says Nirs. Brown to Mrs. Beals.
, Anything of Dora from Mrs. Brown ?' Of course Mrs. Brown was quite as
'Oh ! yes, my dear, she thinks so much anxious after t.:4is as before to have Dora
'say;' aml so she intimated, with a pocu•
of her. She speaks of her ns such a
treasure, and quite envies me, I know, liar expression of the little , sarcastic nose.'
the possession of such a darling. although i There was no escape. And it may be
there isn't a bit of world envy in it. My thot the child, not quite angelic, felt some
deer Matilda is just such a sympathizing indignation at the process she was subject
site could be divided over the whole world 'Papa says ne minus you are a time
to make every body as happy as she does sarcastic,' and Dora's eyes were on the
me !' expressive feature.
"Where would you bestow her little 'And what noes mamma say to that ?'
satcastic nose, my dear ?"said the strong-
says Mrs. Brown, with a growling elo
hearted Mr. Beals. 'Don't let her leave it quence in the unfortunate nose.
here, I pray.' 'She loves you very much; but she a
grees with papas and the child's
'Now, Arthur, I never knew you so un
just !' said the indignant and constant eyes read as plainly as if the nose could
friend, Rebecca Beals, no longer„ for the spank, when it turned up so emphatically;
'Mrs. Beals is a fool to pin herself to all
moment, the loving partner of his joys and
sorrows. 'Amy unjust! Ungenerous ! Mr. Beals' ideas, and let him turn her
My friend, who has been so constant to me from anybody that's quite as good as her
for long, long years (Perhaps there was self. '
an emphasis upon the 'long,' to convey n
searching ideu to her husband's mind). So
indulgent, too, and so very kind I Oh ! I
could cry "
'Don't cry. my dear,' says the colly cru
el Mr. 13 eating his buttered toast, with
oat a choke of conscience rising in his
t hroat. 'Mrs. Brown isn't so very bad ;
but she never was and never can be all the
angel you have fancied her. And I calm
ly repeat, without the slightest fear of hur•
ling your feelings, my dear, that she has
very decidedly, a small sarcastic nose.—
Hasn't she, Dora ?'
I can't say it was right for Mr. 13. to
appeal to the truthful child against her
mother's friend; but men and husbands
non't, as a general thing, stop to ask them
selves delicate questions, when they see
they are gaining a point
'1 tl.ink she has, papa," says the sweet
deer voice, in a quiet way, as if it were
quite proper she should tell the fact.
'Dora says it, my dear; and you know
Dora always tells the tru;h. In tact, you
pride yourself upon Dorn truthfulness, my
dear, as of course I do.'
And 11r. Beals pushed his chair bask
from the table as he spoke; actually whis
tling as he went to the sitting room, to
read the evening papers.
Whistled when he had spoken so
slightingly of her friend's nose, and had
called upon Dora (who was growing a
little pert) to put her mother's friend to
'Dora,' said the mother, with a little of
the acid of the cranberry tart she had been
eating, in her voice. 'it seems to me that
you needn't join your father in anything
that's rude. It doesn't seem quite proper
that you should forget you are a little
child, and have no right to speak against
your mother's dearest friend.'
'But, dear mamma, you know I only
told the truth, because papa asked me—
so I must ! Could I help it, dear mam
'They say Dora, that the truth isn't to
be spoken at all times; and certainly it
seems to me, to night, as if it were very
Dora looked wonderingly at her moth•
er, for a moment, and then said slowly, as
if she were thinking it over in her little
'Mamma, must I only speak the truth
when it says something pleasant to you 1'
The mother put her chair back from
the table with some little haste, and, fol
lowing her husband into the sitting room,
said to the child,' 'We will talk of this
Mrs. Brown herself said:—
.I am much obliged to you, Dora, for
tho truth. I shan't trouble your' parents
with myself or my sarcasm after this, my
And so, Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Beals
were separated by the truth, which after
all, had not said anything very had.
Dora was sorry—her father wasn't very
and her mother was wise enough to com
fort the child with the assurance that she
would rather lose such a friend than have
her tell anything like a falsehood, ana so
the cloud passed over.
Sweet sixteen. And it is sweet. The
dancing feet dance more slowly, but more
gracefully, than at ten years old. The
eyes are fuller of intelligence, and the
mouth is parted with a firmer and per.
haps a sweeter will.
Dora is sweet sixteen. Beautiful, in.
telligent, amiable stilt—and more so.
Everybody's pet—everybody's paragon.
Her strong, great trait has done her no
great mischief since her mother's friend
had departed affection's life by its death
Getting to be a belle, she was both char
ming to other belles, and many beaux.
She was now leaving school and had
protnised correspondence to ten, twenty,
One 'dear, nice girl ' Dora loved, na
med Clara Bellows; and the dear, nice
girl was very worthy of Dorn's love.
Of course she had her faults, and some lof the great wrong that was done to wo
of them were of goodly growth. But mankind in not trusting in, and advising
who is there that hasn't faults ? So Do- with, as well as loving her.
ra thought--and loved her for the many !You would then be a delegate to the
virtues she found. Impulsive, strong,
feminine convention, Dora darling,' said
and earnest in her character, Clara rush.
11 Robert, half sarcastically.
e d into friendship with all her soul, when .Never I' said Dora fervently. 'But in
she discovered an interesting character, : the dear domestic circle, I would be the
and loved as much in a few years as ' confidante. and true partner of my hus
some put into a whole life time. ! band, or I would set up a standard of re-
Now Dora, with less enthusiasm, would 1 volt! I would rather penis in the battle,
last the longer. 1 than be my husband's bondswornan!'
Clara, in the first year of her corre- 1 II was the truth, and Robert felt that
spondenco with her friend, wrote sixty he bnd his weaning. She was to be no
letters ! She poured her soul out, liter- slave, in mind or heart ; but a true, faith
ally, to her sweet Dora. Dora answered
ful helper to the work of life.
every six, which is in sixty ten times, •
according to the table which, with much-
Some would have known that such a
travail, is fixed in tender minds, woman would make a noble wife —a noble
VOL. xxm. NO. 15
Dora husbanded her zeal, so that at the
end of the year it was still healthy and
strong; While Clara's had a chill after
the fever turn, and was dying out.
But in a 'revival,' excited state of
mind. ehs wrote to Dorn, begging, for
their friendship's sake, that she would
toll her all her knits, and help her to a
truer state of heart and mind.
Dora, with her high, noble views of
character, and the use that we should all
be to our friends, was delighted by the
call to help her darling friend in this best
slate of her life.
And truthfully she gave out her knowl
edge of her friend's peculiarities; ming
ling with words of truth and counsel, ex
pressions of tenderness and fond encour
Alas ! poor, loving, believing Dorn.
She asked you for some truth, and you
gave it to her. She asked you to speak
plainly, ,and you did.
But Clara's heart had been directed
from revival to a lover; and, in the flush
of gratified affection and devoted homage
the truthfulness of Dora's chart of charac
ter, so earnestly besought, came as chil
lingly as it had been unmasked.
Clara felt herself misunderstood—
thought little of Dora's judgment—gave
the letter to her lever—received with tri
umph his glorying verdict of her perfec
tions. against the clear sighted judgment
of her truthful friend—and sent a wed
ding card to 'Miss Dora Beals' some six
months after, with the same ceremony
as to her hundred other friends.
Poor Dora! No, not poor Dora; but
par flora, the friend.
Was there not one other heart in the
wide world that could bear the unveiled
presence of Truth ?
Sweet Dora asked this mournfully of
the trees and stars that always answered
her so gently .vitb the waving of their
boughs, and •pith their twinkling eyes.
Nature always spoke to her of truth; and
when this last disappointment came upon
to gldiv ivith zeal to tell her earnestly
that truth was lovely and divine, and
,he must not sorrow over anything that
would seem to prove it an enemy to hap
piness, rnd 'good will upon earth.'
And so Dora loved everything in Ns
tare more and more, and fostered in her
own heart the beautiful spirit which was
so much in sympathy with every work of
Twenty years ! since there nestled in
tho blankets the little creature of the wee
More beautiful in the soul than at sweet
sixteen, and lovely in body as lover could
wish—and Dora had a lover.
Yes, 'dear Dora' was the sweetest al
literation of the evening worship, and the
morning dream. 'Dear Dora %as the
burden of the trees and all Nature's voi
Happy Dora ! Beautiful Dora ! rruth
ful Dora! Will the dear worshipper of
thy beauty and mental charms over grow
cold and turn away from thee for the very
clearness of thy brow and the very puri
ty of thy lips 1
Alas !he will. No, 'not alas !
A man of intellect, a man of fashion,
a man of wealth was Robert Percival; but
not a man to understand the true nobility
A charming woman, gentle and yield
men feminine mind, keeping its subor
dinnte position; a 'norm heart, with its
affections under his control--was the be
ing Robert would call a treasure of a
Dora would be quite willing to make
one with him; but she would not be wil
ling to be lost in him—with no individu-
rt lity, with no will, with no judgment of
They talked one evening upon the
home they should some day share tageth
er. The lover's views were softened by
expedient gentleness and selfish caution;
but the truthful Dora, in the strong sptr•
it of her mind and heart, spoke earnestly