corpse upon my shoulders, the hermit preceding me with a spade in his hand. We descended from one mountain to another old age and death equally retarded our steps. At the sight of the dog which had discovered us in the forest, and who now leaping with joy followed us another road, I could not refrain from tears. Often did the golden tresses of Atala, fanned by the morning gale obscure my eyes, and often was I obliged to deposit my sacred load upon the grass to recover my strength. At last we arrived at the sad spot: we descended under the bridge. O my dear son, what a melancholy sight to see a young savage and an old hermit kneeling opposite each other busily engaged in digging a grave for an innocent virgin, whose corpse lay stretched in a dried ravine.

When we had finished our dismal task we placed the beauteous virgin in her earthly bed: alas! I had hoped to have prepared another couch for her. Then taking a little dust in my hand, and maintaining the most profound silence I scattered it, and for the last time looked at the remains of my beloved; then I spread the earth on a face of eighteen years. I saw the lovely features and graceful form of my sister gradually disappear behind the curtain of eternity. Her snowy bosom appeared rising under the black clay as a lily that lifts its fair head from the dark mold. "Lopez !" I exclaimed, “behold thy son, burying his sister!" and I entirely covered Atala with the earth of sleep. We returned to the cell, when I informed the priest of the project that I had formed of settling near him. The saint, who was thoroughly acquainted with the heart of man, discovered that my thoughts were the effects of sorrow. He said, "O, Chactas, son of Outalissi, whilst Atala lived, I entreated you to remain here, but now that your destiny is altered, you owe yourself to your native land; believe me, my dear son, grief is not eternal; it will sooner or later forsake the heart of man. Return to Meschacébé [Mississippi], and console your mother, who daily weeps and wants your support.

"Be instructed in the religion of your beloved Atala, and never forget the promise you made her to follow the paths of virtue, and to embrace the Christian religion: I will guard

the tomb of your sister. Depart my son; God, the soul of Atala, and the heart of your old friend, will follow you.'

Such were the words of the hermit of the rock. His authority was so great, and his wisdom so profound, that it was impossible to disobey him. The next day I quitted my venerable host, who, as he clasped me to his arms, gave me his last counsel and benediction, accompanied with tears. I went to the grave of my Atala, I was surprised to see upon it a little cross, that looked like the top-mast of a wrecked ship seen at a distance. I guessed that the priest had come to pray at the tomb, during the night; this mark of friendship and religion filled my eyes with tears, I felt almost tempted to open the grave, that I might once more behold my beloved Atala; I sat on the earth newly turned, my elbows resting upon my knees, my head supported by my hands; I remained buried in deep and sorrowful meditation. Then for the first time I made the most serious reflections upon the vanity of mankind, and the still greater vanity of human projects.

ROBERT DE LAMENNAIS.

THE most eloquent representative of Christian socialism was Robert de Lamennais (1782-1854), who was also one of the earliest to espouse that cause. He had been for a time a Catholic priest, but failed to bring about his proposed alliance between that Church and the masses, in opposition to kings. He had hoped to see the Church become an organizing power and gather the people into a new economic, as well as religious society, with a grand cooperative association of laborers. His original ultramontanism had won for him the favor of Pope Leo XII. But when he afterward published his paper, L'Avenir (The Dawn) with the motto, "God and Liberty; the Pope and the People;" and called to the clergy, "Separate yourselves from the kings, extend your hand to the people," Pope Gregory XVI. was displeased. Lamennais submitted at the time, but afterwards renewed his effort, and being condemned, left the Church. "Catholicism," he stated, "was my own life because it is the life of humanity;" but he bitterly denounced the clergy. He poured forth his

own socialistic Christianity in one of the strangest prose poems ever written-"Les Paroles d'un Croyant" (The Words of a Believer). It has well been called "a strange, weird, fascinating book." Its spirituality reminds us of Pascal; full of the fervor and beauty of poetry, it describes with deepest pity the wrongs and sufferings inflicted on the laborer by rulers and capitalists. This work was speedily condemned by the Pope as "small in size, but immense in its perversity." To-day, however, we may view all the ideas of Lamennais, we must agree with Ernest Renan's literary verdict: "The two essential qualities of Lamennais, simplicity and grandeur, are unfolded quite leisurely in these little 'poems,' which are pervaded by exquisite and true sentiment. He created, with reminiscences of the Bible and of the ecclesiastical language, this harmonious and grand manner which realizes a phenomenon unique in the literary world— a pastiche of genius."

Lamennais was naturally no admirer of Napoleon. "To study the genius of Bonaparte," he wrote while the Emperor was on Elba, "in the institutions which he founded, is to sound the darkest depths of crime, and to seek the measure of human perversity."

VISION OF THE FUTURE.

WHEN after a long drought, a gentle shower falls upon the earth, it drinketh greedily the rain from heaven which refreshes and fertilizes it.

So thirsty nations shall greedily drink the Word of God, when it falleth upon them like a refreshing shower.

And justice, with love, and peace, and liberty, shall spring up in their bosom.

And this time shall be as the time when all men were brethren, and the voice of the master, and the voice of the slave, the groans of the poor, and the sighs of the oppressed, shall no more be heard, but songs of joy and thanksgiving.

Fathers shall say to their sons: Our early days have been troubled, full of tears and anguish. But now the sun rises and sets upon our joy. Praised be God, who hath showed us these blessings before we die!

And mothers shall say to their daughters: Ye see your countenances now serene; disappointment, sorrow and misery trace no longer there, as in olden times, their deep furrows. Your countenances are like the surface of a lake in spring time, which is rippled by no breeze. Praised be God, who hath showed us these blessings before we die!

And the young men shall say to the young virgins: Ye are lovely as the flowers of the field, pure as the dew which refreshes them, as the light which colors them. It is sweet to look upon our fathers, it is sweet to stand near our mothers, but when we behold you standing near us there passeth over our spirits something which is heavenly. Praised be God, who hath showed us these blessings before we die!

And the young virgins shall answer: The flowers fade, they pass away; there cometh a day when the dew shall not refresh them, when the light shall not color them. But there is upon the earth a virtue which fadeth not, neither passeth it away. Our fathers are like the ear which is filled with grain in autumn, our mothers like the vine which is laden with fruit. It is sweet to us to look upon our fathers, it is sweet to us to stand near our mothers, and the sons of our fathers and of our mothers are sweet to us also. Praised be God, who hath showed us these blessings before we die.

MOTHER And DaughtER.

It was a winter's night. The wind sighed without, and the snow whitened the roofs.

Under one of those roofs, in a narrow chamber, were seated, working with their hands, a woman of bleached locks and her young daughter.

And from time to time, the aged woman warmed at a little fire her pallid hands. An earthen lamp lighted this poor abode, and a ray of that lamp fell upon an image of the Virgin which was hung upon the wall.

Then the young daughter, lifting her eyes, regarded for some moments in silence the woman of bleached locks; at length she spoke: My mother, you have not always been in this distress.