lowing effect. He, and the Vice President, the Treasurer, and the Secretary, must get into the carriage at the door, take their account books with them, go to the Quirinal palace; and the Pope himself would audit their accounts. And it was all to be done (so said the letter) at once, without any delay. There was no help for it: so in they jumped, and away they drove ; and they reached the Quirinal gates. What became of them after that, and how they fared I know not-such matters are kept very silent at Rome; and every thing of the kind is managed with secrecy and quiet. All I know of the affair afterwards, is this those who held offices in the establishment we speak of, at that time, either retired from them, or were dismissed and the institution is now in different hands and there are not so many whispers floating about Rome, of the misapplication of its funds.

It would seem that information was once conveyed through some channel to his Holiness, that the boys, in one of the charity schools at Rome, were not fed quite as well as they ought to be. With his usual energy, he set about looking into the grievance without any delay. And what were the means which he used for this end? Did he summon the overseers to give an account of their stewardship? or did he order a board (as it is well called) of hard-hearted commissioners to sit and report upon the case? No: he adopted a course much more simple, and certainly quite as effective.

It was evening, and the large bell of the house had summoned all the inmates of the school to the refectory for supper. And they were crowding in fast enough, and, I dare say, hungry enough too, for that matter. The prefect was there to keep order; he was twirling the keys of office on the fore finger of his right hand : and stood at the bottom of the refectory, a very scarecrow to all small transgressors and evil doers. The reader was up in the pulpit: for you know that it is the cus

tom in all Catholic colleges and religious houses for one member of the community to read aloud from some good and edifying book, while the others listen in silence. Well, as I said, the reader was there, and just on the point of beginning, when, quite unexpectedly, into the refectory there walked a tall gentleman, dressed in black. No one knew who he was-not even the prefect, for he walked over to meet him with an expressively-enquiring stare overspreading his whole features; it seemed to say, "Who are you? Where do you come from? and what do you want?" If that was what he wanted to know, he must have been very speedily, and very perfectly satisfied. For the stranger took from his pocket-book, and presented to him, a small paper, saying at the same time,

"I come from the Quirinal palace, on the part of his Holiness; and am sent to see what these boys get for supper, as his Holiness is not at all satisfied that they are treated as well as they ought to be. I beg, therefore, you will allow me to see how they are served."

"Oh! certainly!" said the prefect. "You see, each boy has a roll of bread and a plate of boiled beans. And the beans are nicely dressed in oil." And so he went on commending the fare as being plentiful and wholesome. And perhaps it was so beans are very nice things in themselves, and so is bread—but we should suppose they would not make a very nourishing supper for boys who are growing, and who labor hard the whole day.

Be this as it may, the stranger said it was not for him to decide: his orders were simply to get one boy's portion, and carry it to the Quirinal. He desired, therefore, that he should be supplied with what he wanted, and allowed to depart. So he took up one of the plates, politely wished the prefect good evening, and withdrew. A carriage, like the one described in the last "anecdote," happened to be waiting for him at the door-he stepped into it and

drove off, leaving the youths to enjoy their supper, and the prefect to keep good order. What the Pope thought of the supper, we do not know: nor are you to suppose that it was bad, merely because the matter was investigated: it may have been perfectly good and satisfactory for all we know. All we wish to say, is thiswhether the supper were sufficient or insufficient, the Pope's action was laudable, as evincing his disposition and readiness to correct abuses and patronize all reasonable reforms.

Those who live in Rome have now some chance of getting any letters, that may be sent to them. But, until lately, the post-office there was a sad chaos; and it was no matter of astonishment to receive an important epistle, perhaps ten days or a fortnight behind its time: the only marvel frequently was, to get it at all. Pius more than suspected things to be in this condition, so he one day folded up a letter, addressed it to himself, and despatched it through the usual channel of the post. It reached him in five days— nis palace being situated about a quarter of a mile from the post-office. Since then, things have mended considerably; and, as I said before, you may now hope to receive your letters in reasonable time.

The country round about Rome is called the "Campagna." This Campagna girds the city on every side like an immense belt, stretching a distance of from 15 to 30 or 35 miles every way. It is very badly cultivated; and several Popes have, from time to time, made repeated attempts to reclaim and improve it. Benedict the fourteenth, and Pius the sixth, were the most successful: especially the latter, who drained a large portion of the Pontine marshes, and rendered those districts healthy, that had produced nothing but noxious vapors during many centuries. Like his predecessors, Pius has girded himself up for this great and useful undertaking, and has been paying much

attention to the improvement of agriculture. The Mattei family possesses a model farm a few miles beyond the walls of the city; and, one day during last winter, the Pope set out to visit and examine it, with a view of raising similar establishments in various parts of the Campagna, should he think them likely to be of service. It was just after the heavy rains, and the country roads were in the worst possible condition. Indeed, so bad were they, that when they had gone about four miles, the postillions found it impossible to advance. So, one of the noble guard drew near the carriage window, and informed his Holiness of the condition of the roads, and of the danger there was, of the carriage being smashed, if they persisted in going forward.

"Oh!" said his Holiness, "I am rejoiced to hear it. I have long wished to enjoy a ride upon horseback; so that, if you will be so good as to dismount, I will take your place."

To hear was to obey-so the cavalier dismounted at once, and the Pope proceeded to place himself in the saddle. He had, however, just put a foot in one stirrup, and was raising himself up by it, when the flapping of his white cassock in the wind terrified the horse; and it took fright and galloped off at full speed. But Pius, with admirable coolness, brought the other leg over, took his seat, and was at once as much at home, as if he had been in an easy chair. On dashed the horse down the road; and the guard followed madly after, helter-skelter. At last, one of them overtook him, and stretched out his arm to rein in the horse, supposing that Pius could not control him. But he was wrong: Pius had perfectly mastered him, and forbade the guardsman to touch the rein, saying at the same time,

"I now feel exactly as I used to do when I was in the noble guard myself." For you must know, reader, that when he was young, he followed the profession of arms-but Providence had other designs

in store for him and led him into its own ways, by events (perhaps we may narrate them some day) that he little understood at the time; but the object of

which is now fully developed, to the great joy of the world. "Wisdom stretches from end to end, and she disposeth all things sweetly."

IT

WAS a spring evening

in the year 17-. The little belfry of a Catholic chapel in the county of Sligo, slowly sounded for evening prayer, and already the transparent lake of R reflected on its bosom the first stars, while the ruined abbey of S appeared like a phantom on the slope of the mountain, with its grisly walls and long draperies of ivy and eglantine.

It was the eve of the first of May, and the fires burned on the surrounding mountains as they were wont to do when the Druids kindled them in honor of their god Bel. A young traveller was seen wending his way towards the ruins of the abbey, which he had to pass before reaching his mother's cottage. He wore a dragoon uniform, and his accoutrements glittered in the beams of the rising moon, as he stood in front of the old abbey thoughtfully gazing on the ruins, under which his ancestors lay mouldering in the dust.

He was not a Protestant, for he reverently raised his helmet in passing a mutilated statue of the Mother of God. He was not an Englishman, for a sprig of shamrock was stuck in his helmet, and he sung the favorite air of Erin go bragh. The sound of his voice aroused a female who had been sitting on a fallen monument, sunk in a profound and painful reverie. She was clad in deep mourning, and her age might be about fifty. As soon as she saw him she sprang forward, caught the young soldier in her arms, and

dragged him under the sombre vaults of the gothic church.

"We are better here, my son," she said, as she slowly passed her hand across her forehead, "the sight of those fires is painful to me, and the sounds of human joy jar discordantly on my widowed heart, now that thou, my son, my only one, my last earthly hope, art about to quit me.”

"Mother," said the young soldier with profound emotion, "you are come here to bless me before we part-is it not so, my mother?"

"Yes, Patrick Fitzgerald, I have come hither to see thee for the last time, to bless thee in the midst of these ruined columns, blackened by the fire of the persecutor, in the midst of these deserted cloisters, built by thy ancestors. It is before this altar where thy fathers have prayed; on these stones under which the chieftains of thy country repose; under these falling arches, in ruins like thy fortunes and thy father's house, that I have come to exact from thee a solemn promise."

"Speak, my mother, you shall be obeyed."

"Swear to me, then, never to blush for thy religion or thy country.”

At this moment the echoes of the mountains resounded with the cries of Erin go bragh, as the peasantry joyfully danced around the red fires. Patrick threw himself on his knees at the foot of a crumbling altar, on which the pale rays of the moon played through a crevice in the wall. Under the feet of the young soldier lay ten generations of his ancestors, and

around him were strewed the broken statues of saints and kings. He pronounced the vow with clasped hands and bended head.

66

On a sudden the distant roll of a drum was heard. Listen," said Patrick, becoming deadly pale.

"I hear it," said the poor widow, and advancing to the entrance of the vault, she continued, "I see the signal flying from the mast-thou must go—I know it, I feel it here," pressing her hand on her heart." Oh! that I were in that land where the word farewell' is unknown; but God's will be done. She had to part from her son," pointing to the statue of the Blessed Virgin; and shall I refuse to suffer with her? Go, Patrick-go while I have strength to say adieu.”

They rushed into each other's arms-a long embrace, and then-he was seen rapidly descending the hill, and she lay fainting among the ruins.

At day break a frigate was quitting the Irish coast; on the deck stood a young man of noble bearing, but with a countenance of deep melancholy. He leaned against the mast and waved a last adieu to the green shores of Erin, as they slowly faded in the distance. His eye was fixed on the spot where stood the ruins of the monastery; he contemplated the scene with a breaking heart, and it was not until the shades of evening descended that he tore himself from gazing on what was now but the horizon where sky and ocean seem to meet. The eyelids of the young soldier were wet with tears when sleep came to his relief.

Before two months had elapsed the frigate anchored in a bay of America, and Patrick went to join his regiment in Carolina.

It was commanded by Lord R————, a young Irish nobleman, who was not long in distinguishing his countryman, whose coolness and bravery in more than one engagement was observed by the whole corps. On one of those occasions, Fitzgerald was made corporal on the field; but

notwithstanding his extraordinary merit, religious bigotry showed itself in its usual dark color, and the Presbyterians of the regiment loudly murmured at his promotion.

"It is an abuse of power, my lord," said an old Scotch lieutenant, "you have no right to advance a papist."

"It is an insult to the glorious memory of King William," growled an Orangeman who held the rank of captain.

66

Silence!" said Lord R, “the young man has bravely won his honors," and then advancing to Patrick, he said in a low voice," how can you be so foolish as to continue a Roman Catholic?"

"My lord," replied Fitzgerald, "you would not have ventured to ask me that question in the old church of R—, where the bones of your ancestors, who founded it, are reposing! I am what your forefathers were, and what every man in Great Britain and Ireland would now be, had it not been for the lust of a tyrant, and the ambition of an infamous woman born in adultery."

Lord R trembled, but he continued, "Listen to me, Patrick, reflect on your position; you are young, you are well born, you might attain the highest rank in the army if you would change your religion."

"My lord," replied Patrick proudly, drawing himself up, "I am content to remain a common soldier."

A tear glistened in Lord R's eye, for he could admire what he would not imitate; then shaking the young man cordially by the hand, he said, "I cannot give you golden epaulettes, Patrick, but I can give you opportunities of distinguishing yourself, and proving to your comrades that the man who is faithful to his God must necessarily be faithful to all other trusts. This very night I must for ward most important despatches to the commander-in-chief; it would be ruinous should they fall into the hands of the Americans. The country is covered with insurgents, I must choose a messenger in

whom I can implicitly trust; but it is an office of imminent danger. I choose you -will you undertake it?"

"Most willingly do I accept it," replied Fitzgerald, "and by the help of God I shall succeed."

At midnight the young soldier, with a companion, quitted the English camp. The night was calm and serene, the moon shone brightly through the trees, not a cloud obscured the horizon, all nature was in unison with the calm and pure conscience of the youth who cheerfully sacrificed worldly advancement for the crown of glory which faith showed him in the distance.

And was the distance great? We shall see. "In the midst of life we are in death."

His Indian guide directed their course now by the stars, now by the moss of the old oaks, that they might keep a direct line in crossing the forest. Patrick's thoughts wandered to his country-he was walking in spirit along the banks of his native river-he was climbing the hill that led to his mother's cottage-he heard the blithe carol of his native airs-all the happiest moments of his young life passed before his mental vision; he bounded through the forest with elastic step; the crackling of the branches awoke the mocking bird; he smiled; he felt so very happy. At this moment, "Who goes there?" was shouted by an American patrol. Patrick and his guide retreated into the thicket. "Qui vive" was heard in the distance; "we are safe," he whispered to his com

panion, when a discharge of musketry laid the Indian dead at his feet.

Patrick grasped the despatches and buried himself deeper in the forest; the rustling he made was overheard, and a new discharge followed. Still he struggled to escape, but he was wounded, and the blood flowed in a stream from his side; he became sick and faint; he fell at the foot of a moss-covered tree. My despatches, thought the dying soldier, must not fall into the power of the enemy. Sweet mother Mary, my angel guardian, inspire me what to do. Life was ebbing fast; the young hero, with his own hand, enlarged the wound in his side, and thrust in the important letter. "My country! my mother! my God! was all he could utter before he sank back senseless on the ground.

At daybreak an English patrol found him bathed in his blood; he was still living, and was pressing to his heart a little black crucifix, the gift of his mother. They poured some water into his parched mouth, and he was able to tell them what had happened, and to point out the place where the despatches were hid.

Lord Rhastened to the death-scene; he raised the head of the dying soldier, and supported it on his breast. "My lord," said the young man, "I give you this crucifix, may it be to you at the hour of death what it is to me, the standard of victory, the sure and certain hope—” His voice faltered-all was over.

Lord R preserved the crucifix. Many long years after, when on his dying bed, he sent for a Catholic priest.