MAJ. LGE

THE

PARABLES

PERE BONA VENTURE GIRAUDEAU, S.J.

Author of 1'Evangile Medite. g. •; , /

.57

A NEW VERSION, BY T. R.

DUBLIN:

RICHARD GRACE, CATHOLIC BOOKSELLER, -15, CAPEL STREET.

1838,

REGIS BIBL. MAJ

TO THE PUBLIC,

THE PARABLES OF FATHER BONAVENTURE have been so well received, both on the continent and in this country, that nothing more appears necessary to be said in their commendation. The sanction of a pious and discerning Public proves the value of them. The last English Edition of them has been long out of print ; and a Right Rev. Prelate having expressed a wish to see a new and improved Edition, the present Translator has made an humble attempt to meet his Lordship's wish, and here respectfully offers the fruit of his labours to the Irish Public.

61700

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PARABLES, &c.

PARABLE I. The untr actable Orphan.

A KING of Persia,* who had no child to inherit his throne, met in the street a poor little orphan beggar. Being taken with the beauty of his fi gure, he ordered him to be conducted to his pa lace, with an intention of adopting him. When the child was dressed as the son of the king, he appeared charming, and became the delight of the court. The king happening to die soon after, it was discovered in his will, that orders were left for this child to be educated with the greatest care possible, till he was fifteen years of age ; and

* Persia a celebrated empire of Asia, consists of several provinces, which, at different times, have had their par ticular kings. Its productions are corn, wine, oil, silk, and excellent fruits ; and the manufactures of carpets, gold and silver lace, embroidery, and harnessing for horses are here carried to the highest degree of perfection. There is no considerable river in this extensive country, except the Araxes, and it has but few forests. The principal ci ties are Ispahan, Schiraz, and Teheran. The religion is generally Mahometan.

6 The untraetable Orphan.

that, if his improvement corresponded to the care that should be taken of him, and he was found vir tuous, and worthy of the throne, he then adopted him, and bequeathed to him his kingdom : but if, on the contrary, he did not profit by the educa tion he should receive, but grew up in vice, that then he should be stripped, driven from court, and condemned to hard labour, &c.

The will was executed. Preceptors were ap pointed him ; and nothing was omitted that could contribute to form his heart, to improve and adorn his mind, and to make him completely fit to fill the high station destined for him.

During his infancy, he discovered nothing but bad inclinations, and a disrelish for every thing that could be useful to him. He was extremely self-willed, and passionate with his instructors : his books he either trampled under foot, or threw out of the window : whatever was put into his hands for his improvement, he broke and spoiled. When he was bigger, he was made acquainted with the king's will. Daily were the sceptre and the crown, that were destined for him, represented to him, on one side ; and on the other, the infamy and punishment to which he was condemned. These considerations made no impression on him. As he grew older, he employed himself in nothing better than raising houses of mud, and building castles of cards. When his masters overturned these frivolous things, he cried, he fretted, he threatened ; and, instead of applying to what was appointed him to learn, no sooner Mras he alone than he returned to the same childish amusements : in a word, he would learn nothing good. He,

The untractable Orphan. 7

however, learned, and nobody knew how, to utter the most vulgar and unbecoming words. It was in vain to attempt to correct him ; he was hard ened against all reproof. As he advanced in age, he became more and more wicked, and plunged into the greatest vices. Passion, cruelty, avarice, excess in eating and drinking, were not the only vices he was guilty of. His discourse was suited to his inclinations : those actions only did he praise that were vicious : debauchery was his de light, and drunkenness his glory.

These bad dispositions grew up with him, till he attained the age of fifteen. The council then as sembled ; he was summoned before it : the king's will was read to him ; and being unanimously de clared unworthy to reign, he was stripped, and condemned to hard labour for life. On hearing his condemnation, he then, for the first time, seemed to feel, and to shew signs of repentance. He turned pale — he trembled — he shed tears — he sighed — he asked for pardon ; but it was too late — the decree was passed, and there was no re peal.

I cannot but feel compassion for this wretched child. What a dreadful day must that have been for him ! What a fall ! How irreparable the loss ! Yet his conduct cannot fail to shock us : it was odious; it was insupportable. Wretch that he was ! did he not know what he had to hope for, and what he had to fear ? Alas 1 and have not you the like knowledge ? Are you not this child, destined, by adoption, to an eternal kingdom, if you con duct yourself, through life, in a mariner worthy of the throne which is promised you ? And are you

8 The imprudent Slave.

not threatened with eternal punishment, if you lead a life unworthy of your adoption ?

Compare your life with that of this child, and you will find yours equally frivolous, unworthy, and vicious : yet you have been instructed : you know how matters stand in your regard. If God, in his mercy, has sometimes deprived you of ob jects, to which you were unworthily attached, so far from entering into yourself, and returning to him with sincerity and affection, have you not been obstinately bent on fixing your whole mind and heart on the earth only ? The day, however, is coming, and is near at hand, when it shall be de cided, whether you are worthy of heaven, or de serving hell. In that day, tears and lamentations will be of no avail.

PARABLE II. The Imprudent Slave.

A GENTLEMAN of large fortune, named Ariatus, conceived an affection for one of his slaves, whose name was Afrenes. He had taken him from the drudgery of the fields, to employ him in his house, with an intention of shortly giving him his liberty. In fact, he one day called him, and said to him : " Afrenes, I have a commission to entrust thee with, and to send thee some leagues hence. If thou execute my commission well, I will give thee thy liberty, and with it a gratuity, with which thou wilt have reason to be satisfied. This," continued he, " is the commission in question. Thou know-

The imprudent Slave. 9

est my Lord Eusebius, and where he lives : take him these thirty talents of silver,* which are due to him ; receive his acknowledgment, and bring it to me : this is all I require of thee. Thou know- est, that, when thou hast passed the monument of Hebe, two roads will present themselves, one to the right, the other to the left. Take that to the right, which will lead thee to the house of Euse bius : the one to the left will take thee to Caquis- tus's : I absolutely forbid thee to enter his house. He is a wicked man, who pretends he has a right to every tiling, and who will seize on thy money. Notice particularly this caution : for shouldst thou part with the money to him, all my love for thee will be changed into hatred: and instead of liberty, and the other advantages promised thee, I would load thee with irons, and condemn thee to the hardest work in the country, where thou shouldst remain for life."

" Master," replied Afrenes, " neither the hope of reward, nor the fear of punishment, need be employed to prompt me to execute your com mands : duty, and the desire I have of pleasing you, will ever be to me the sole motives of action." Saying this, he took the money, and departed.

He had not gone far, before he began to ex claim : " O happy liberty, for which I have so long sighed ! thou art now within my grasp, and to-morrow's sun will see me free. O thrice happy day for me !" He then began to reason with him self, and to say : " When I am free, with the little money I have, and the present my master will

* The talent here meant was probably worth 601.

A 2

10 The wtprudcnt Slave.

make me, I may do something for myself. Yet," added he, " if I had only ten talents more, 1 could then manage much better. What a fool I am," continued he, " to want ten talents, while I have thirty in my possession ! Who can hinder me from taking ten talents from these thirty ? W7ho will know it ? My Lord Eusebius will have quite enough with twenty." This said, he opens the bag, takes out ten talents for his own use, and continues his journey, and his soliloquy.

" I am going then to carry," said he to himself, " these twenty talents to my Lord Eusebius. I know him well : he is a hard man, and very ava ricious. I will lay a wager he does not so much as thank me for my trouble. Ah ! it is not so with my Lord Caquistus. I am very sure, if I go to his house, he will not let me go without first mak ing me taste his wine." Saying that, our traveller comes to the monument of Hebe ; and the two roads are open to his choice. " Here is the dif ficulty," said he, " which road shall I take ? After all," continued he, " I can first of all call upon my Lord Caquistus, and then, when I shall have rested a little, I can go to my Lord Eusebius's ; it will be all one." Upon this, he takes the road to the left. Caquistus espied him at some dis tance; and, on his approaching, thus accosted him : " Well, is it you, my dear Afrenes ? Do you bring any money ?" " Yes, sir." " How much ?" " Twenty talents." " That is very little ; but no matter ; come in, notwithstanding, and take a glass of wine before dinner." " But, sir," said Afrenes, " I do not bring this money for you." " For whom then. ?" " For my Lord

The imprudent Slave. 1 1

Eusebius." " Very well," replied Caquistus, " but Eusebius, I know, does not want it : only give it me, my child, arid you shall dine with me." " But," rejoined Afrenes, " I am to take a receipt to my master." " Very well," answered Caquistus ; " I will give you one : it will make no odds to your master." Afrenes, who did not know how to read, nor the amount for which the receipt was given, delivered the money, and took the acknowledg ment. They then sat down to table : and after dinner, they amused and diverted themselves, till it was time for him to return home.

Afrenes walked off slowly, alittle disturbed atwhat he had done, not knowing how the business would terminate. " Thou returnest very late," said his master on seeing him." ''Sir," replied Afrenes, "it is because I was obliged to stop dinner." " Is Euse bius well ?" " Yes, Sir ; at least he did not appear to me to be indisposed." " Didst thou give him the money?" "Yes sir." "Hast thou his receipt?" " I have, sir ; here it is." Aristus, on opening the note, at first sight discovered Caquistus's signature, " What now !" cried he ; " it was Caquistus that gavethee this note; thou tookest the money then to him." Afrenes was disconcerted ; he faltered, and remained silent. Aristus having perused the note — " How is this ?" said he ; " thou hast given only twenty talents. Where are the other ten ?" Afrenes seeing that every thing was discovered, threw him self at the feet of his master, and said : " My Lord, 1 am a wretch, deserving nothing but your anger. I have not done any thing that you ordered me ; and I have done every thing that you forbad me. Punish me ; I have merited punishment." Aris-

12 The imprudent Slave.

tus said to him : " Thou hast not kept thy word, but I will keep mine ;" and immediately ordering irons to be put on him, he sent him into the coun try, to be there employed in the most irksome labour ; nor would he any more either see him, or hear his name mentioned.

Can a conduct be conceived more unaccount ably foolish, than that of this slave ? Let us con sider its principal features, and see, if in some points, it does not resemble ours.

1st. His ingratitude. Call here to your mind all the benefits you have received from God. He made you out of nothing, by your creation. He afterwards, by a special goodness, drew you out of the state of perdition, by admitting you into his house, viz. his Church ; there for some time to try your fidelity in his service, and shortly after to put you in possession of Paradise, to enjoy entire liberty, unbounded happiness, and life eter nal. This is the end for which he created you. Could you wish for one more noble and more ad vantageous ? To help you to attain this end, he created the world, and established his Church. In giving you a body and a soul, and in leaving to your discretion the use of all creatures, he requires only one thing of you ; he forbids you only one thing. What he requires of you is, that, when you come to the use of reason, having passed the years of infancy, and become capable of distin guishing good from evil, you should then enter into the paths of justice, piety, and devotion, walking in the ways of his commandments, using his benefits only with a reference to his service and your own salvation, and referring all to his glory. The only thing he forbids you, is not to

The imprudent Slave. 13

enter the wide road of iniquity, not to sacrifice to the devil and the world the talents, which were entrusted to you to be employed only in his ser vice ; to rob him of none of the goods he has com mitted to your care, and not to make them subser- vientto self-love, avarice, pride, or the gratification of any inordinate passion. Here examine what your conduct has hitherto been in these particulars.

II. His disobedience. It is of importance to examine this point well.

1st. He considers the reward promised to his obedience as certain ; and yet he is indifferent, whether he obeys or not. The pleasing idea of liberty fills his mind, but he does not even think of the means required of him to obtain it. In the same manner, we all expect to be saved ; not one of us would willingly damn himself: yet we do not think seriously of the only means we have of sal vation, and of avoiding eternal ruin, which is, obeying the commands of God.

2dly. He pretends to obey; and yet he enter tains those thoughts onty, which invite him to dis obey. And how do you expect to keep the law of God, if you listen to nothing, if you read nothing, if you seek and love nothing, but what is contrary to it ; if you revolve in your mind and in your heart those thoughts only, those projects, which are directly opposed to it.

3dly. He pretended to obey and disobey at the same time ; to do first what he was forbidden, and then what he was commanded. This is the fatal rock : we begin by serving the world, and purpose afterwards to serve God ; but, generally speaking, people are cut off by death, without an opportu-

14 The imprudent Slave.

nity of serving God, after having been slaves, and nothing but slaves, to the world.

III. Kis rashness. This is observable in three things.

1st. He flatters himself, that his actions and proceedings will not be known by his master. Are there philosophers, who can persuade themselves that God is ignorant of thei? actions and blas phemies ; or that, knowing them, he will not pu nish them ? There may be — but we, who believe that God knows and sees all things, how dare we sin in his presence, and under his eye ? Ah I how has this word, " Nobody will know it," emboldened the hearts of men to commit iniquity ? It is then thus, that among men the Almighty is accounted as nothing.

2dly. He is satisfied with the receipt, obtained from his master's enemy. And do not we feel tisfied, if we can but gain the applause and appro bation of the world ? Are we not content to save appearances ? When the world applauds us in our disorders, for actions contrary to the law of God, do we want any thing more ? Do we not congratulate ourselves, and feel quite at our ease ?

3dly. He was not afraid to present the receipt to his master. That was the height of rashness. It is, however, in this point that we resemble him most. We are always advancing, in spite of our selves, towards the tribunal of God ; and we dare appear before his awful Majesty with a consci ence loaded with iniquities, with a conscience, witness against us, and bearing in plain characters an exact account of all whatever we have done, said, thought, loved, and desired.

The imprudent Slave. 15

But three things make us still more culpable than this slave.

1st. He did not know how to read; and this was not his fault : whereas we, in our conscience, can read and examine what it contains ; and if you should say, that you cannot read there, I answer, that it is your own fault, because you have never practised, nor accustomed yourself to it. On the contrary, you are afraid of looking into it, that you may not be at the trouble of entering into yourself, and taking a few moments for recollection ; as if it were not better to take this trouble to remove whatever is against you, than to carry it unexamined and unrepented of to the tribunal of God, to be punished eternally for it.

2dly. He did not know the value of the note : and this note discovered every thing he wished to conceal. But supposing it to be true, that you did not understand how to read in your conscience, you at least know very well, that it contains all the ill you have done, and that it will reproach you with it at the tribunal of God. You are, then, very rash and foolish, to carry it thither in this condition.

3dly. He could not alter the note ; and after the fault he had committed, he had no remedy left : but you have a remedy, and you certainly would be very foolish, not to avail yourself of the use of it.

The remedy is this : 1st. That you learn to read in your conscience ; that you turn over with the greatest care this record of your life ; that you examine, and thoroughly understand what it con-

1 6 The imprudent Slave*

tains ; that you wash off by your tears, and re move by a good confession, whatever appears against you.

2dly. If, in spite of all your care and applica tion, you find any passage that you cannot make out, you will leave it to the mercy of God, try to consume it in the flames of divine love, and mal it serve as a foundation for humility ; not disturt ing yourself, but persevering in the service of your Master with confidence and love, and at the same time with fear and trembling ; remembering, th* your Master is your Father ; that he requires no more than an upright heart and good-will ; that he does not wish to be served with anxiety ; that ex cessive scrupulosity offends him ; and that yoi honour him, by placing your confidence in him.

3dly. That you take great care, for the future, not to give admittance to any thing into your con science that may load it, and be witness against you ; and if any such thing should happen to enter through your negligence, examine it immediately, and wash it off by a true and sincere repentance. Doing so, you will keep your conscience in a good state, and present it to God with confidence. It will be the test of your fidelity, and God will grant you the reward promised to the faithful servant which you will enjoy throughout eternity.

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PARABLE III.

The Manna of the Desert.

THE manna which God gave to the Israelites in the desert, is a very natural figure of the goods of this world.

I. The manna was unknown. — The first time the Israelites saw the ground covered with it, they asked one another in surprise, " What is that?" From this question, made in Hebrew, that small, white, crispy substance, was called Manna. The same question may be put respecting the goods of this world, " What is that ?" Young man, you who are just beginning to behold and distinguish the objects, spread in profusion before you upon the earth, judge not of them by the impression made on your senses. You see, in the world, riches, honours, pleasures. Before you abandon yourself to these objects, learn first what they are, and ask : " What is that ?" Ask it of your pa-

• rents, or of some virtuous or prudent man ; but particularly ask it of the Father of lights, that you may not be deceived as to the nature and use of these blessings. You will see the greatest part of men running after them, and labouring without intermission to procure them ; and yet never satis fied with them, when obtained. You will observe others, on the contrary, who contemn these worldly advantages, who fear and quit them. At this sight, ask again : " What is that ? Whence comes this difference in the judgments and con duct of people ?"

18 The Manna of the Desert.

II. The manna was a white substance, trans parent as crystal. The goods of this world have the like quality : they shine and they dazzle. Let not their splendor seduce you. Never court them ; never make use of them, without first ask ing : " What is that ?"

IIL The manna came from heaven. The goods of the world have God for their author. It is God that created the earth : it is by his order that it produces so many different things, so many fruits, so many metals, so much riches. It is God who regulates the different ranks of men : it is he, who makes kings, potentates, great and illustrious personages, and who confers on them the glory that surrounds them : it is he likewise, who makes the poor and the ignorant, and who supports them in their lowly and abject state. It is God, in fine, that is the Creator and Bestower of all the plea sures that are on the earth : who gave the senses to your body, and to your soul the faculties ne cessary to ecjoy them. This first truth leads you to a second, viz. that God, in creating these good things, had his views, to which you ought to con form, as he will, one day, demand an account of the manner in which you have employed his be nefits. He will examine, if, in the use of these goods, you have conformed to his laws, or dis regarded them. If then there be any of these goods, which he forbids you the use of, in order to try your fidelity, from these it is your duty to abstain : if there be others, the use of which he has regulated, you are obliged to observe the rules he has established, and to keep within the bounds of moderation, justice, and charity, which he has

The Manna of the Desert. 1 9

marked out, and not live as if, in the acquisition, the possession, or the enjoyment of these goods, you had no master, but were at full liberty to do as you pleased.

IV. The manna was a very small substance, which very well expresses the insignificance of the goods, pomps, and pleasures of this world. You must not judge of these by the noise and bustle made by worldlings ; judge of them rather from the satisfaction they derive from them. Interro gate them, examine them closely ; and, among those who enjoy these goods with the greatest re lish, and in the greatest abundance, you will not fine one that is satisfied.

V. The manna was a transient good ; that is to say, it was to serve as food for the Hebrew people, only during the time of their journey through the desert, and till they entered the Land of Promise. After this, the manna was no longer to fall for their nourishment and support. In like manner, the goods of this world are given us in the de sert, and during the pilgrimage of this life : but at our death, which will be our entrance into eternity, other goods, other glory, other delights are reserved for us. What will the goods of this world then be to us ? They will be taken away, both from those foolish ones, whose heart was at tached to them, and from the wise, who, contemn ing them, used them only in conformity to the will of God.

VI. The measure of manna was regulated for each individual : no one was to gather more than

» a certain quantity each day. They who out of greediness, gathered more, gained nothing by it ;

20 The Manna of the Desert.

for, on reaching home, they found no more than the measure prescribed, the rest having melted away. The measure of the goods of this life like wise is regulated according to the wants of each one in his particular state. Were this measure, as prescribed by Providence, observed by every body, there would be more than enough for every one, nor would any be in want. Of what use is the accumulation of riches to the miser ? Does he live more sumptuously on that account? Of ten less so. Is the ambitious man more content and more honoured, for having so many dignities united in himself? These are often the cause of his being more uneasy and more contemned. What better is the voluptuary, for possessing such a profusion of delights, and wallowing in them ? Is he the more happy ? Does he, on that account, enjoy better health ? On the contrary, he is of ten, in consequence of his excess, made more in firm, and rendered incapable of tasting the inno cent and moderate pleasures, which otherwise he might have enjoyed.

VII. The manna required vigilance and labour. It was necessary to gather it before sun-rise : it was to be ground, kneaded, baked, and made bread of. Poverty, brought on by idleness, does not deserve compassion. Work, placing your confi dence in God, and you will never want bread.

VIII. The manna spoiled by keeping ; so that they, who wished to keep it from one day to another, found it the next day corrupted and full of maggots. An exact image this of the little de- pendance there is to be placed on the goods of this world. Worms, thieves, unsuccessful specu-

The Manna of the Desert. 21

lations, the injustice of men, the intemperature of the air, the irregularity of the seasons, a thousand unforeseen accidents, daily deprive us of some property or other, on the enjoyment and posses sion of which we thought we could depend with certainty.

IX. The manna, in certain cases, was incor ruptible. Every Friday a double quantity was gathered, one half of which kept without spoiling, for Saturday's use. This was done, that the law of holy rest on the Sabbath-day might not be vio lated. Moses took a Gomer* (one day's allow ance) of manna, which he put into the ark, for the purpose of carrying it into the Promised Land, that it might be to the Hebrew people a monu ment of the benefits God had bestowed upon them; and that the remembrance of his loving kindness might never fail to excite their love and confi dence : and this manna did not spoil. The Pro mised Land and the Sabatical Rest were figures of Heaven and of Eternity. The use we make of the goods of this life for heaven, for God, for the salvation and relief of our neighbour, changes the nature and the quality of them. Of corruptible, as they are, it makes them incorruptible ; of fleet ing and perishable, it makes them lasting and per manent; of temporal, it makes them eternal. Happy the man, who knows and practices this admirable and divine secret !

X. In fine, the manna had different tastes, ac cording to the dispositions of those who ate it ; so that to some it was insipid and disgusting ; to

* Or Homer, measuring about five pints.

22 The Sleep- Walker.

others it was delicious, arid of exquisite flavour : in like manner, the goods of this world, accord- to the use that shall have been made of them in this life, will procure in the next, for some, in supportable disgust and bitterness ; for others, a relish, delicious and unspeakable.

PARABLE IV. The Sleep- Walker.

THE King of Korea* sent two officers of his household to fish for pearls for him. He wanted these pearls to make a superb-necklace, which he intended to present to his father : that is to say, to the Emperor of China,f this Emperor being so called by the Kings, that are tributary to him. One of these officers he sent to the eastern coast of Korea ; the other, to the western. He charged

* Korea, or Corea, is a peninsula lying to the N. E. of China.

f China is an extensive empire of Asia, being about 3500 British miles in length from E. to W. and 2200 in breadth from N. to S. It produces abundance of corn of every sort, and particularly rice j as also a very great quantity of silk. Tea is a production peculiar to this coun try, and China supplies all the rest of the world with that commodity. The English alone bring away annually four teen millions of pounds of it. It also contains mines of every sort of metal.

China is particularly remarkable for its vast population ; for the singular manners, ideas, and genius of its inhabit ants ; for the jealous policy of its government ; for its agriculture and inland navigation j and for its celebrated

me ha

A&L

The Sleep- Walker. 23

them to be very diligent, to collect as many pearls as they could, and to return to his court on a cer tain appointed day. Mindao was the name of the one dispatched to the eastern coast. He acquitted himself of his commission with assiduity and with success. He went every night to the coast with a lamp, and employed his time in fishing ; and during the day he took his repose. As for the other, named Yanki, who had been ordered to the western coast, where pearls were more abund ant, he passed the days in amusements, and the nights in sleep. He, however, came each night to the coast; but as he was a sleep-walker, he came thither asleep, without knowing what he did ; and instead of fishing for peals, he gathered pebbles, with which he filled a basket, which he took care to bring with him. The other fisher men, that saw him from some distance, might ve sworn by his manner and by his motions, that he was fishing for pearls, and that he returned loaded with them; yet he did not gather, nor did he return loaded with any thing but pebbles. On his return home, he enptied his basket, with out awaking, into the casket destined to contain

wall, the most stupendous work of human labour in the world. This wall is above fifteen hundred miles in length, and is in general twenty-five feet high, and fifteen thick ; and at every hundred yards there is a tower. It was built more than two thousand years ago, to protect China from the incursions of the Tartars.

The principal rivers of China are the Kian-ku and the Hoang-ho, each of which runs about two thousand two hundred miles. The chief cities are Pekin, Nankin, and Canton. This last is the only port to which Europeans are permitted to trade.

24 The Sleep- Walker.

his pearls. He then went to bed again, where he continued to sleep till broad day-light. During this last part of his sleep, he had the most pleasant dreams imaginable. He seemed to be on the coast fishing for pearls, which he got in great numbers, filling his basket with them, and then emptying them into his casket. On his awaking in the morning, he was so full of his dream, that he did not doubt but it was a reality ; and besides he was so taken up with his pleasures, that he did not even allow himself time to look into his cas ket, in order to see what it contained. The whole of the time, prescribed by the king, passed in this manner. At length the day arrived when he was to return. Occupied even on that day with a thousand other objects, he packed up his casket without opening it, and arrived at court on the same day as Mindao. Both their caskets were presented to the king : Mindao's was opened first, and a great many fine pearls found in it. The king was so well pleased, that he immediately appointed Mindao governor of a province, and gave him a considerable pension. Yanki nattered himself that he should receive an equal reward : but what was the surprise of all present, when, on his casket being opened, instead of pearls, it was discovered to contain nothing but pebble-stones. Yanki could not believe his eyes : but the king who considered this as an insult, was so irritated, that he gave orders for Yanki to be stoned to death, with the very pebbles he had had the impudence to present him with.

Yanki wished to make his excuses ; but the king would not hear him, and withdrew in a vio-

The Sleep-Walker. 25

lent passion. He, however, contrived to get an audience of the chancellor of the kingdom, and endeavoured to excuse himself, by lamenting the misfortune of being a sleep walker, this being, he thought, the sole cause of the disaster. But the chancellor answered, that, since he knew that he walked in his sleep, he ought to have taken the precautions necessary to keep himself awake : that he ought, at least, during the day to have ex amined the transactions of the night ; that he ought, before his return, or, at least, before he presented himself at court, to have examined the contents of his casket, and not to have exposed himself to the anger and indignation of his so vereign. Yanki allowed that he had done wrong, and was satisfied to petition that he might be again sent to the coast, promising to repair his fault. Oh ! interrupted the chancellor, the king does not twice expose the glory of his commands to the disobedience of his officers. Saying this he with drew, and poor Yanki was led out to punishment.

It is easy to discover the drift of this parable. We are all placed in this world to gather and lay up pearls ; that is to say, to practice virtue and good works. It is Jesus Christ, our King, who sends us, and furnishes us with the opportunities and the means. It is to him that our merits must be referred, and through him that they must be offered to God, his Father. We can, directed by the light of faith, gather some on the eastern coast ; that is, in prosperity ; but the western coast, the way of afflictions and sufferings, is the richest, and abounds most in them.

Alas ! in this lower world, how many sleep and

B

26 The Sleep- Walker.

dream ; who, instead of pearls, worthy of being presented to their King, amass nothing but peb bles, which offend him, and enkindle his wrath, and are calculated only to be instrumental in their own punishment. Is it not amassing stones in stead of pearls, to suffer our whole time to be taken up with the goods of the earth, with the ho nours and pleasures of this life, and to neglect the goods of eternity ? What is that man, who piques himself on his probity, but who has no religion ; who does good works but who has not true faith ? He is a sleeper and a dreamer. Again, what is the man who suffers without patience and resignation ; who attends divine service without devotion ; who recites his prayers without attention ; who fulfils the duties of his state without a right intention ; who is actuated in what he does by natural feel ing, custom or human motives ? He is a sleep walker, who does not know what he is about ; who has the appearance of virtue, and imitates its ways and motions, without its merits ; who, in a word, gathers nothing but pebble-stones ; and who, in stead of a reward, has every reason to apprehend punishment.

Awake, ye that sleep ; think of what you are doing: open your eyes, and see what you are amassing. Do not go and present yourselves be fore your King, and appear at his tribunal, with out knowing what you take thither ; and without having first well examined what there is in your conscience, before it is presented and laid open to his view. During life, you may still remove the stones, and substitute pearls in their place, by a true sorrow, a sincere repentance, the sacra-

The Astronomer in Lapland, 27

meuts and good works. But, when you have once entered eternity, do not expect a second life will be granted you, to repair the errors of the first. Do now what you would then wish to have done : for nothing will then remain to you, but to receive either punishment, or reward, for what you shall have done in this life.

PARABLE V. The Astronomer in Lapland.*

AN astronomer, by order of the king his master, set sail for the northern climes, to observe the passage of Venus over the sun's disk. Upon his arrival in Lapland, he found that the inhabitants of that country, who are of a very diminutive size, had not yet left their winter habitations. These were deep caverns under ground, having no other opening than the door by which they entered. In these caverns were kept up immense and con tinual fires, made of whole trees, quite green, and with their leaves on : the rising smoke was so thick, that they could not see, much less distin guish one another, when they approached to warm themselves.

* Lapland, in the N. of Europe, is a dreary country, being almost entirely a mass of rugged mountains, gloomy vallies, dusky forests, and noisome morasses and lakes. The inhabitants are few in number, and in an uncivilized state. They subsist chiefly on the milk and flesh of their rein-deer, and they make use of these animals to draw their sledges when they travel. It is subject to Sweden.

28 Tlie Astronomer in Lapland.

One calm and fine evening, before the Lapland ers had retired to their subterraneous abodes, our astronomer, who had already made his obser vations, explained to them the course of the stars, told them their names, and pointed out the planets to them. The Laplanders were wonderfully de lighted with hearing him discourse, and in view ing the instruments he made use of. One took up a quadrant, but understood nothing of the use of it : another looked through a telescope, but could see nothing. The names of Descartes, Newton, and Copernicus, caused loud and con tinued bursts of laughter among them. At last, the chief of the company, assuming a more seri ous air, thus addressed the astronomer: " Indeed, Sir, both you and your king, and your whole na tion, must have lost your senses, to amuse your selves with such silly fancies." The astronomer, who felt himself piqued, replied : " That you who live in darkness, who inhabit the caverns of the earth, and see not what is in them for smoke, and who know nothing of the productions of the earth ; that you, I say, should be ignorant of the phenomena of the heavens, and that you should laugh at those who do observe them, and discourse to you about them is by no means surprising." On hearing this, all the Laplanders set up a fright ful cry ; they hooted him loudly, and perhaps would have proceeded to violence, had not the prudent astronomer instantly withdrawn. Shortly after, he returned into his native country, where he published an exact account of his observations, and a detailed memoir of his adventures. In the bosom of his family, he now enjoys the favour of his king, and the esteem of his countrymen.

The Astronomer in Lapland. 29

I observe three things in these Laplanders : I. Their darkness. With regard to the things that concern our salvation, we all are in this world as in a house full of smoke. The corruption of our senses, and the blind impetuosity of our pas sions, raise within us and about us clouds of thick vapour, which darken the pure light of our mind, and stifle the noblest sentiments of our heart. We see neither what is within us, nor what is without : we know neither what is in the world ; nor what is out of the world ; neither what is in time, nor what is in eternity ; neither the insignificance of what is temporal, nor the greatness of what is eternal. Wre give to earthly and perishable things the esteem and at tention which things heavenly and everlasting only deserve; and we show for the latter the contempt which the former only merit. Hence men call that good, which is evil ; and that evil, which is good. They take darkness for light, the way for the term, the place of their exile for that of their true country.

Before death, let us remove the veil from be-

Rre our eyes, let us take the torch of Faith, which, St. Peter says, will enlighten us in this place of darkness. Let us listen to those, who, guided by this heavenly light, teach us the important truths of salvation ; admonishing us, that eternal goods and eternal evils alone deserve our thoughts; and that the perishable goods and evils of the earth do not merit our attention, unless in as much as they have a reference to the goods and evils of eternity.

II. Their railleries — When I see impious men

B 2

30 The Viper- Catcher.

attacking religion, heretics resisting the church, libertines scoffing at devotion, I seem to be in those northern climes, and that 1 hear the Lap landers giving their opinion on the subject of as tronomy.

III. Their anger. — The world, at all times, has ridiculed sincere Christians, and those who wished to instruct it. Often has it persecuted them : sometimes even it has put them to death. But they are triumphing in their heavenly country, where they enjoy the eternal favour of the King of Ages, in the blessed company of angels and saints. God grant us the grace to be, one day, of this happy society.

PARABLE VI. The Viper- Catcher.

A CERTAIN countryman was very expert in catch ing vipers, which he afterwards sold to an apothe cary. One afternoon he was so successful, that he caught a hundred and fifty. In the evening, when he returned home, being spent with fatigue, he went immediately to bed, without taking any supper. According to his custom, he carried his vipers alive into his bed-room, and put them into a barrel, which he stopped up, but not effectually. In the night, whilst he was asleep, the vipers forced their prison, and, wanting warmth, they all made to his bed, and, crawling in between the sheets, they got upon his body, and covered him all over, without doing him any harm, and evec

T/te Viper -Catcher.

31

without awaking him, or disturbing him in the least. As it was his custom to sleep with his arms out of bed, he was strangely surprised in the morning (he did not awake till late) to see vipers twisted all round his arms. " Ah !" exclaimed he, " I am a dead man ; the vipers have escaped." He had the prudence, however, not to stir, as he per ceived they were entwined also round his neck, legs, thighs, in fine, round every part of his body. What a condition! Still, he was not disconcerted; but recommending himself earnestly to God, he quietly called his servant. When she had opened the chamber door, — " Dont come in," said he to her, " but go down stairs, and fill the large kettle half full of milk ; then make it lukewarm, but no more. You will bring the kettle, and place it in the middle of my room, making as little noise as possible. Don't shut the door — go — make haste

— don't lose a moment." No sooner was

the kettle in the room, than the vipers, smell ing the milk, begin to let go their hold. He sees those on his arms untwisting themselves, and making for the milk ; those on his neck he hears crawling away ; and presently he finds his legs and all his body at perfect liberty. What in expressible joy ! He, however, keeps himself quite composed, giving all the vipers time to leave his bed. At length, seeing them all safe in the kettle, he gets up ; and finding them almost drowned, and quite stupified, he takes them out with a pair of nippers, one by one, and cuts off their heads. Immediately, falling on his knees, he gives hearty thanks to God, for having delivered him from so imminent a danger. This duty performed, he

32 The Viper- Catcher.

goes down and relates what had just happened to him. The recital caused him, and all that heard him, to shudder. The vipers he sent to the apo thecary, desiring the person that took them to tell him he must not expect any more from him. In fact, he gave up his trade, and con ceived so strong an aversion to vipers, that he could not bear the sight of them, but the name even, or the thought of them, distressed him.

A story so terrible and alarming deserves to be minutely examined and meditated on.

I. The condition of this man in his bed. — When I consider this man covered all over with living vipers, my blood goes cold, and the bare idea makes me shudder. What a situation ! Can a more dreadful one be conceived ? Yes, that of a soul in mortal sin, is a thousand times more dread ful. When I consider a sinner, either sleeping quietly in his bed, or acting with full liberty, dur ing the course of the day, and reflect that a thou sand mortal sins, and as many demons worse than vipers, possess his soul, being entire masters of it ; and that his whole body, and all the senses of his body, are not surrounded only, but filled and pe netrated by them, I am seized with horror and affright. The wretched sinner is not sensible of the horror of his state ; he is as one asleep. Nei ther was the viper-catcher sensible of his danger ; he likewise slept. Is the condition of either of them less dreadful on that account ?

II. His danger during his sleep Had this

man, during his sleep, moved in the least, which is usually the case j if, turning, he had crushed

The Viper- Catcher.

33

any one of these animals ; if, by a deep breath, a sigh, or a word, he had disturbed these monsters, he would have been lost; and had he had a thou sand lives he could not have saved one — And, should the sinner happen to die suddenly in his present state ; should any of those accidents which daily occur, befal him, where would he be ? Where are they to whom these accidents have happened ? If they were in a state of mortal sin, they are lost for ever. — It would certainly be a very cruel death, to be devoured by a hundred and fifty vipers ; but what is that, after all, in comparison of hell, where the wretched sinner is the constant prey of devils, of his sins, of remorse, of despair, of eternal flames ?

III. The affright of this man on awaking. — Sinner, you will not always sleep ; you will awake at your death, when summoned by God to Judg ment. And what will be your dismay, on finding yourself the enemy of God, a rebel, an imitator of Satan, a man of sin, fit for nothing but the flames of hell, that are ready to receive you, there to dwell for ever ? Ah I do not sleep on till this fatal moment arrive : it will be too late for you. Awake now, whilst you have it in your power to remove from your bosom the vipers, you there conceal and entertain, and which are waiting to devour you. You have seen the countryman's danger ; and you cannot deny, that yours is even greater than his. Consider now, how he extri cated himself, that you may do the like.

IV. His prudence. — He did not lose courage — he conceived the only expedient capable of suc ceeding ; and this expedient did succeed. In

34 The Viper- Catcher.

like manner, in considering the dreadful state of your soul, do not you lose courage, do not give yourself up to despair ; do not say with Cain — " My iniquity is too great to hope for pardon." Were you a thousand times a greater sinner than you are, the mercy of God being infinite, would be infinitely greater than your sins. You have no need to look out, and contrive the means of freeing yourself from your sins ; this is already done for you, and the mercy of God offers it you. It is the blood of Jesus Christ, in which you must, as it were, drown all your sins, by a good con fession. Let not this word disturb you, keep yourself composed : do not look upon this work as impossible, or too difficult. God does not re quire impossibilities ; and he will help you to do what you have to do. In the first place confess the sins you remember : afterwards endeavour deliberately to discover the others ; and give time to all the vipers to go out. Do not be afraid : they will all leave you.

V. His joy on seeing himself delivered. This joy must certainly have been great ; but it is no thing in comparison with that, which a sinner, con verted and restored to the favour of his God, ex periences. But who can comprehend the joy, that will fill this sinner's soul, when being for ever delivered from all his enemies, he shall be invited to enter into the joy of his Lord? Ah! how will he then congratulate himself for having freed him self from his sins ; for having renounced, con fessed, detested and expiated them.

VI. His resolution. He cuts off the head of every viper, without sparing one. He entirely

The Beam in the Water. 35

gives up a trade, which was near being his ruin. In a word, he conceives an eternal aversion to what had placed him in so great danger. You un derstand what all this means : put it then in prac tice. Flee sin, as you would the sight of an adder, or a viper.

PARABLE VII. The Beam in the Water.

Two countrymen brought to a certain town, two cart loads of wood for sale. The wood being sold, they went to take a walk by the side of the river. Observing a beam in the water, pushed along by a youth, with one hand, towards a certain place on the shore. " What wood can that be," said they to one another, " for a child to steer it where he pleases r" The master carpenter, who was wait ing for the boy to bring the balk to the edge, hear ing this discourse of the two countrymen, thus accosted them ; " My friends, if you wish to know what wood this balk is, and how light it is, let us strike a bargain. When my boy has brought it to the edge of the river, if you two can draw it quite out of the water for me, I will give you twelve francs ;* but, if you cannot, you shall put your horses to it, to draw it out, and give me six francs, which we will spend in a dinner at yonder inn." The proposal seemed advantageous. " If the beam," said one of the countrymen, " be so

* About I Os.

36

2 he Beam in the Water.

thin and light, that the boy can guide it hither without help, it will be a sad pity, if we two can not draw it out." The bargain was agreed to, and the money deposited in the hands of the land lady, who was come to the place to wash some linen, and was much surprised at the simplicity of the countrymen. The beam being arrived at the appointed place, the two countrymen, one on each side, set about drawing it out of the water : but, after having hauled and pulled for a long time to no purpose, they at last owned themselves overcome. They had nothing to do, but to draw the beam out with their horses, and pay for the dinner.

The small and trivial faults which we discover in others, our Lord in the Gospel calls motes ; and the grievous and weighty transgressions, which we ourselves are guilty of, he calls beams. A beam, sailing on the water, does not appear what it is, either as to its thickness or weight. With respect to its thickness, one half of it is hid un der the water : and as to its weight, a child may move it and guide it where he pleases. But, when it is to be drawn out of the water, then are dis covered its real thickness and heavy weight.

This life is a vast ocean, on which we are all sailing, and with us the sins with which we are loaded. These sins do not appear half what they are. We hide a part of them from the sight of men, under a deceitful exterior ; and many do we hide from ourselves, by dissembling, excusing, or forgetting them. Besides, those we do perceive seem light and trifling, because they swim, as it were, in the waters of the false maxims of the

Empedocles on Mount Etna. 3 7

world, arid in the tide of bad example, which au thorises them. But when the time comes for us to draw them out of this water, in order to pre sent them before the tribunal of God, then they will appear what they are, of enormous bulk and weight. When those tricks of trade, those secret frauds, those artful calumnies, those perverse inten tions, shall be drawn out of the water, and con fronted, not with the customs of the world, but with the law of the gospel ; not with the corrup tion of men, but with the sanctity of God ; then, yes, then will be seen their enormity ; then will be felt their immense weight. Let us, therefore, efface them by repentance, before we leave this world, that we may not be overwhelmed by them when we appear before our God.

Sin appears light and trifling, when we commit it, but heavy and enormous, when we come to confess it. How then will it appear, if we carry it unrepented of before the tribunal of God ?

PARABLE VIII.

Empedocles on Mount Etna.

ETNA is a mountain of Sicily,* which continually emits vast quantities of fire and flame. This is a true image of hell; and an image too of that impure flame which leads thither. I therefore compare this burning mountain to assemblies,

* Sicily is an island in the Mediterranean Sea, pleasant and fertile. In the middle is Mount Etna, the most cele brated volcano in the world. It has sometimes thrown its

C

38 Empedocles on Mount Etna.

balls, plays, which like so many Etnas, are al ways surrounded with flames, causing a confla gration in every heart. Besides these, how many individual Etnas are there, some on the gay pa rade and public walks, others in our domestic circles, whose fires are equally dangerous. All these cannot be too much dreaded, nor too care fully avoided. To approach them, is to wish to perish in them. Whoever fears sin, ought to avoid the occasions of sin.

Empedocles, a clelebrated ancient philosopher, but more famous for his death, than for his life and writings, was curious to take a near view of the fires of Mount Etna. He wished of him self to know the nature of these fires ; how they issued from the mountain, and what vestiges they left behind them. He wished to see the top of the mountain, to know the nature of the soil, to examine the construction of the place, and to as certain the truth of what others had said of them. In a word, he wished to talk wisely about them : riot from what others had said of them, but from his own actual observation.

More than once did his disciples endeavour to dissuade him from an enterprise so dangerous and rash. They represented to him, that all who had attempted to survey the mountain, had perished in

ashes to the distance of eighty miles. Sicily is separated from Italy by the Strait of Messina, famous for the Scylla and Charybdis of the ancients ; the former a rock, the latter a whirlpool. This island helongs to the King of Naples. The chief cities are Palermo, (where the Viceroy r /sides,) Messina, and Syracuse. This last was once famous for its wealth and magnificence.

Empedocles on Mount Etna. 39

the attempt ; that one ought to be satisfied with knowing of this mountain, what could be made out from a distance, and without risk ; and as to the rest, to reason about it from conjecture, not from experience. They represented to him, that the summit must be calcined, and that, while he thought he was placing his foot on solid ground, there was danger of his placing it on an abyss of ashes, and of being swallowed up. They re presented to him, in fine, that the fire not always issuing from the same part of the mountain, a sudden eruption might take place under his feet, burn him alive, and reduce him to ashes, even be fore he reached the bottom of the abyss.

Empedocles answered, that they were too easily alarmed ; that their fears exaggerated the danger, which was not near so great as they represented ; that a philosopher ought not to suffer himself to be intimidated, like common people ; that if they who had ascended before him, had perished there, it was because they did not go thither like philo sophers, and with the necessary precautions; that, as for himself, he had taken safe measures, and ran no risk ; that he would see and examine every thing ; that he should return safe and sound, and would bring them an account of his discoveries.

The philosopher did not say what the measures were that he intended to adopt ; they would have appeared too ridiculous. They were only two : the first, to carry with him a walking-stick, for the purpose of examining the ground, before he trod on it ; the second, to go barefoot, that he might know whether the ground was hot, or began to be so, in order to have it in his power to withdraw before an eruption took place.

40 Empedocles on Mount Etna.

Wherefore, one fine morning, Empedocles, without saying a word to any one, takes his stick, and sets off to the mountain. He leaves his san dals at the bottom, and climbs barefoot to the sum mit. It happened that two of his disciples had, at the same time, taken a walk to a neighbouring mountain, for the purpose of enjoying the fresh air : these were much surprised to see a man walk ing on the top of Mount Etna. They concluded it to be their master, and were horror-struck at the danger to which he was exposed. But what could be done ? Nothing could dissuade him from his enterprise. They, therefore, contented them selves with following him with their eyes, and ob serving what might become of him.

Having reached the summit, Empedocles was enchanted at the novelty of the scene before him. He there saw a thousand objects, curious, and deserving the attention of an amateur ; but which, in the eyes of every other person, would have appeared hideous and contemptible. To his astonished sight, calcined rocks, mountains of ashes, presented themselves : he saw pools of melted and stinking sulphur, holes and crevices, through which at that moment, flames were ac tually bursting forth to a prodigious height.

Empedocles walked round this terrible volcano with more than philosophic intrepidity. His stick saved him from more than one abyss ; and his feet more than once warned him to change his si tuation. He had even sometimes the consolation to see the seasonableness of the change, the fire darting|forth with a burst from the very place he had the moment before quitted. He was applaud ing himself for what he had done, and was pre-

Empedocles on Mount Etna. 41

paring to descend, replete with the idea of the honour and glory that would accrue to him, for having been able, without fear and without acci dent, to explore the whole of this famous moun tain, which no mortal before him had attempted without losing his life ; and to have it in his power to say, in recounting its marvellous curiosities : " I have been there ; I have seen them." While he is taken up with these thoughts, and taking another glance at the objects which struck him most, and a description of which he proposed giving, he was not sufficiently attentive to the warning of his feet, or perhaps his feet did not give him a timely warning ; for there burst forth under him a whirlwind of flames, which carried his half burnt stick far from him. As for himself, whether he was consumed in the flames, or swal lowed up, or both, is not known. All that is known is, that he never appeared more, nor was any part of him ever found.

His disciples, witnesses of this terrible catas trophe, ran immediately to the place where they saw the stick fall ; and having found it, they dis covered to their extreme sorrow, that it was their master's walking-stick. They afterwards went round the mountain, to see if they could not find ny of his limbs scattered about ; but they found nothing but his sandals, which, with the stick, they deposited in the Temple of Prudence, to warn those that should see them, that true pru dence consists in keeping out of the way of dan ger, and in using suitable precautions, when the danger is unavoidable.

42

PARABLE IX.

Women.

A LADY, of strong sense and exalted piety, said one day to a youg canon, in presence of a large company : " I have heard an observation made upon you, Reverend Sir, which is certainly not to your disadvantage. People say, that whether in the street, or in the house, you never look a woman in the face." " Madam," replied the canon, " women are to me, what bayonets are to women : the more naked and shining they are, the more they alarm me, and the more eager am I to take my eyes off them." " You are right," said the lady ; " bayonets frighten us on account of the cruel wounds they inflict ; and the wounds inflicted by women are certainly not less so." " There is still something else," replied the canon, " the sight of bayonets cannot, in reality do any harm ; whereas the mere sight of a woman may inflict deep wounds ; and, in some instances, has inflicted wounds incurable." " In that case," said the lady, " you might moreover have com pared women to fire-arms, that carry a great way." " I could likewise, Madam, compare them to fire-works, whence issue blazing squibs, that spread on every side, and burn those, who, think ing themselves in safety, approach too near." " I have read on this subject," said one in the com pany, " a sentence in scripture, the two members of which do not seem to me to agree. Job some where says, that he had made a covenant with his

Women. 43

eyes, not even to think of a woman." " The two members of this sentence," answered the canon, " agree perfectly well. The meaning is, that the sure way not to think of a woman, is, not to look at her." The gentleman who had started this difficulty, proposed another question. " What do you think," said he, " of the following story, which I have somewhere read ? A certain priest, exorcising a possessed person, asked the devil, which was the sin that men were most easily drawn into ?" " There are two in particular," replied the fiend, " in which we endeavour to en tangle them, because we then look upon them as entirely at our disposal ; and they seldom or ne ver disengage themselves. The first is, the unjust possession of other people's property, which they do not restore even at their death : the second is, the love of women, of which they are not cor rected even in extreme old age ; continuing even, then to sin, if not by actions, at least by looks, thoughts and desires." " However true the story may be," subjoined the canon, " it contains at least a very good moral. Thus to spite the devil, let us preserve ourselves from both these sins : and to prove him a lying spirit, let those who have the unhappiness to be engaged in either, or both of these vices, take effectual measures to disengage and correct themselves." As the young canon said this, he got up to retire. " We see plainly," said the lady to him, " that you will not only not look at women, but that you do not even like their company for any length of time." " Ma dam," answered the canon, " I find nothing in my present company, but what is agreeable and

44 Pious Cheat of a Capuchin.

edifying ; but I hear the bells summoning me. Our first virtue, from which we ought to fear be ing diverted by women, is exactness in perform ing our duties."

PARABLE X. Pious Cheat of a Capuchin.

A YOUNG gentleman, of amiable manners and great possessions, had paid his addresses to a young lady of rare accomplishments and immense fortune. Every thing was settled for their mar riage, and they only waited the arrival of a rela tion, to celebrate the nuptials. In the mean time, the young gentleman had a short journey to make, which would require him to be absent for a few days : but, before he set off, he made the lady a present of his portrait, set in a beautiful gold snuff-box. The lady, on her side, deter mined to send her portrait also to her intended, before his return.

She knew a Capuchin, who excelled in minia ture painting ; and, as she wished her portrait to be executed in a masterly manner, she addressed herself to him. The father, at first, refused, say ing, that if he had any talent that way, he did not choose to employ it for such a purpose. After re peated solicitations, however, the father suffered himself to be prevailed on, and undertook to do it.

He painted no more, at first, than the head, and sent it to the lady for her approbation. A finer head could not possibly be — the young lady

Pious Cheat of a Capuchin. 45

raptures — she shewed it to her friends, and to every one that came to the house : all agreed they had never seen any thing so beautiful, and so well executed. She sent it back to the father, accompanied with a handsome present, begging of him to finish so excellent a work, and to send it her back as soon as possible.

In fact, the father did finish it — but how ? in stead of painting a beautiful figure under so fine a head, he painted a skeleton with all the niceness and perfection of his art, and sent it back to the lady. She undid the parcel with eagerness: but — when she saw this shocking thing appended to the head, she became so outrageous, that, had the Capuchin been within her reach, she would have disfigured him. She was loud in her complaints, demanded signal vengeance on the man who had played her so shameful a trick.

She, however, took delight in looking at the head ; but not being able to admire it, without at the same time, seeing the object of horror, she again became furious, and vented her anger against the father, and against the whole order of Capu chins. Nevertheless, the skeleton by degrees lost many of its terrors. Alas ! said she, after all, am I not one day or other to come to this ? It was not a [trick the good father wished to play me, but rather a lesson he intended^to give me: let me profit by it. Whilst she was employed in these reflections, she heard the bell at the Car melites' ring for Benediction. Thither she goes — the skeleton recurs to Aher mind — she sheds tears — she hesitates — at length she determines : — " e enters among the nuns, and takes the habit.

c 2

<b

46 Pious Cheat of a Capuchin.

From hence she sends her picture to her lover, and writes to him the reflections she had made, and the part she had taken, exhorting him to do as much.

The young gentleman, on receiving this news, becomes distracted, leaves every other business, and comes home. He hastens to the convent, and demands an audience with the young lady. She sends him word, that she is too much engaged to come down into the parlour ; that he has her por trait and her letter ; that he may look at them both, and then make his reflections. More enraged at this answer, he hurries to the Capuchins, and asks for the painter, but he was no longer there ; he had foreseen the storm, and was gone to ano ther convent. He then asks to see the Father Guardian, who, having received the first volley of his abuse, mildly exhorted him to patience, and gave him to understand, that all this was an effect of Providence, wishing to detach him from the world, that he might fix his affections upon God alone.

The young man, overpowered by fatigue, un easiness, and vexation, returns home, and throws himself upon his bed, to take a little repose : but his soul was two much agitated to allow it. He takes from his pocket the letter — then the portrait : -^-he looks first at one, and then at the other : — he sighs — he sheds tears. After a few moments silence — " What a fool I am," said he to himself, " to fix my heart on corruption, whilst I have it in my power to love God ; to attach myself to the earth, while I can gain heaven. Come, I will not be overcome by a woman : I will, at least, sum-

Definition of the present Life. ' 47

mon the courage to imitate her." Saying this, he rises, goes and throws himself at the feet of the Father Guardian, communicates to him his de termination, and asks for the habit.

As soon as he had received it, he wrote to the Carmelite, to inform her of his change, and to recommend himself to her prayers. The answer of the Carmelite was in the same style. From that time, they neither saw one another, nor did they write to one another ; but, after a long life spent in unabated fervour, they both died on the same day, in the odour of sanctity.

What happiness do they now enjoy in the blessed mansions of eternity! If we wish to par take in their happiness, let us think as they did, and put our reflections in practice.

PARABLE XI.

Definition of the present Life.

A PHILOSOPHER was one day asked, what this life was, and he answered: "It is the journey a cri minal makes (after his sentence has been read to him) from prison to the place of execution." In fact, we are all condemned to death from our mo ther's womb ; and from the time of our birth, we are continually advancing towards the place of punishment. Our eyes, to be sure, are not co vered with bandages, as are those of criminals, but which is the same thing, the place of punish ment is hidden from us. We are continually mak ing towards it, without knowing where it is, or whether we are near it, or at a distance from it,

48 The Oracle of Delphi.

All that we know is, that we approach nearer and nearer to it every day; and that we shall reach it before we are aware. It may be, we are there now, or only one step from it.

One thing, besides, of which we are ignorant, is the kind of death to which we are condemned, that not being specified in the sentence, and known only to Almighty God. Will it be mild, or se vere ? Will it be sudden, or protracted ? Shall we, or shall we not, have time to enter into our selves, and place our affairs in order ? Of all this we know nothing.

What is really astonishing, is, that, being un der the sentence of death during our journey from our prison to the place of our punishment, we should sin, laugh, joke, and fool away our time in empty projects and childish enterprises. But, does it not often happen, that people, in the midst of their pleasures and enterprises, reach the term which they imagined to be far distant ; and that they are obliged to undergo their last punishment unprepared, because they never allowed it a place in their thoughts.

PARABLE XII.

The Oracle of Delphi*

WHEN the ancient philosophers had any fa-

* Delphi, now Castri, a town of Phocis, situate in a val ley at the S. W. side of Mount Parnassus. It was famous for a Temple of Apollo aud for an Oracle, celebrated in every age and country.

The Oracle of Delphi. 49

vourite dogma, that they wished to be credited and adopted, they always gave it out as received from some oracle. Over these oracles the devil presided, who. cannot be supposed to have uttered truths, such as they wished their dogmas to be thought.

It is said that Zenof, wishing to lead a virtuous life, went to consult the Delphic oracle, to know what he was to do, to live in the constant practice of virtue ; and that the oracle gave him this an swer : " Consult the dead."

In fact, for a Christian in particular, there is no means more efficacious, and more easy to reform his life, and more conducive to preserve him in the practice of virtue, than the thought of death and eternity. Did we but consult our relations and friends, that are already dead, and those whom we have seen die, and attended to the grave, and ask them what we have to do ; what would their

f Zeno was the founder of the sect of the Stoics. His school at Athens was attended by the great, the learned, and the powerful. His life was an example of soberness and moderation ; his morals were austere; and to his tem perance and regularity he was indebted for the continual How of health which he enjoyed. After he had taught pub licly for 48 years, he died in the 98th year of his age, B.C. 264. — An arbitrary command over the passions was one of therules of Stoicism. TheStoiccould view with indifference health or sickness, riches or poverty, pain or pleasure ; none of which could either move or influence the serenity of his mind. It was his duty to study himself: in the evening, he was enjoined to review, with critical accuracy the events of the day ; and to regulate his future conduct with more care, and always to find an impartial witness within his own breast.

50 The Oracle of Delphi.

answer be ? How holy would our life be, how

sweet and pleasant our death, did we but listen to and follow the lessons the dead would give us.

The more useful the thought of death is towards regulating our lives, the more does man, an ene my to restraint, divert his thoughts from it, by living in an entire forgetfulness of it. But the wisest people, as well whole nations as individuals, Pagans as well as Christians, have been careful to recall, by divers devices, so salutary a thought, being persuaded, that, though we forget death, death does not forget us.

Formerly, in China, on the eve of the coronation of an emperor, each of the sculptors of the city of Pekin presented to him a piece of marble, for him to choose which he would have his tomb made of, as they had to begin to work at it from the very day of his coronation. The sculptor, on whose marble the emperor fixed his choice, was the same that had to work it ; and the town paid him in advance. This ceremony was attended with a great deal of pomp, and was, for the peo ple, but particularly for the emperor, an important lesson. Let it be such to you ; and reflect, that round about you, all nature is incessantly at work preparing you a grave.

At the ceremony of the coronation of the Kings of Abyssinia,* they were presented with a vase filled with earth, arid a death's head, to admonish them of what they were one day to come to, with-

* Abyssinia is a large empire of Africa. It is exceedingly fertile, and abounds both in wild and tame auimals. The capital is Gonda.

The Oracle of Delphi. 51

out the crown being able to preserve them from the common lot of man.

At this day, at the installation of the Roman Pontiff, a clerk carries a little tow at the top of a reed, and, lighting the tow at a wax taper, he burns it before the Pontiff, saying : Holy Father, thus passes away the glory of the world."

Philip, King of Macedonia,! and father of Alexander the Great, had given orders to one of his pages to say to him three times each morning: " Sire, remember you are a man." This word alone says every thing.

The emperor Maximilian I. had his coffin made four years before his death. He kept it in his bed room ; and when he travelled, he always took it with him. He found it a useful monitor : and having followed its counsels during life, he saw undisturbed the moment arrive, when he was shortly to be shut up in it.

The Cathusians greet one another in this man ner : " Remember death ;" because there is no thing more powerful than this remembrance, to make us persevere in the rugged paths of virtue, by keeping constantly in our mind, that our suf ferings will soon be over, and followed by eternal happiness, delivering us from eternal evils.

St. Bernard was accustomed to repeat fre quently to himself during the day : " If thou wert

f Macedonia, formerly a celebrated kingdom of Europe under Philip and Alexander, is now a province of Turkey. The air is clear, sharp, and wholesome ; and the soil, for the most part, fertile. The capital is Salonichi, the an cient Thessalonica.

52 The Popes Penitent.

to die to-day, wouldst thou do that?*' And, when he began any good action, or any work of obli gation, he used to ask himself: " Wert thou to die after this action, how wouldst thou do it ?" Thus, by a constant remembrance of death, he kept himself in unabated fervour.

PARABLE XIII. The Pope's Penitent.

A GENTLEMAN of great family, but a great sin ner, determined at last to be converted. For this purpose, he went to Rome, and wished much to have the comfort of making his confession to the Pope. The Pope heard him, and was edified at the accuracy of his confession, the liveliness of his sorrow, arid the generosity of his resolutions. But when the Pope proposed his penance, the pe nitent could not submit to any. As for fasting, he had not strength to fast; for reading and prayer, he had no time ; making a retreat, undertaking a pilgrimage, interfered with his other business. To watching and lying on the ground he objected, because his health would not allo\v it. Besides, there was another reason for complying with none, which he did not mention ; and that was, his dig nity. What was to be done ? The Pope gave him a gold ring, on which were engraven these two words: — "Memento mori — remember thou must die :" and the penance he imposed on him was, to wear this ring on his finger, and to read the words that were on it at least once a day.

The Thread of Life. 53

The gentleman withdrew very well satisfied, congratulating himself on the trifling penance he had got : but this was a preparation and intro duction to all the others. The thought of death entered so forcibly, and with so good effect, into his mind, as to discover to him the mortality of his present state, and he cried out : " Well ! since I must die, what else have I to do in this world, than prepare myself for a good death ? What use is there in caressing a body, that will soon be the food of worms ? Why be so careful of my health, which death will at length destroy ? The effect of these reflections was, that every kind of pe nance, after this, appeared trifling and easy to him. He embraced them all, and persevered in the prac tice of them till his death, which was precious in the sight of God, edifying to his neighbour, and full of comfort to himself.

Ah ! did we but seriously reflect on this sen tence — " I am to die ;" — did we but draw the just conclusions, resulting from it — " Since I am to die ;" — did we pay serious attention to the admo nition it gives us- -" Am I not to die ?';

As to the rest, let not these terrible words alarm you. Only take your measures, and death will have no terrors for you.

PARABLE XIV.

The Thread of Life.

OUR eternal happiness, or misery, depends on our death ; our death depends on our life ; — and our life hangs but by a thread. But this thread is

54 The Thread of Life.

very weak, and easily broken, cut, or burnt. This thread fails us at the time \ve expect it the least : sometimes, when we think it is the strongest ; and sometimes, by the very means we employ to strengthen and secure it ; as you shall see in the tragical end of Don Carlos, King of Navarre.* The relation cannot fail to excite in us feelings of horror and astonishment.

No man could be more enslaved to the shameful vices of the flesh, than was this king. Finding himself, at last, worn out with his debaucheries, and utterly incapable of pursuing his excesses, he consulted his physicians. They prescribed, that his whole body should be covered with a sheet soaked with brandy, to remain four and twenty hours in this sheet stitched fast about him. The king would have the operation performed by the youngest and dearest of his mistresses, but who was, at the same time, the most giddy and thought less. This woman, having finished sewing the sheet on the king's body, and not having her scissars at hand to cut off the thread, had the im prudence to take the wax candle to burn k. The thread, being impregnated with brandy, took fire; which, communicating with the sheet, set the whole of it in a blaze. What an uproar was there in the palace! what hurry! what confusion! Every thing was done to save the king, but to no pur pose ; he wast burnt to death before any assist ance could be afforded. What a life ! what a death ! what an eternity !

* Navarre, formerly a kingdom of Europe, lies partly in Spain, and partly in France, and is divided into the Up per and Lower. The upper belongs to Spain, the lower to France.

55

PARABLE XV. Singular Taste of a King of the Bulgarians.

BOGORIS, a king of Bulgaria,* was fond of every thing frightful and terrific. To be in places the most dismal and hideous, was his delight ; and to hunt the most ferocious animals, was quite an amusement to him. The hangings, pictures, and carvings in his palace, each represented some ob ject of terror.

Being informed of a monk in the neighbourhood named Jerome, that excelled in the art of paint ing, he went to him, and desired him to draw a picture according to his taste, that is to say, the most frightful that he could imagine. The father complied with his wishes, and chose for his sub ject the last judgment. The sovereign Judge, seated on a cloud, and surrounded by his angels, appeared with an air of majesty and indignation, that had something in it at once charming and confounding. On his right hand were the just, beaming with glory; and on his left, sinners, pale, dismayed, affrighted, in expectation of their final sentence. Towards the bottom of the picture were devils, represented in shapes the most hi deous and frightful. They appeared furious and threatening, being armed with all sorts of instru ments of torture. Beneath yawned a frightful gulf, whence darted forth horrible whirlwinds of flame.

* Bulgaria, a mountainous province of Turkey in Eu- B, the vallies of which produce some corn and wine.

56 77tf incredulous Marquis.

The infidel king, at the first sight of this pi< ture, was quite delighted; and he declared he h never seen any thing, either so beautiful, or terrible. But as he did not know what it repi sented, he requested the monk to explain eacl particular part to him. This Father Jerome di( with so much energy and unction, that the prince, more alarmed even at the explanation, than at tlu picture itself, embraced Christianity ; and was sc penetrated with a sense of the judgments of Goc that ever after, upon undertaking any thing, when any state business was deliberated in coun cil, he used to say : " Let us remember, that win we are going to do will be examined at the j ment-seat of God."

PARABLE XVI. The incredulous Marquis.

WHILST Father Jerome, as mentioned in th< preceding parable, was explaining to the King and the whole court the truths of the Christian Re ligion, and particularly that of the last judgment, a lord of the court, a Marquis, who was a relation of the king's, a free-thinker, and a very profligate man, was employed in combating what the Father said, and in proposing, chiefly against the last judgment, subtle objections and perplexing ques tions, which the new catechumen could not an swer.

The king insisted, that the marquis should propose his difficulties to Father Jerome, in pre-

Tlie incredulous Marquis. 57

scnce of the whole court, and that the father should answer them. The marquis having spoken for a long time, with a great deal of fluency and much warmth, but without any order, the father resumed his discourse, which he reduced to three principal points, viz. The resurrection of the body ; the manifestation of consciences; and the confusion of sinners ; and replied as follows, addressing him self to the marquis.

" First, as to the resurrection of the body. — Every thing you have advanced, my Lord, against the resurrection of the body, is no ways difficult to one who has a just idea of the power of God, and who believes this power infinite, as you your self do. He, who gave life to every thing that breathes, can likewise restore that life when he pleases: one and the other are equally easy to him. However dispersed the ashes of the dead may be, they are not beyond the power of his arm: he will know how to find them again, to separate them, and to reunite them.

" What you object as to the identity of bo dies, to prove that it is impossible for each of us to rise again with the same body, will not be any more difficult to one, who is sensible of his own weakness and ignorance, and has, at the same time, a just idea of the omnipotence of God. For, it is a lamentable thing, that we, who understand not the things in this world, which we see, should wish to comprehend every thing in the next, which we do not see, and which we know only by faith.

" You say, my Lord, that the same matter will have belonged successively to several dead bodies; and you ask, to which it will belong at the general

58 The incredulous Marquis.

resurrection? And do you know, my Lord, whe ther the same matter may not have belonged suc cessively to many living bodies ? And does that prevent every living man from having his own body, and subsisting in this same body ? You say, that you had four years ago, a sickness, which reduced you to such a degree, that you did not weigh half as much as before your indisposition. You have, however, recovered your flesh again, and you now weigh more than you did before your sickness. Does this prove that you have changed your body ? Have you the same body, or have you another ?

" You suppose a child to die immediately after being baptized, and to be only a foot high: now, you say, for this child to rise again in its own body, it must rise in a body only a foot high. But have not you, my Lord, though now above six feet high, been a child of a foot, and half a foot, and even less ? Have you on that account changed your body? and have you not your own body, the same that you had when you came into the world ? Ah ! my Lord, these are mysteries in this life, and we cannot comprehend them ; why then wish to comprehend those of the next? Let us believe in the word, and rest on the wisdom and power of the Author, both of this world and the next.

" You then ask, where there will be room to con tain the immense multitude of bodies, when they rise again ? My Lord, he who divided the chil dren of Adam, and dispersed them over the face of the earth, providing for them subsistence and every comfort, will know where to place them,

The incredulous Marquis* 59

when he comes to judgment. You had nothing to do with the first, neither are you disturbed about it : you will have nothing to do with the second ; do not then make yourself uneasy about it.

" Lastly, you ask, whether we shall have the same faces in the next world that we have in this? My Lord, all these questions answer no end. He, who made this world with all that order and beau tiful variety of parts, which we admire, will know how to make all things in the next conduce to his glory, to the happiness of his friends, and the pu nishment of his enemies. The treasures of his wisdom are not exhausted. Let us put our whole trust in him, and be only anxious to live and die in his love.

" Secondly, as to the manifestation of con sciences. — I pass, my Lord, to the second part of your attack, the manifestation of consciences ; and I agree with you, that, for this manifestation to be entire, it is necessary each one should know clearly and distinctly what concerns every other man. He must know their situations, their rela tions to each other, their natural talents and su pernatural gifts ; and then their actions, their thoughts, their desires, their intentions, their words, their writings, and the consequences of all these. Besides, we must know the ways of God, with regard to men in general, and the care of his particular providence with respect to each individual. These, and many other things, are immense in detail ; but still, my Lord, they are not infinite, nor do they require infinite knowledge to be understood ; but God can communicate to every created intelligence that degree of light

60 TA<? incredulous Marquis.

which he shall please ; reserving, however, for himself, that knowledge which is infinite.

" You repeat over and over again, that this is incomprehensible. I allow it, my Lord ; but on this subject, as well as the others, we may form some idea from natural occurrences. Suppose a person has been born and brought up in a dungeon, and had never seen, except by taper-light, the objects contained in his prison, this person would not be persuaded, that there is in the world a lu minary, which gives light, at the same time, to more than a hundred thousand leagues of country; and, though he should be assured that this is the case, and that all those who inhabit this vast tract of country, see distinctly, and without difficulty, all the objects it contains, all he could do, would be to believe without comprehending. The thing, however, is so, and we see and know it. Now, the difference there is between the light of a taper and that of the sun, is less than the difference be tween the light, which God now communicates to men, and that which he will communicate to them at the last day. You ought, then, to have no diffi culty in believing, that, at the last day, every thing will be open and distinctly seen : and you ought not to flatter yourself, that there will be any of your actions, or thoughts, that will not be known by every one. We find no difficulty in believing this truth ; but the consequences of it, are what alarm and terrify us : but after all, we may still turn them to our advantage.

" I now answer the question, whether, at the last day, in heaven or in hell, we shall know one another again? As to the last day, it is certainly

The incredulous Marquis. 61

manifest, that we shall know one another again ; for it is impossible the manifestation should be so clear and entire, as I have shewn it to be, without our knowing not only those with whom we have lived, but those too who have gone before, or those who shall come after us. Now, why should this knowledge, which God shall have communi cated to men, upon that day be taken from them, it being so necessary for the justification of his providence, for the glory of his saints, and for the confusion of sinners ? They will not be de prived of it : it will subsist for ever. Thus, sin ners will know one another to their misery ; the saints will know one another to their happiness ; and both to the glory of God, through endless ages.

" Thirdly, as to the confusion of sinners, It remains for me, my Lord, to say a word on the supposition you make, that the number of sin ners, at the last judgment, being much greater than that of the just, the former will not feel any shame for their crimes. You add, that, in this world, libertines often boast of their de baucheries even in the presence of the just. With out here examining the shame, which, even in this world, sinners may feel for their sins, on which much might be said, I answer in three words : that what sometimes makes sinners bold and insolent in this world, is their blindness, the absence of their Judge, and the distance of pu nishment : but when they shall see the grievous- ness of sin, their Judge present, and hell ready to swallow them up, then, my Lord, their con fusion will be great. And as the fear of all will not

62 The incredulous Marquis.

dimmish the fear, which each one has for himself, so the general confusion, in which all sinners will be, will not prevent the particular confusion which each one will feel.

" Before I conclude, I will answer another question you ask on the subject. You ask if the sins of the saints will be manifested ? Certainly they will ; but it will be for their glory, not their confusion. Yes, my Lord, they will appear, effaced by the blood of Jesus, and washed away by the tears of repentance. Sins, thus atoned for will not be a blemish, but an ornament, which will add to the splendor of the saints, be glorious to Jesus Christ, and increase the confusion of sinners, because, having had the same means of effacing their sins, they have not made use of them. And, as the knowledge we have of the adultery of David, of the denial of St. Peter, of the debauchery of St. Augustine, does not in the least diminish the esteem and respect we have for these great saints : so the sight of the sins of the elect will not lessen either their glory or their happiness."

As soon as Father Jerome had ceased speaking, the king and whole court came to thank him for the comfortable instruction he had given them. As for the marquis, he withdrew, vexed at heart : and whether through prejudice, or vanity, he per sisted in his incredulity, and was the only one of the whole court that did not receive baptism. Terrible judgment of God! Fatal effect of the corruption of the human heart, and of a rash cu riosity, that wishes to fathom mysteries, which it ought only to believe and adore.

63

PARABLE XVII. A second Narcissus.

A YOUNG gentleman, who had no brother, and who had the misfortune to lose his father while he was yet very young, lived at his seat with his mother and two sisters. Whilst the mother and her daugh ters were employed in works of piety and Christian charity, the young man's whole time was spent in courting and caressing his body. He would pass whole days at his toilet. His only care in the house was curling, powdering, and perfuming his hair. His mother repeatedly made him an offer to buy him a regiment: but how could he consent to enter the army, he who would never go a hunting, or shooting, for fear of deranging his curls, or of being scratched by some bramble. This love of his body had, however, in him, one good effect : it kept him entirely from every sort of debauchery ; for he always guarded against ex cess of every kind, for fear it should impair his health, or destroy the bloom of his countenance. This singular mode of life drew upon him many reproaches and railleries: but. this second Nar cissus always comforted himself before his looking- glass, admiring his own sweet person, and that blooming appearance of health, in which he placed all his happiness and glory.

One day, Father Basil, superior of a neigh bouring monastery, a man of great penetration, and mortified life, called at the castle, and they prevailed on him to stop dinner. It was hinted

64 A second Narcissus.

to him by the young ladies, that, during dinner, he should try to inspire their brother with more manly and more Christian sentiments. The de sert, however, was served, before a word was said on the subject. The elder of the ladies, impatient at the Father's silence, began by asking, whether it was not a shame for a young man, and much more for a gentleman, to employ his whole time about his body ? " Miss," replied the Father, " the body is a great part of the man. It is by the body that man lives in this world ; that he is visible to other men, and keeps up his intercourse with them. It is by the body, that man receives the most lively sentiments of pleasure and pain ; that he communicates with all the other bodies in the universe; that he acts upon them, and is acted upon by them. Of all the bodies, which the Almighty has created, the human body is certainly the most beautiful and admirable, without excepting even the stars of the firmament. A body well made, exact in its proportions, healthy, active, and ro bust, a mien noble and majestic ; and at the same time, mild and interesting ; a face, all the parts of which have their charms, and all the features their beauty and regularity, and all this covered with a fine skin and beautiful complexion, and a head erect and adorned with fine hair : there is not, I repeat it, any thing in the world so beauti ful. A person possessing all these advantages, would be universally admired, and there is nobody but would he glad to possess them. Therefore, I think that the body, this essential part of man, deserves all our cares, all our attention, and all our thoughts."

A second Narcissus. 65

The young gentleman was in raptures all the time the Father was speaking : and from such a beginning the young ladies thought themselves betrayed ; and this idea put them a little out of humour with the Father. The one that had pro posed the question to him, said : " Indeed, Father, you lay down exellent morality : I am sure we had no reason to expect such from you." " This morality," said the mother, " is just to the taste of my son." " But," said the youngest, with some warmth, you are in this instance, Father, in con tradiction with yourself. You, who exhorts others to take care of their body, what care do you take of yours ? You clothe your body with a coarse sack ; you make it go barefoot through thick and thin, in the depth of winter : you over power it with work ; you emaciate it by fasting ; you bruise it with blows ; and you give it no rest either by day or night ; is this the care you take of your body ?" " The care 1 take ?" replied the Father ; " that is quite a different thing : — I expect another at the General Resurrection." " And do we not all/' said the young man expect the Resurrection ?" « Ah ! if that is the case," answered theFather, "take care what you are about. We cannot place all our happiness in our body here, and look for a better at the Resurrection. It is by now subjecting the body to penance ; it is by immolating it to the service of God ; it is by making it serve, work, and suffer for God, that we ensure its being given back to us, at the Resur rection, a thousand times more beautiful than the one I have described to you : and beside this, it will be immortal and impassable, and by so much

D 2

66 A second Narcissus.

the more charming in the other world, as it shall have been humbled and mortified in this.

" When I was young," continued the Father, " I was a great admirer of my body ; I thought of nothing but it. I was told I was pretty, and I believed it. I liked to be told so : and I loved them that did tell me so. At the age of fifteen, I had the small pox. This disease alarmed and vexed me sorely, and made me think a great deal. Ah! my God, said I to myself, all the love I have had for my body, and all the attention I have paid it, have not been able to secure me from so frightful a disease, which will entirely disfigure me, and make me not to be known again ! And it will be the same with all the other changes, which other people experience, and which I like wise shall be obliged to undergo. I then began to consider every age ; and I found, that in each, the body undergoes some change, depriving it at every change, of some of its beauty, without any one being able to impede the course of nature, which drags us along with rapidity, in spite of ourselves, towards old age and death ; often closing our existence even before we reach old age. This thought caused me to shed tears ; and I fell asleep. During my sleep, somebody seemed to whisper in my ear : " Do not cry my child ; use thy body in holiness during thy life, emploj' it, without sparing it, in the service of thy God, and in the performance of all the duties of thy state ; bear, without disturbing thyself, all the changes that may happen to it, all sickness, all the infir mities it may undergo : the squeamishness of old age, and the pains of death : inure it thyself to

?

A second Narcissus. 6?

the rigours of penance, and at the day of the Ge neral Resurrection, God will restore it to thee perfect and resplendent, unchangeable, impassable, and immortal, and thou wilt enjoy this glorified body in Heaven, throughout eternity." Saying this, Father Basil took his leave.

When the Father was gone, our young gentle man, instead of going up to his room as usual, retired into the garden ; where he remained a long time, walking about alone, and musing on what he had just heard. He afterwards came into the parlour, where he found his two sisters busy at work. " Well, Sisters," said he, as he entered, " what do you think of Father Basil's discourse?" " That is just," said the eldest, " what my sister and I are talking about. But, what do you say of it yourself brother ?"" " I sayy that the Father is in the right ; and that I am not in the wrong. You were always telling me, that the body was nothing, and that 1 must contemn and entirely undervalue it. You see, on the contrary, as the Father said, the body is an essential part of our selves, deserving all our cares, and all our at tention. It is true, I did not reflect, that the body, in this world, is but a servant : and that the good use we shall have made of it, will be the means of its being given back to us, in the next world, adorned with other qualities, which will make it, if I may be allowed the expression, a body of state parade and magnificence. It is something like the different dresses you make use of. Some you have for common use, which you do not spare, neither do you care for spoiling tfiem ; you have others rich and brilliant, which you ears-

68 The Poet undeceived.

fully reserve for feast days, and for company/' " Brother," said the youngest, " you have just hit on Father Basil's idea. The day of the Resur rection will be a grand day ; and there will be present a brilliant assembly. God grant we may appear there with honour." " Sister," replied the brother, " that will depend on the use we shall have made of our body ; we have it in our power to make it a living victim, agreeable to God : it is given us for that end r let us profit by it/'

They all did profit by it. The brother entered the army, and fasted every Wednesday and Friday. He was killed in battle ; and a hair shirt was found under his uniform. The younger sister became a model of humility and penance in a monastery, to which she retired. The eldest remained with her mother, both leading a life of the most rigid penance. They all died in the odour of sanctity, full of the hope of a Glorious Resurrection.

PARABLE XVIII. The Poet undeceived.

A POET one day went to a Convent of Carthu sians, to see a relation of his ; after a long con versation, he at last said to him; "Cousin, I have just finished a poem, which I think will gain me some credit. It has cost me much labour; and I am going to take two more years to polish it, and make it fit to appear before the public. It will be better," continued he, " to defer publishing it, to see what subscribers I can get." " I think," said

The Poet undeceived. 69

the Carthusian, " you would not be against de ferring the publication of it two years more, could you have a certainty, that your poem, as soon as it appeared, would be read and admired by all Paris, the Court, and all France, would you ?" " Certainly not/' said the Poet, " and I should think those four years well employed." " But," continued the Carthusian, " should any one ensure you, that, by deferring it four years more, your poem would be sought after by all Europe, be translated into all languages, and be every where admired, would you not consent to wait so long ?" " Very willingly," answered the Poet ; so great glory would well deserve to be purchased by eight years labour." " But," added the Father, " if by waiting other eight years, you were sure that the esteem, which Europe would have for your work, would not only continue, but keep increasing even to the end of the worldr would you still consent to wait that number of years ?" " Without difficulty," replied the Poet. « Yet," says the Father, " that makes sixteen years : and at your age, do you expect to live long enough, after the expiration of these sixteen years, to en joy the glory?" "No," answered the Poet : "but what does that matter ? The glory, that does not outlive a man, is nothing- : that only, which remains after, merits our ambition." " You would, then, consent to work all your life for a great glory, which you would not receive till after your death?" "Undoubtedly," replied the Poet; "and this is the feeling of every noble soul, and of every thinking mind." " And if this be the case, my dear Cousin," subjoined the Father, "what hinders

70 The Poet undeceived.

you from acquiring this great glory, and a glory too still greater, which will not leave you after death, but will follow you, and which you will enjoy for ever ? For this end, you have only to employ the remainder of your days, not in correcting your poem, but your morals; and in serving God with fervour. And, what no one can promise you for your poem, how correct soever, faith and re ligion promise you for the correction of your mo rals, and your fidelity in serving God." " Oh !" exclaimed the Poet, " I thought what you were aiming at : but this is not our present business. You Carthusians entertain only gloomy and re volting ideas. We are in this life ; and we have to speak only of the glory of this life : as to the glory of the next, we do not see it." " But," re plied the Carthusian, " will you see the glory of this life, when you are no longer here ? And, since you must leave this life, and enter into the other, is it not wiser, to acquire a glory that will follow you, and which you will enjoy, than a glory which will outlive you, and which you will not enjoy ? But, what is this glory, which your poem may gain you ? What is all the glory of the world, in comparison with that which a holy life can procure you? The first is very uncertain, and nobody would dare insure it to you ; whereas the second is insured to you by the promise of God, by religion, by faith. The first will always be very small and very limited. Though your name even become famous throughout all France, all Europe, and posterity, how many individuals would there be among this number, that would not be acquainted with your work ? Whereas

The Poet undeceived. 71

the second will be universal ; so that, at the last day, not only all those who now inhabit France, and Europe, Asia, Africa, and America; not only they, who shall live after them, but still all who have existed since the commencement of the world, all, without excepting one, will esteem you, will praise, admire, and respect you. In fine, the glory of your poem will be short-lived and pe rishable ; and it cannot extend, at most, further than the end of the world. After which, there will be nothing to do with poetry, nor with any thing that employs mortals here below ; and all worldly glory will disappear; and nothing will re main but that true and solid glory, which comes from God, whose judgment, being founded on truth and equity, will gain the suffrages of all created intelligences : and this glory will be eter nal. Are the desires and the hope of this gloomy and revolting? Are there any that are more con soling, more noble, more ravishing? What do you think?" " I think, cousin, you have given me an excellent, though rather long sermon."

" Well," said the Carthusian, " let us leave this topic, and return to your poem. You expect, then, to give it to the public in two years ?' " Yes, if God preserves my life." " When you have given the last touch to it, and it shall appear, do you expect it will not be criticised ?" *' Oh! supposing it be. A good work is sure to be criticised ; and jealousy even often tries to put it down: but I am under no apprehension. If I am attacked, I will defend myself." " But," said the Carthusian, " it\ after taking four years to retouch your poem, you were sure to place it above all criticism, so

72 The Poet undeceived.

that even they who envy you the most, instead of censuring, should be obliged to praise you, would you not wait these four years, before you publish it ? " Whither," said the Poet, " do you mean to lead me now, with your suppositions and cal culations ?" " To true glory," answered the Fa ther : " to that glory, which no one will dispute with you; which the whole universe will give you; and which at the last day, and throughout eter nity, will force all your enemies to praise you, and confess that you have done well ; and to be vexed with themselves for not having done the same as you." " I readily allow," said the Poet, " that this would be the best, and that the glory we hunt after here, and in the pursuit of which we weary ourselves, is, at bottom, but a chimera, a phantom, which seduces us. But what would you have me do? I am a man ; I live with men; I am foolish with the foolish." "And what hinders you," replied the Father," from being wise with the wise ? How many are there, who esteem the glory of this world as nothing, and whose whole time is taken up in endeavouring to merit eternal glory ? You live, it is true, with men ; but how very soon will you and all now living be in the other world, with all those who have gone before, and with all those who shall come after us, and at length, at the last day, we shall all appear before the tribunal of Jesus Christ. Why do you not imitate those, who, full of these thoughts, labour only to acquire the true glory of the next world, which will be solid, universal, eternal ?"

" Cousin," said the poet, " were I only twenty years old, I would become a Carthusian." "Your

The Poet undeceived. 73

business is not," replied the father, " to become a Carthusian, but a good and fervent Christian." " And to effect this, what must I do ?" said the poet. " You must," answered the father, "put your conscience in order, make a good confession, addict yourself to prayer, to good works, to the frequenting of the sacraments ; you must forget the world, and think of nothing but preparing yourself to appear with honour and glory, at the last judgment." " And what shall I do with my poem ?" " You must throw it into the fire, and think no more about it." " I assure you," said the poet, " If I had it here, I would immediately burn it in your presence : but I am going home, and that shall be the first thing I will do when I arrive there." " I shall not trust to that," replied the Carthusian; "send it immediately to me, and come and see me again to-morrow, and we will burn it together.'* " In a moment," said the poet, " you shall have it : I feel as if a mountain were taken off my shoulders, since I have taken the resolution of giving myself entirely to God, and to think of nothing but my salvation. Adieu, till to-morrow."

The poet kept his word, and sent the poem the same evening. The next day he returned to have it burnt, and to be confirmed in his good resolu tions; and from that time he employed himself en tirely in exercises of piety. His penance was aus tere, but it was not long. He died six months after, full of hope and consolation, and thanking God for having undeceived him in time to obtain the pardon of his error. He was buried at the Carthusians, as he had desired.

74

PARABLE XIX. Laughable Dream of a Monk.

A MONK had a dream, which perplexed him a great deal. He was not only disturbed by it dur ing his sleep, but it continued to trouble him after he awoke. As this dream remained deeply im pressed on his memory, he fancied it had some meaning in it, which he wished to discover ; but he tortured his mind in vain, and could find out nothing to his satisfaction. To rid himself of his embarrassment, he went to his abbot, and falling down at his feet, he asked his blessing : then, hav ing obtained permission to speak, and being or dered to sit down, he seated himself and related his dream, as follows.

" I dreamed, father, last night, that the king had invited me to his court. Whether this news pleased me, or not, I cannot exactly say. All that I remember is, that I was anxiously employed in procuring a dress suitable to appear before the king. I therefore provided myself with a hand some gown and cloak, and I put on a pair of fine white stockings, and a new cowl : I then thought myself decently dressed for the occasion. I was introduced into a large hall full of lords and la dies ; and I had scarcely been there a minute, when I perceived I had no cowl on: this surprised and disturbed me not a little. I soon after saw that my feet and legs were bare. I could not conceive how I could come to court in this con dition ; and I durst neither stay, nor retire. Then,

Laughable Dream of a Monk. 75

instead of decent clothes, I found I had nothing on but rags, that scarcely covered me. Each mo- merit did my confusion increase, and I did not know where to put myself. At length I disco vered I had nothing on but my shirt, and that a very indifferent one, being both very short, and much torn. You may conceive how great was my confusion, in the midst of such an assembly : but what you cannot conceive, nor I express, is the torture occasioned by such shame. No re medy presented itself, but that of exposing myself to still greater confusion, by passing in this con dition, not only through the hall, the apartments and courts of the palace, but also through the streets of the town, and the galleries of the mo- naste^, to get to my cell, and shut myself up there. However great the difficulties and shame necessarily attendant on such an enterprise, I was on the point of attempting it, when it was an nounced that the king was arrived, and entering the hall. I screamed out with fright, and awoke. Though quite out of breath, I was overjoyed to find myself in my bed, and that what had harassed me so much was nothing but a dream. Yet, fa ther, a dream so connected and circumstantial must signify something. I have endeavoured to unravel it ; but finding that I could not, and be sides, confiding entirely in your discernment, I am come to ask of you the favour of an expla nation."

" Father," replied the abbot, " you are deceived in thinking that this dream has any meaning: tho* connected and circumstantial, it signifies nothing. Dreams are only sports of the imagination, inex-

76 Laughable Dream of a Monk.

plicable indeed, but to which we must not attach the slightest belief. Though yours has certainly no meaning in it, we may still draw from it a very useful and a very solid moral.

" We are all invited to the court of the King of Kings, and we must all appear before him. This truth supposed, you may gather from your dream three important instructions.

" The first, the care we ought to take to prepare ourselves for this great day. If you were so busy in equipping yourself to appear before a king of the earth, now that you know that you are soon to appear before the king of heaven, what care ought you not to take to purify your soul, to adorn it with all virtues, and to enrich it with all sorts of good works ?

" The second, the confusion all will experience, who shall not have taken this care. How dis tressing will it be for a Christian, and particularly for a religious, to appear, at the last day, before Jesus Christ, before the whole heavenly court, angels and saints, and before the whole universe, in a state of nakedness and shame ! But, what will it be, to appear there covered with wounds and ulcers, that is to say, with sins and iniquities, in a state of filth and abomination ?

" The third, the humility which ought to ac company all our actions, and be the foundation of all our virtues. You thought you were very well dressed when you went to court ; and when you were there, you found yourself naked. How ought we to fear, lest the good which appears in us, should disappear before the rays of divine light ; lest our seeming riches be reduced to real

Young Floret^ §c. 77

poverty, and our imaginary glory changed into eternal confusion! This thought ought not to discourage us ; but, by exciting our vigilance, to keep us humble."

The monk retired, full of comfort. His fervour and humility, during the remainder of his life, proved how much he had profited by the abbot's instructions. Let us likewise profit by it ; for it concerns us as much as it did the monk.

PARABLE XX. Young Flora, or Love-Letters.

FLORA was young, and lived with her elder sis ter, both enjoying a decent income left them by their parents. Flora left the management of her property and the house entirely to her sister, and employed her whole time in worldly pleasures and gallantry. She gloried in having a great many admirers ; who, attracted by the charms of her person, the sprightliness of her wit, and the gaiety of her manners, were constantly paying their court to her. Besides visits, she had every day letters, verses, billet-doux ; and these she always made it a point to answer with exactness. She sported with her lovers ; and they sported with her. She gave each of them to understand that he was the favourite, the only one she loved, and that she would never marry another ; and each of them swore to her constant and eternal love, the least spark of which they never felt. As her only aim with them was to satisfy her vanity, and as she

78 Young Flora,

always kept them within the bounds of respect and decency, so they, with her, expected nothing but to pass their time pleasantly.

A life so idle and so worldly, did not fail to give scandal, and to be the occasion of many sins. Flora was herself sensible of it, felt something of remorse, and sometimes even her visitors were troublesome to her. She made her sister the con fidant of her disgust, and her sister profited by this disclosure, to exhort her to lead a more re gular and Christian life, of which she set her the example. On these occasions, one would have supposed Flora quite changed: she herself thought so, and was projecting with her sister admirable plans of a new life. But a love-letter which she received, and which she ran off to answer, over turned all these schemes of reform, and re-plunged her, more than ever, into dissipations and amuse ments, without which, she persuaded herself she could no longer live.

One day, her sister and some female friends came to invite her to accompany them to a sermon. She was, at that time, busy answering a love-let ter. However, as she had almost done, and as she did not wish to offend her friends, she went with them, intending afterwards to finish her let ter. The subject of the sermon was Lazarus and Dives. The preacher, in his sermon, depicted in lively colours, the punishments of hell, and those devouring and eternal flames, which were the just punishment of the rich man's hard-heartedness to the poor, and of the voluptuous and sensual life which he had led. All this just suited the young Flora, and her sister hoped it would have some

or Love Letters. 79

good effect upon her. Though the sermon was beautiful and pathetic, yet Flora's thoughts being full of her letter, she found it tedious, and was not much affected by it. On leaving the church, she ran off to finish her letter ; but, as she was in a hurry to seal it, a large drop of melted wax fell upon her hand, and made her scream out dread fully. In the first motion of impatience, she threw both the wax and the letter into the fire. Her sis ter, alarmed at the noise, hastened to her. No sooner did Flora see her, than she exclaimed : — " Ah ! sister, what must the fire of hell be, since a drop of wax, that has fallen on my hand, gives me so very great pain ? No more love-letters — no more suitors — I renounce them for ever." Her sister could scarcely refrain from laughing ; but all the time she was employed in trying to assuage the pain occasioned by the burn, Flora continued moralizing. " No, sister," said she, " to hear talk

f the fire of hell is nothing ; one must feel the

7ects of this terrible element, to conceive any idea of a torture so dreadful. Ah ! what a horror

ould men have of sin, did they but feel, in ever so slight a degree, that fire, which is to be the eternal punishment of sin."

Whilst she was still speaking, a servant came with a letter for her. " Go, my good man/' said she, " and take the letter back to your master : tell him, that I no longer receive either letters or visits : tell him to save himself the trouble of com ing to see me, and of writing to me ; but instead of coming hither, to go to church, to attend ser-

F™ons, and to profit by them, as I am determined do." This was enough : all Flora's admirers,

80 Precautions.

hearing of her change, went elsewhere, and trou bled her no more. From that time she led a life as pious and edifying, as it had been dissipated and scandalous ; and died in the arms of her sis ter, twelve years after, full of virtues, and filled with consolations.

PARABLE XXI. Precautions.

A PHILOSOPHER was one day asked, what was the greatest and most valuable of arts. " It is," he replied, the art of taking precautions. This is the art of arts ; the art of attacking and defend ing places ; the art of gaining battles ; the art of reigning, "and of governing nations, provinces, towns, and families ; the art of preserving the health of the body, and of regulating the passions of the soul :" he might have added, the art of working out one's salvation ; the art of avoiding sin and hell ; the art of acquiring virtues, and of gaining heaven.

People are sufficiently attentive in taking pre cautions in the affairs of this world ; the affair of salvation is the only one where precautions are neglected.

When a traveller finds in his way a dangerous place, he walks with circumspection, and attends to every step he takes. Were you obliged to cross a field, which, though covered with a fine turf, and beautified with flowers, you knew to be full of hidden ditches and covered abysses, into

Precautions. 81

which you might easily fall, and whence you could not extricate yourself, should you have the misfortune to fall in : I ask, could you walk in this field without fear, without care, and without looking where you placed your feet ? But i£ walking there with others, you had already seen many fall in on each side of you, and disappear for ever, would you not be seized with terror, and double your attention? But, should any one of those that walk with you, though warned as well as you, choose rather to contemn the dan ger, than to take the trouble to avoid it : should you see him walk boldly all about the field, dance, jump, laugh, joke, would you not think he had lost his senses ? Would you take him for your mo del ? Alas I your neighbour has disappeared from off the earth, and has entered eternity : your bro ther is hidden in the tomb ; he has undergone his judgment, and he will appear no more : and do you not tremble ? Do you not take precautions ? Observe the just, how they tremble, and at tend to their ways. But, say you, how many others walk along without any apprehension ? These, then, are the people you take for your models ?

When it is known that a road is infested with robbers and assassins, people take care not to frequent it ; or, should necessity oblige them to go that way, they do not venture without being well armed and attended ; and at every step, at the least noise, they put themselves in a posture of defence. You, on the contrary, expose your self in places and on occasions the most danger ous, without necessity, without arms, and with-

E 2

82 Precautions.

out any means of defence. What wonder, if you perish in them ? '"

When the neighbourhood is infected with some contagious distemper, people are careful to use remedies and antidotes. Should it be reported, that the plague is in a neighbouring country, the frontier is guarded, to prevent any contagion from entering ; and you, breathing infected air, take no precaution ; you have recourse to neither penance, fasting, mortification, nor prayer. — Though surrounded by a contagious atmosphere, you place no guard at the door of your senses ; you allow every sort of object to enter: you ad mit into your house books, songs, pictures, and every thing the most infectious. Doing so, how can you but perish ?

WThen either scarcity or famine is apprehended, people take precautions, and provide against it : and if this fail, they leave their country, to find subsistence elsewhere, that they may not die of hunger. Do you, then, make abundant provision, by prayer and the sacraments ; and, if necessary, withdraw from the world, to procure for yourself that heavenly food, which the world does not, or dares not, make use of.

When any part of a town is on fire, all in the neighbourhood are alarmed, and use every pre caution. The fire of hell is now actually burning many of your fellow-creatures ; it is advancing towards you — it is on the point of reaching you ; and you do not tremble, nor take any precaution.

WThen a ferocious and unknown beast is ravag ing a country, and devouring its inhabitants, each one trembles for his safety, and keeps him-

Tiie King of Cosmia. -83

self on his guard. The devil, like a lion in his fury, roves about every where, seeking to devour whom he can; and he is daily surprising and dragging into hell some one or other. Perhaps you are already in his power ; and you suffer yourself to be dragged along without a cry, with out resistance !

When people have to pass a rapid stream on a plank, or a dirty place in the road by means of stepping stones, how careful are they where they place their feet ! — Do you, then, walk with fear and trembling in the narrow way of God's com mandments ; and as to what concerns faith, rest secure on that solid and immoveable rock, the Church.

PARABLE XXII. The King of Cosmia.

THE city of Cosmia was the capital of a large kingdom of the same name. The island of jEonia was at no great distance from it. But there ex isted between the ^Eonians and Cosmians such an antipathy, that, though the Romans were origin ally a colony of Cosmians, they had no trade, nor any communication with each other. If a Cosmian, forced by stress of weather, chanced to land on the island, he was immediately seized, and sent to the Petraea, or the Serpentina, tracts of land in the island, so called from being very rocky, and abounding in forests and wild deer, and from being infested with a frightful number of serpents of every description. Here the inha-

84 The King of Cosmia.

bitants had for their subsistence nothing but wild and bitter fruits ; for their lodging, nothing but caverns ; and they carried on among themselves a continual and more cruel war, than they did with the beasts and serpents. The rest of the island was the abode of plenty, peace, union, and all sorts of delights, and was separated from the other by a chain of impenetrable mountains, and was called Fortunata, not only because the inhabitants were completely happy, but moreover, because no one was admitted into it, who did not bring immense riches with him.

There was at Cosmia a whimsical custom, or law, by which, every year, the senate elected a new king, and dethroned the old one. The new king they chose from among strangers, in order that he might be ignorant of the law of the senate : which law the people themselves were utterly un acquainted with. The king, during the short in terval of his reign, had the absolute disposal both of the people, and of the riches of the kingdom. But, at the end of the year, when he least ex pected it, he was stript of every thing, blind folded, and forced on board a canoe, which con veyed him into the only part of jEonia, where it was possible to land. Here he was no sooner put on shore, than apprehended; and being known to be a Cosmian by his dress, and besides, being poor and destitute, he was banished to Serpentina, to pass the rest of his days in misery.

It happened one year, that a stranger, called Eumenes, was chosen king. He was a man of virtuous and regular habits ; and besides, endowed with great strength of mind, and consummate pru-

The King of Cosmia. 85

dence. No sooner was he seated on the throne, than he began to reflect on the manner he had been raised to it. He was particularly astonished at not hearing a word said about his predecessor ; at seeing none of his family, and at not knowing how he died, or whether he was dead or not, or, in fine, what was become of him. He would of ten ask his courtiers questions on this subject: but they invariably turned the discourse, and, in stead of satisfying his enquiries, always began to extol his kingly greatness and power. These evasions and flatteries only served to confirm him in the idea which he -had formed, that there was something mysterious in the business. Unable to succeed in clearing away his suspicions, he ap plied himself to the good government of his .king dom ; he made justice reign, and the arts and commerce flourish ; and studied to ease the bur thens of the people, and to render them good and happy. On one occasion he even exposed his life, in a war in which he was engaged, by head ing his troops, and leading them to battle in per son. His presence animated his whole army, he gained a complete victory, and made a peace ad vantageous to the conquerors and the conquered. The fame of his exploits and virtues extended to foreign nations, and caused him to be respected and beloved at home : but all this splendor did not dazzle him. He would have preferred the smallest hint on the subject of his uneasiness, to all the praises that were lavished upon him. When a king is sincere in his endeavours to come at truth, he cannot but discover it. A senator, charmed with the virtues of Eumenes, perceived

86 The King of Cosmia.

his uneasiness, and having obtained a private in terview with him, he disclosed to him, under the seal of secresy, the mysterious law of the state. Eumenes embraced and thanked him; and en treated him, on his part, not to say a word to any one about his having disclosed the secret to him.

The king, pleased at this discovery adopted suitable measures to profit by it, in order to avoid the Serpentina. He did not wait long, before an opportunity presented itself. A gale "of wind drove an JEonian ship on the coast of Cosmia. The news having reached the court, the king was immediately told, that these Romans were enemies of the state, and that they must be treated as such. The king thought otherwise, and observed, that, so far from being, under such circumstances, harshly dealt with, these unfortunate people were rather deserving of their pity and assistance. He gave orders for them to be brought to his court, and gave them an honourable reception. Luckily for him, many of these JSonians were chief men in their kingdom. He had private conferences with them, in which, having declared that it was his intention to come and live among them, mea sures were contrived for transporting secretly in to ^Eonia all the treasures he had at his disposal. .Everything being settled to the full satisfaction of both parties, he dismissed the Romans, after making them magnificent presents. By them he sent to the King of JSonia a crown of gold, en riched with diamonds, and another almost as va luable to the Queen Dowager. After their de parture, without neglecting the care of his king-

The King of Cosmia. 87

dom, Eumenes carefully amassed all the treasures he could, of which he, every week, sent a ship load to JSonia.

In the mean time, the end of his reign arrived, and the senate came to announce it to him. He was not taken by surprise, because he expected it, and was prepared for it. He suffered himself to be stripped without a murmur : he permitted them to blindfold him, put him on ship-board, and banish him. The ^Eonian Lords, whom he had treated so well, were waiting for him at the port. They conducted him to court, where he ever af ter enjoyed the favour of the king, the confidence and friendship of the grandees of the kingdom, and the esteem of the people.

Had you been in Eumenes's place, knowing what he knew, would you not have done as he did ? Well, and why do you not ? Do you not see, that Cosmia is nothing but this world ? that JEtonia. is eternity ; Serpentina, Hell ; and For- tunata, Paradise ? In one sense, you are a king in this world ; at least you are, while in it, mas ter of your heartland of your actions. Reflect then on the manner in which you were placed in this world; on the end for which you were placed here ; and on the faith of those who have gone be fore you, and who appear no more. What is all this mystery ? You are not ignorant of it : strive to understand it better, and love instruction in this particular. Fear a miserable eternity: wish for a happy one. Make to yourself friends in heaven : send thither all your treasures, and all the virtues and good works you can : endea vour to merit the favour of the King, and of the

88 The imprudent Traveller.

Queen, his Mother, and when death shall come, and strip you of every thing, you will welcome it with thankfulness, because it will put you in pos session of a kingdom, that will never end.

PARABLE XXIII. The imprudent Traveller.

A TRAVELLER crossing a forest, was perceived by a furious lioness, which immediately rushed forward to devour him. Her terrible roarings made the distant woods and mountains re-echo. Fear added fleetness to his feet; and gaining ground on the animal, he left her a considerable distance behind him. But, in running so fast from one danger, he fell into another. Not being aware of a gulph that lay in his way, he was precipit ated into it. He extended his arms, to seize the first object that might present itself, and was so lucky as to meet with the branch of a tree, which he clung to, and there remained suspended. Thus he escaped falling to the bottom of the abyss, where he would most certainly have been dashed to pieces. In this situation, though a dreadful one, he congratulated himself with having retarded, at least for a few minutes, his destruction. But he did not yet know all the dangers that threatened him. After having attentively examined the tree that supported him, he saw two large mountain rats, the one white, the other black, incessantly gnaw ing the foot of the tree, which they had almost entirely separated. Then turning his eyes to the

The imprudent Traveller. 89

bottom of the abyss, he descried an enormous dragon, with sparkling eyes and open mouth, waiting only for the fall of the tree, to devour his prey. Thence he cast his eye to the other side of the abyss, and perceived four large serpents, with horrible hissings, darting towards him, to bite him. " Alas I Lord," cried he, sighing, " for what pe rils hast thou reserved me ? and to which of these monsters am I to serve for food ? Is there no means of extricating myself, and of escaping these ferocious animals ?" Having said this, he per ceived that some of the leaves of the tree distilled honey. He tasted it, and found it not only de licious, but quite invigorating. It was a refresh ment sent him from heaven, and he ought to have made use of it, to summon up all his strength, and by means of this tree, or of some other more likely to suit his purpose, to have endeavoured to get out of this abyss : the more so, as it was to be presumed that the lioness, whose roarings he no longer heard, had retired into the woods. But, who would believe it? Instead of contriving means for his escape, he clambered up the tree, and, being seated at his ease, he employed his whole time and thoughts in gathering honey, and enjoying its fatal sweetness. Nay, he began to make a provision of it, to serve him for a long time. Whilst he was thus engaged, and busied in forming projects, and in taking, as he thought, wise measures to secure a more abundant supply of it in future, the tree, being'sufficiently gnawed, gave a sudden crash, broke asunder, and fell with him to the bottom of the gulf; and the dragon of the abyss, waiting with extended claws and open

90 The imprudent Traveller.

throat, swallowed up for ever the unfortunate traveller.

O senseless man ! own yourself at least in this picture : and while you have yet time, repair your error, and prevent its dreadful effects. Will you always be the dupe of a momentary gratifi cation, that makes you forget your eternal inter est? From the moment of your birth, death, like a raging lioness, pursues you. You have heard its roarings, and more than once has the thought of it frightened you. This earth, on which you sojourn, is a gulf, that swallows up all ; at the bottom of it is the abyss of hell and eter nity. The only stay to your fall is, the life of the body ; but this body is continually menaced by the jarring elements that compose it, which, without intermission, work its ruin and destruc tion. The duration of this body has its fixed term ; you cannot prolong it : and this duration is continually diminishing, and, if I may be al lowed the expression, gnawed by day and night, till the moment when the brittle tree at last breaks, and in its fall precipitates you into the abyss of eternity.

Is there, then, no means of escaping so ter rible a misfortune ? Certainly there is ; and the only care that ought to occupy you during life is, not to suffer it to slip out of your hands. Jesus Christ offers you his cross, as the Tree of Life, which alone can save you : attach your self to it, and you will escape all your ene mies. Dread the honey, which the world offers you. It is, to be sure, a present from heaven ; but fear, lest its sweetness intoxicate your heart,

The Coat of Arms of Martin V. 91

and make you forget the dangers that threaten you. Take no more of it than is necessary to support your strength, and to enable you to do penance, to give alms, to practise good works, to avoid hell, and merit everlasting life.

PARABLE XXIV. The Coat of Arms of Martin V.

POPE MARTIN the Fifth took for his coat of arms a blazing fire, which he got engraved on his seal, for the purpose of reminding him of three things :

1. The bonfires that were made at his corona tion ; which by their short duration, warned him that his dignity, glory, and life, were soon to have an end.

2. The fire of the last day, which is to destroy the whole world ; that universal conflagration, which is to consume tiaras, sceptres, crowns, and reduce all to ashes.

3. The fire of eternity, lighted by the breath of an angry God ; that fire, which is never ex tinguished; that burning furnace, where they, who shall have abused their authority, and the goods of this life, shall burn eternally ; that pool of brimstone, that place of torments, into which each sinner falls at his death.

Ah! had we but this seal well impressed on our heart, how many errors should we escape ? How many sins should we avoid ? With how many good works should we enrich ourselves.

92

PARABLE XXV.

The Algebraist.

A PHILOSOPHER, a great Algebraist, having heard a sermon on eternitj^, was not satisfied with it, any more than with the calculations and examples the preacher proposed. On his return home, he retired to his study, and began to think the mat ter over. He wrote down his thoughts on paper as they occurred, and as follows :

1. The finite, or that which has an end, com pared to the infinite, or to that which has no end, is a cypher, is nothing. A hundred millions of years, compared to eternity, are a cypher, are nothing.

2. There is more proportion between the least finite being and the greatest finite being, than there is between the greatest^/zmfe being and the infinite. There is more proportion between one hour and a hundred millions of years, than there is between a hundred millions of years and eter nity ; because the least finite makes part of the greatest finite, whereas the greatest finite makes no part of the infinite. An hour makes part of a hundred millions of years, because a hundred millions of years are but an hour repeated a cer tain number of times ; whereas a hundred mil lions of years makes no part of eternity, because eternity is not a hundred millions of years re peated a certain number of times.

3. With respect to the infinite, the smallest or the greatest finite is the same thing. With

The Algebraist. 93

regard to eternity, one hour, or a hundred mil lions of years, are the same thing. The duration of the life of a man, or the duration of the whole world, is the same thing, because one and the other is a cypher, is nothing ; and because nothing admits of neither more nor less. All this being evident and granted —

I now suppose, that God would grant you only a quarter of an hour's life, to merit a happy eter nity ; and revealed to you at the same time, that an hour after your death, the whole world would come to an end : I ask you, in this supposition, what value you would set on the world and its judgments? What would you think of the pains and pleasures, that you might experience during your life ? With what care would you not think yourself obliged to employ all the moments of your life for God, and to prepare for a good death ? Senseless man, do you not see that, with regard to God and eternity, the supposition I have just made, is a reality ? That the duration of your life, with regard to eternity, is less than a quarter of an hour ; and the whole duration of the uni- rerse, less than an hour ? — I will make another supposition.

If you had a hundred years to live, and were to have nothing for your support during all that time, but what you could carry home in an hour, from a treasure of gold and silver coin, to which you were to have free access, during that hour ; I ask you, in what would you employ the hour ? Would it be in sleep ? Would it be in loitering about, in idle talk, or vain amusements ? Cer tainly not ; but in storing up riches, and even in

94 The Algebraist.

loading yourself with gold preferably to silver. Senseless as we are ! we are to live throughout eternity ; and we shall have, during this eternity, nothing but the reward of the merits we shall have amassed during the short space of our life ; and yet we do not employ all this time in amassing merits ! But, you will say, one must, during life, sleep, eat, drink, and be allowed a little recrea tion. I grant it; but what hinders you from doing all these things, as St. Paul admonishes, for the love of God ? By doing this, you will make a merit of all.

It must be confessed, that our passions are so lively, and the occasions so seducing, that it is astonishing there should be one just man on the earth ; yet such there are : and this is the effect of the mercy of God, and the grace of a Re deemer. On the other side, death, judgment, and eternity, are truths so terrible, that it is as tonishing there should be a single sinner on the earth ; yet there are such : and it is the effect of the forgetfulness of these great truths. Let us, then, meditate, watch, and pray, that we may be of the number of the just, both in time and in eternity.

Such was our Philosopher's Sermon, that he made for himself; and he was so pleased with it, that he read it every day, and many times in the day. He did more ; he profited by it, and led a holy life, conformably to the great truths, which he had always before his eyes.

95

PARABLE XXVI.

The beautiful Julia.

JULIA was the only daughter of a gentleman in reduced circumstances : on account of the un common beauty of her person, she was surnamed the Beautiful. In her were assembled all perfec tions, as well of mind as of body : her character was unimpeachable. Her charms gained her a great many admirers ; but, owing to her poverty, none asked her hand in marriage, except the son of a rich farmer. The name of this farmer was Brechet ; but his son was most commonly called the Black, the Ugly, or the Wicked. All these names suited him very well, as they perfectly ex pressed the qualities both of his body and his mind. He was thick and short ; his legs were lank, and bent inwards ; he had a high chest, broad shoulders, a big head, dark complexion, and his face was much disfigured. On his left cheek he had a long scar, which he had received in a quarrel : the small pox had deprived him of his left eye, bleared his right, and left on his fore head a large scurf, disgusting to the sight. The qualities of his mind corresponded with those of his body. The young Brechet was vulgar, brut ish, choleric, quarrelsome, avaricious, insolent, proud, debauched, a swearer, a drunkard, jealous ; in a word, he had all the qualities, any single one of which would suffice to make a husband hate ful, and a wife miserable. Such was the man that wished to marry the beautiful Julia. No sooner

96 The beautiful Julia.

was the proposal made to her by her father, than she fainted away, and was with difficulty re covered. When she became tolerably composed, her father thus addressed her : " My dear Julia, you need not marry Brechet unless you like. I do not wish to force you to marry against your inclination : but you must think of getting a live lihood. We live on a very small pension, which will be discontinued at my death ; and what will become of you then ?" " Father," replied Julia, " I would rather die of hunger, and in misery, than marry such a monster. Heaven perhaps will have pity on me." Saying this, she shed a torrent of tears ; her father embraced her, and re tired to conceal his emotion, saying to her as he went out of the room : " Do not fear, my child ; nothing more shall be said about this marriage." In the mean time, young Brechet, confident of obtaining Julia's consent, boasted every where of his intended marriage; so that it became the common talk of the country. Passing from one to another, the news at last reached the court. The king's son, who was an accomplished prince, and expected to marry a relation of his, a prin cess, hearing what was said of Julia, was curious to see her. At the very first interview, he was smitten with her charms. The fairest characters are always objects of envy and defamation ; and this Julia experienced; for one of the courtiers, per ceiving the impression made on the prince's heart, ventured thus to address him : " It would be a great pity, Sir, should Julia, being so beautiful, have the faults with which people reproach her." " What faults ?" said the prince. " It is said,"

The beautiful Julia. 97

continued the courtier, " that she is very incon stant and fickle, that she is always running from house to house, and never at home." As love excuses every thing, the prince answered : " That is by no means surprising : Julia has nothing to keep her at home ; there she sees nothing but po verty and misery ; and she goes out to divert her thoughts, and to remove her uneasiness. Were she in a different situation, her conduct would be different." The prince, however, reflected on what had been said, and coming again to see Julia, he observed she was not at home when he arrived. Whilst the servant was gone to seek her, he entered into conversation with the father, and declared to him his intention of marrying his daughter, if she supported the trial he intended to put her to. Julia at length arriving, the prince addressed her thus : " I have just been asking you in marriage of your father ; but I told him, I wished first to put your love to the test." " My Lord," replied Julia, "the greater the trial the more agreeable will it be to me. Fire and sword resent no dangers which I would not face, to testify to you my gratitude arid love." " Fire and sword are out of the question," said the prince : " I have been twice to see you, and each time I have found you from home. This, then, is the trial I mean to make of your love : I must find you at home, the next time I come to see you ; and if I do, on that very day will I marry you, and take you to court with me. Thus I have settled matters with the king my father : but if, on that day, I do not find you at home, I will think no more of you, and marry another."

F

98

The beautiful Julia.

" And I," said the father, " will marry her to Brechet." " At this rate," said Julia, my hap piness is certain ; and for this, were it required of me to stop at home all my life, I would will ingly consent." The prince withdrew, and Julia was perfectly well satisfied.

You will easily guess, that the next day Julia did not go from home ; nor did she the second day, nor the third, nor the fourth : on the fifth, she just ventured out and back again; on the sixth, she ventured out for half an hour, and then returned ; on the seventh, she went out for an hour, and then hastened back; on the eighth, her father observing her going out, said to her : " Daughter, you go out too much : you forget what the prince said to you, and what you pro mised him : you do not seem to reflect, that your all is at stake." " Oh, father," answered Julia, " the prince will not come to-day ; but should he come, from our house we can see a great way up the road ; and I have taken care to recommend to the women, who are up stairs, to come and let me know, if the prince's equipage should come in sight : so I have nothing to fear." — " Daughter," replied the father, " the sure way would be to remain at home ; it is not safe to de pend on others ; and, in an affair of this conse quence, I certainly would not run any risk." Julia left him talking, and continued her walk.

Scarcely had she got through the gate, than from the top of the house the women descried the prince's equipage ; but, as they had seen Julia the moment before, they concluded she was not gone out, and therefore took no further notice.

The beautiful Julia. 9<?

The horses and carriages, however, approaching^ they call Julia, but Julia does not answer. They go into her room— into the garden — but no Julia is to be found. All is alarm and confusion ; Julia is from home — they hasten to the next house — but no Julia is there. While they are running here and there, the prince arrives ; and finding Julia absent, he enters his carriage again, and drives off. Julia returned in time to see the prince's equipage at a distance, as it returned.

All is lamentation and despair: Julia wrings her hands, and tears her hair — her father, frantic with rage, thus reproaches her : " Unhappy girl, why wast thou deaf to my admonitions ? Why didst thou run any risk in an affair of such conse quence ? Thou wilt be the death of me : but this evening shalt thou marry him, that I promised thee." " Ye§, I will marry him," said Julia ; " I have deserved it. He cannot make me suffer as much as I deserve. Send for him immediately, that I may marry him. We are worthy of each other." Brechet, a notary, and the curate, are immediately sent for : the marriage ceremony is performed, and Brechet takes the beautiful Julia home with him.

How deserving of compassion and tears is the fate of this wretched woman ! Her father did not long survive her disgrace : he died four days after of a broken heart. As for Julia, she lived long enough to repent her folly. Every one lamented her fate, though at the same time they could not but condemn her. Nay, she condemned herself, and, in her greatest afflictions, she ceased not to

100 The beautiful Julia.

exclaim : " I have well deserved this ;" and this it was that constituted her greatest torture.

The very day after their marriage, she appeared with her face disfigured from the blows given her by her brutal husband ; because, he said, she did not seem to rejoice on the occasion. Julia's health declined daily, and she became so altered, that she was not to be known again. Daily did she curse her fate, and wish for death ; but death re fused her prayer. What was still more melan choly, she became as ugly, as frightful, and as wicked as her husband, and was equally hated and detested. They were two demons, and their house was a perfect hell.

Christian soul, purchased by the blood of Jesus Christ, and washed in the waters of baptism, you are here represented by the beautiful Julia. You are not ignorant that the devil, that horrible and detestable monster, has pretensions to you, and that he flatters himself he shall one day have you united to him. The bare thought of this makes you shudder ; but this is not enough ; you must use every means in your power to prevent this union. You know likewise that the son of God, King of Heaven and Earth, demands you as his spouse ; that it is his intention to conduct you one day to his kingdom, there to share with you the delights of an eternal love. This you ear nestly desire, and wish it were now accomplished. But this will not suffice : you must shew yourself worthy of such a Spouse, and testify your love to him, by observing his laws, and supporting the trial he will put you to. The trial is not a dim-

The unfortunate Traveller. 101

cult one, but it is essential ; and it is necessary, when he comes to the marriage, and to take you with him to crown you, viz. at your death, that he should find you at home, that is to say, in the state of grace. Ah! put yourself into this state quickly : never leave it. Use every means to keep and strengthen yourself in it Avoid every thing that may be likely to draw you from it, though but for a moment. It is not enough to begin, or to continue for a time : you must per severe to the end till he come.

Be particularly careful not to trust to what you shall do at your death. Death gives no warning. It often comes on a sudden, and without our per ceiving it. If, at other times, it announces its coming by infirmities and sickness, he, for whom it comes does not perceive it ; and they, whose business it is to warn him, are often themselves deceived, or still oftener they are negligent and timid, and too often their warning comes too late. The number of those who daily die, without the help of the sacraments, ought to make us tremble.

PARABLE XXVII.

The unfortunate Traveller.

A YOUNG man crossing a forest, was attacked by a frightful monster, which on a lion's body carried seven serpent's heads. The animal, on leaving its den, made straight at him ; at the same time raising its seven heads, with eyes sparkling like fire ; and darting forth its seven tongues, it filled

F 2

102 The unfortunate Traveller.

the air with horrible hissings. The young man, who was powerful and courageous, was not dis concerted at the sight. Having no other arms than a hatchet, which he carried hanging from his waist, according to the custom of the country, he seized it, and rushed at the beast : at the first blow, he cut off four of its heads ; at the second, he cut off two ; and at the third, he would without difficulty have cutoff the last, and gained a complete victory, had not his hatchet, at the second blow, slipped out of his hand, without his having time to pick it up again: for the beast, enraged at the six wounds it had received, rushed furiously upon him, bit him, stung him, tore him, and carried him off. The wretched man struggled, but in vain : he called out for help, begging that some one would at least give him his hatchet ; but nobody heard him. The beast dragged him alive into its den, where he served as food for itself and its young ones.

The monster here mentioned, is the devil, and the seven heads are the seven capital sins, against which we must fight courageously with the arms of faith. It is not enough, to cut off six of this monster's heads : if we leave him one, we are un done. What does it avail us, to be exempt from many passions, if we keep and cherish one. It is, generally speaking, only one vice that damns a man. Examine if, in fighting this infernal lion, you have not left him one head : this one head is sufficient to devour you. Your victory is nothing, if not complete. You must persevere to the end ; you must fight till death. Do not tire during the struggle ; do not let the hatchet slip out of your

Agrippinas Expedient. 103

hands ; do not leave off prayer, the examination of your conscience, the sacraments, the practice of mortification and penance. The devil would avail himself of your negligence, to inflict on you a thousand wounds ; and should you die in that state, he would drag you along with him into the infernal abyss, where you would be eternally a prey to him, and a sport to all the infernal spirits. Vain then would be your groans ; in vain would you ask for help, and call back the time you might have lost, the graces you might have abused, the means of salvation you might have neglected ; nobody would hear you, and not one would be returned to you. Make then the best use of them, while you have the opportunity.

PARABLE XXVIII. Agrippinas Expedient.

AGRIPPINA, a Roman lady, observing that her son squandered his money in trifles, and lavished it indiscriminately, was anxious to correct him of so misplaced a prodigality, which she feared would terminate in the utter ruin of the family. To ef fect this, she made use of the following expedient. One day, having learnt the amount of a large sum that her son had expended, she put an equal sum upon a table in the room where she was sitting. The young man coming in the evening to enquire after his mother's health, and seeing this immense sum of money, eagerly asked what it was ? " It is," replied the mother, " what you have lost to^

104 The disgraced Courtiers.

day ; and having said this, she went out of the room, leaving her son to his reflections. These were so serious and so efficacious, that he was en tirely corrected.

If, in like manner, we should have placed un der one point of view the losses we suffer in one day by our negligence ; the graces, the merits, the eternal rewards that we neglect to acquire, by our own fault, we should be astonished : and per haps our astonishment might induce us to be less prodigal of so many graces, and to employ better a time, on the good employment of which depends the acquisition of immense blessings. How many occasions of exercising, for God, mildness, hu mility, patience, charity, mortification? Ah! did we but see what we lose each day, and what it would cost us so little not to lose ! — But we shall one day see it, when our loss will be irreparable. Why wait for this moment, and not now repair our loss, while we have it in our power ?

PARABLE XXIX. The disgraced Courtiers.

THERE are occurrences in life, which makes so much impression on the mind, that we must be placed in the same situation as those, on whom the effects have been produced, to believe the reality of such effects.

Philip II. King of Spain, while attending mass, observed two of his courtiers, who did nothing but talk during the whole of the sacrifice. On

Attachment of Tigranes and Berenice. 105

going out of the chapel, the king said to them : " Is it thus you hear mass ? Never appear at court again." This word was a thunderbolt to both. One died two days after, and the other lost his senses. How dreadful then will it be, to hear from the mouth of the King of Ages : " Go from me, ye cursed — go into everlasting fire."

PARABLE XXX.

The affectionate Attachment of Tigranes and Berenice.

CYRUS, king of the Persians, gained a great bat tle, in which Tigranes, king of Armenia,* was taken prisioner, with Berenice his queen. They were both brought into the presence of the con queror, who being struck with the charms of Be renice, and knowing at the same time how dear she was to Tigranes, thus addressed him : " What would you give, Tigranes, for the relief of Bere nice ?" " Sire," replied the king, " I would give my kingdom and my life." " You must, then, indeed, love her," said Cyrus, " and I praise your generosity."

Affairs coming shortly after to an accommodation, Tigranes was reinstated in his kingdom. Being one day alone with his Queen Berenice, he asked her what she thought of the kingdom of the Per-

* Armenia is a large, healthy, and very fertile country in Asia. The ark is supposed to have rested on Ararat, one of its mountains.

106 Attachment of Tigranes and Berenice.

sians, the majesty of King Cyrus, the magnificence of his court, the number of his officers, and the riches of his palace ? Berenice answered : " Ex cuse me, my Lord, I saw nothing : I had eyes only for him who offered his life for my liberty." " Ah ! my dear Berenice," exclaimed the king, embracing her, " how worthy are you of my love ! and how happy am I, while I love you, to have at the same time, a kingdom to share with you !"

The simple narration of this story charms and affects me : but when I apply it to the kingdom of heaven, and the faithful souls, it ravishes and transports me ; it raises and depresses me ; it con founds me, and animates me with fresh courage. Make, if you please, the application yourself, ac cording to the four following points.

I. The words of Tigranes, and the generosity of his love. Jesus Christ not only offered himself to die for us, but he did really die for our deli verance, not only from a temporal, but an eternal captivity, from eternal death, from eternal pu nishment: and not only for our deliverance, but to procure for us, at the same time, life eternal, and an everlasting kingdom. He died, not for an amiable spouse, worthy of love, but to render amiable her, who before was frightful, and to make her worthy of his love, at a time she deserved no thing but his hatred. O love inconceivable ! It cost Tigranes little to express these generous sen timents, because, while he declared the love he bore his wife, he gained honour before Cyrus and his court. But what did it not cost Jesus Christ to testify to us his love ? What did he meet with? Nothing but punishments and reproaches.

Attachment of Tigrancs and Berenice. 107

II. The impression which the speech of the king made upon the queen. It penetrated her very soul, it filled and inflamed her whole heart : she felt all the ardour, all the tenderness, all the value of a love so generous, and all the glory that ac crued to her, in consequence of this public declar ation. Oh! how much more ought you to be inflamed at the sight of the Cross ! What love ! what tenderness ! what generosity ! and for you, what happiness and glory !

III. The grateful feelings of Berenice. She was so effected by the speech of the king her hus band, that, during the whole time she was at the court of the king of Persia, she never forgot it ; her mind was always filled with it, to the exclu sion of every other thought ; no other affection touched her heart: no other object made any im pression on her senses. She would see nothing, she would hear nothing, that her whole time might be occupied with the love which constituted her happiness and her glory. Ah ! how does this reflection humble me ! happy those faithful souls, who have placed an impenetrable wall between themselves and the world, that they may be wholly occupied in retirement, with the love and the cross of their Saviour.

IV. The answer of Berenice to the king her husband. How pleasant, how honourable was it to her, to use the expression ! What happiness will it be to a faithful soul, which, on leaving this world, shall be able to say to the King of Hea ven : " Lord, in the world whence I come, I have seen nothing : I have had eyes only for him, who gave his life for my deliverance. I have

108 Beautiful Application of

loved nothing but him : I have thought of nothing but him; I have acted only for him.1 With what tender, what delicious feelings, will such fidelity receive its reward from the King of Ages, in the kingdom of eternal love.

PARABLE XXXI.

Beautiful Application of a Passage from Anacreon.

AMONG the young religious, whom the Abbot Eusebius was forming to habits of piety, there was one, named Felix, who had a highly culti vated mind, and who, while in the world, had taken great delight in reading profane poets. The remembrance of what he had read would some times disturb him in his solitude. Father Pan- timus, his head master, not being able to succeed in removing from the mind of his scholar the re mains of a pagan education, sent him before the abbot, that he might expel him the monastery as incorrigible. The abbot, aprudentman, seeing Fe lix bathed in tears, was moved with compassion. He comforted and encouraged him, and told him, that, though he could not expel from his mind such verses, he should, at least, try to apply them to some subject of piety and devotion; and that then, the distraction would be changed into a good thought, and become useful to him. Felix followed this advice, and was very comfortable for some time. But one day, not being able to spi ritualize some verses that obtruded themselves,

a Passage from Anacreon. 109

he went to the abbot, and said to him : " Father I am much afflicted : for two days my mind has been full of a passage from Anacreon, which I can neither expel from my memory, nor apply to any thing good." " What is the passage ?" asked the abbot. " The poet says," replied Felix, " that the God of Love had shot several flaming arrows at him, and that he had been able to parry them all without feeling their power ; but that this little cunning god at length, changing himself into an arrow, had got possession of his heart." He then adds : " and what means have I of defending my self against a god so formidable."

" Felix," replied the abbot, " hear me. The frequent recurrence of these profane recollections is occasioned by the esteem you hold them in, and the value you set upon them. Do you not see, my child, that all these pagan poetical ideas are nothing but error and falsehood ; that this God of Love is only an imaginary being, an un meaning word, invented by licentious poets, to excuse, to conceal, and even to embellish, if they could, the most shameful of all passions ? The true God of Love is the Creator of Heaven and Earth ; he, who, out of pure love, created you, and still preserves you : who became man for you ; who redeemed you at the price of his blood : who delivered himself up, and died for you. All these benefits are so many flaming darts, against which you have for a long ime, known but too well how to defend yourself. You see the wonderful in ventions of his love : you know into what this God of Love has changed himself, in order to enter your heart, to incorporate himself with you,

110 Beautiful Application, §c.

and to be but one with you. He has not changed himself into an arrow, like Cupid, to inflict on your heart a cruel and dishonourable wound ; to pierce it with a thousand griping cares, and to distract it by a thousand contrary affections ; af fections base, shameful, and desperate : but he has veiled himself under the most simple elements, under the form of bread and wine, to be your food, your strength, your consolation ; to raise you to himself, arid to make you partaker of his divine nature, his happiness and glory. This, Felix, is the true God of Love. Now, then, cry out : " What means are there of defending one's self against a God so powerful and so lovely ?"

At these words, the young man threw himself at the abbot's feet, and watering them with his tears, he cried out : " I acknowledge, great God, my too long opposition, but at length I yield to this last dart of thy love." From that time he thought no more of the profane poets, who sing only imaginary gods, contemptible demons, and shameful passions. The finest passages of those licentious songs, which he had admired, and called divine, now became hateful to him. He hence forth took delight only in the Psalms, the sacred Hymns of the Church, and other spiritual Can ticles, which extol the true God, and inspire no other sentiments than those of that pure, tranquil, and delicious love, which now constitutes, and which will for ever constitute our happiness, and promote his glory. The recollection of the be nefits of God, and particularly of the Holy Eu charist, filled his soul. When he was in the pre sence of the Holy Sacrament, or even elsewhere,

The King of Castile, fyc. Ill

he was often heard to cry out : " What means are there of defending one's self from a God so great and so good, who even comes down to us, and enters, and dwells within us ?"

a

Tr

PARABLE XXXII.

The King of Castile,* or the favourable opportunity.

SUINTILA, King of Castile, hunting one day, rambled from his guards. After having wandered about for a long time, at last, about dusk, he met two good-looking young men walking in the fo rest. Their names were Gaspard and Castro: they were cousins, and lived at two neighbouring villages. " Young men," said the king as he ap proached them, without however making himself known to them, " pray set me right : I am lost in this forest ; shew me the road out of it, arid 1 me where I can have a lodging for the night. To-morrow, I am going to court, where I have a considerable interest. If one, or both of you, will accompany me thither, I promise you wealth and preferment." Gaspard spoke first, and made him this reply : " We can easily shew you out of this forest, and provide you with a lodging ; but as for going with you to court, 1 at least feel no inclination." " Well, my Lord," replied Castro, " accompany me home, and to-morrow morning,

* Castile, (New) a Province of Spain, of which Ma drid is the capital.

112 The King of Castile, or

if my father will give his consent, I will go with you, aud entrust myself entirely to your care and protection." Hereupon they separated ; Gaspard went home, and Castro conducted the king to his father's. They gave the stranger the best enter tainment the house afforded, though they had not the smallest idea who he was ; and in the morn ing the father, after long opposition, at length consented to his son's departure. The king, in company with Castro, had not proceeded a quar ter of a league, before he met his guards. Castro shewed his surprise at their saluting him as their king : which the king observing, he turned to him with a smile, and said : " You see, Castro, I did not deceive you, when I told you I had some in terest at court." " No, Sire," replied Castro ; " but I fear I have been deceived, in giving you the whole affection of rny heart, as to my friend, when I ought to have paid you all due respect, as to my king." " I receive respect enough," rejoined the king, " but I do not know whether I have any affection on which I can depend, be side that of Castro : so continue it to me, and follow me." The king loaded him with honours and riches, and always kept him near his person as his confidential friend.

In the mean time, all the villagers were busy in reflecting on the credulity of old Castro, who had, they said, turned his son over to an adven turer. His relations and friends blamed him for it ; and he reproached himself most bitterly. On the other hand, they extolled the prudence of young Gaspard, and congratulated his father upon his having such a son. Shortly after, they were

the favourable opportunity. 113

informed by a letter from Castro, that it was the king himself that he had followed ; and when they saw the magnificent present which the king had sent to Castro's father, they altered their senti ments, and changed their reproaches into admir ation. Every one now rejoiced with and con gratulated Castro, while poor Gaspard was all chagrin and sorrow : and a war that broke out soon after, rendered his situation still more dis tressing.

A great number of troops being required to prosecute the war, all the young men of the country were enrolled, and Gaspard saw himself obliged to serve as a common soldier. How many hardships had he not to undergo in this war? But of all his troubles, none was so dis tressing as this thought, which was always upper most in his mind : " While I am dying here of hunger, fatigue, and ill usage, Castro is at court, at his ease, in honour, and plenty : and I should now be there with him, had I embraced the op portunity, as he did."

But, as if this thought had not been enough to depress him, his eyes too must add to his torment, and engrave for ever on his mind the sad remembrance of his misfortune. The king ordered a review of his troops : he was seated un der a canopy, with Castro at his side. As the troops were filing off, Gaspard saw Castro, and Castro saw Gaspard. " Kad I followed the king," said Gaspard to himself, " I should now be with Castro." " Had I not followed the king," said Castro to himself, " I should now be like Gas-

114 2 he King of Castile, $c.

pard." O heart-rending thought for the one ! O consoling reflection for the other !

Are we not all one day to appear before the immortal King of Ages ? What will be the hap piness of having followed him ? What the misery of not having done so ? The opportunity of fol lowing him, and attaching ourselves to him, we yet have ; but we shall soon be deprived of it. Shall we suffer it to escape ? Ah ! let us rather employ well what remains.

Nothing is so distressing, as to have lost the opportunity either of avoiding some great evil, which we now actually suffer, or acquiring some great good, of which we see ourselves deprived. The mind is always recurring to it, and cannot be at rest. On the contrary, nothing is more ra vishing, than to see ourselves either delivered from some great evil, or arrived at the possession of a great good, by having embraced the proper opportunity, when it presented itself, of avoiding the one, or acquiring the other.

Our present life is given us as a great and fa vourable opportunity of avoiding the sovereign evil of hell, and of acquiring the sovereign hap piness of heaven. This opportunity once gone by, never returns more. This grand oppor tunity comprises many small ones. Each day is a favourable opportunity to us of avoiding hell, and of gaining heaven ; and each day has, be sides, a thousand particular opportunities of avoid ing^ evil, and of practising virtue. In like man ner, each state, each profession, each condition, is for\is a favourable opportunity. So likewise,

Peter the Weak. 115

whatever is, whatever happens, whatever we see in this life, w for us a fine opportunity. Poverty and riches, sickness and health, joy and grief, good examples and scandals, pains and pleasures : in a word, every thing is for us a fine opportunity. Temptations even, and the occasions of sin, which we have not sought, are for us a fine opportunity of testifying our fidelity to God. O miserable they, who have suffered so many opportunities to pass by, without profiting by them ! They will have them no more. Thrice happy they who have profited by them, and who are no longer in any fear of being exposed to the danger of abusing them.

PARABLE XXXIII. Peter the Weak.

A COUNTRYMAN, named Peter, who had never travelled out of his native village, received intel ligence of the death of his only brother in the chief town of the province : and as his brother had died possessed of very considerable property, and without issue, he was told that he must, as being heir to the estate, proceed thither with all speed, to take possession of it. Accordingly one fine morning, Master Peter takes his stick, and sets off. He had not gone two leagues before he came to a river : it was the first he had ever seen in his life : at home there were no other streams than those caused by sudden and violent showers, which pass away as quickly as they are formed. At the first sight of this broad and deep river,

116

Peter the Weak.

" Bless me," exclaimed he, " what a deal of wa ter ! It must have rained a great deal here, since we at home are complaining of drought. I have heard it said, that the weather is not the same every where. See, how one learns by travelling ! But, what must be done?" continued he. " I shall certainly be obliged to wait till the water is all run away.'* That it would soon flow away he was persuaded, because it flowed so fast, and because the river a little higher up, forming an easy an gle, seemed to him to become gradually narrower. Quite satisfied, our good man seated himself, and The boatman, observing him from the opposite side of the river, rowed to him, and asked him if he wished to pass the river ? " Yes," answered the countryman. " Well, then," replied the other, " step into the boat." « Oh ?" said Peter, '* I am not in such a hurry, as to wish to expose ray life in your boat." " I have time enough, I can wait." " As long as you please," answered the boatman angrily, who thought the fellow was patiently waited for the river to roll away its waters, jeering him. In the mean time, other passengers came up, got into the boat, and were ferried over. Peter was surprised at their temerity, and still continued waiting for the water to run off, that he might pass comfortably; but the river kept running on.

He waited thus till evening, when he came to a resolution of putting off his journey till next day ; and he returned home, not doubting but the river would then be dry. The next day he re turned, and the river was still flowing. He came again three days after, and the river flowed as

Peter the Weak. 117

before. " I am sure," said he, " there is some witchcraft here : I see plainly, this property is not for me." In his pet, he surrendered all his right to his cousin James, who gladly seized the oppor tunity, passed the river in the boat, got possession of the property, and returned to his village, where he ever after lived in affluence and ease ; while Master Peter remained in his hut and in his mi sery, and received nothing from his inheritance but the surname of " The Weak ;" for, from the time that his adventure became known, he always received the name of " Peter the Weak.''

Who would imagine that the greater part of men, with respect to their celestial inheritance, are guilty of a folly similar to that of this coun tryman? Yet, such is the case: examine but sinners, and all those who lead an unchristian or careless life, and'you will find that they all wait for the river to flow away. At first, they wait for youth to pass, and the heat of their passions to cool ; then they wait till they are comfortably set tled ; then again, for such a trouble to be over ; for such an affair to be terminated : and thus they are always waiting for a suitable time to give themselves to God ; and they never find it. They wait for every obstacle to their salvation to be re moved, and for such to pass away as do present themselves : and this is waiting for the river to flow away. Obstacles to salvation are continually succeeding one another, and form an everlasting stream, whose source is never dried up. We must pass[over these obstacles ; we must proceed in spite of them ; it is by means of them we must advance.

See, how many pass the river, and continue an

G 2

118 The Philosopher s Stone.

their journey. Imitate them ; begin from this day. If you put off ; if you wish for a more favourable opportunity, you wait for the river to flow away. How foolish ! another will supplant you ; and you will have the mortification of seeing him in pos session of an inheritance intended for you.

PARABLE XXXIV. The Philosopher's Stone.

AMONG several other passengers in a boat, were a merchant named Traffic, and two Capuchin Fri ars, the one a lay brother, called Eudes. These three were going to a sea port, in order to embark for America; the former to seek his fortune, the latter to devote themselves to the labours of the mission. No sooner had the boat set sail, than the merchant, to amuse the company, thus ad dressed himself to Father Anthony: "There needs but very little to make a Capuchin of me. I have made three voyages to America, and each time I returned as poor as I went. I have neither wife nor money ; what then hinders me from becoming a friar ?" " Since there is so little impediment," said Father Anthony, " you ought to go through with what you propose." " Certainly," said the pilot. " Hold," replied the merchant ; " I will first make another voyage, and I may perhaps meet with better success. How happy are they," continued he, " who are in possession of the phi losopher's stone ! They make their fortune at once, and without trouble." " If there is nothing

The Philosophers Stone. 1 1 9

but that wanting to make you happy," said the father. " I can give it you, if you desire it." "De sire it!" replied the merchant eagerly ; "certainly I do ; to be possessed of it, would be the summit of my wishes ; pray give it me," he continued, at the same time holding out his hand. This raised the curiosity of all present; — all was si lence and attention, in the hope of seeing that fa mous stone, the imaginary source of all riches. " But," said the father, " first tell me of what sort you will have it." "Are there various sorts?" asked Traffic. " Yes," said the friar, " there are some that change into silver, and others that change into gold." " Oh !" replied Traffic, " give me that which changes into gold." "Right," said the Father, "always make it a point to choose the best. "But," continued he, "you must choose again ; for there are some, that change into gold for two years, for one year, or for six months ; and there are others, that change for ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred years." " Give me still the best," said Traffic, "the one, which turns into gold for a hundred years." " And do you expect to live a hundred years longer?" said the Father. " No," replied the merchant ; " but what does that signify ? The gold itself will last a hundred years ; and I can make use of it as Jong as I live." " But," said the father, " suppose I were to give you one that possessed the property, not only of changing into gold for a hundred years, but of prolonging your life for the same term." " Oh ! my good Sir," said Traffic earnestly, " pray do give me that." " Still," said the father, "'after that period, you must at length die." " I am well

120 The Philosopher's Stone.

persuaded of that," answered the merchant; "but then I shall have enjoyed a long life, and a com fortable one too." " By what I see," said Father Anthony, " you are not only attached to life, but fond also of a happy life. I pity you much, and must give you the real philosopher's stone, that which changes all into gold, not for any limited time, but for ever ; and which will procure for you immortality.'' " In what does that consist ?" asked Traffic. "It consists," replied the Father, " in doing all your actions for God ; in suffering whatever may befal you, in submission to his will; and in directing your attention to his glory and love. This holy love turns all into gold, and that for ever; and will secure to you life eternal." " Ah! said Traffic, " I perceive you are banter ing me. This is not the gold I mean : I want something more sounding and more solid." "How DOW !" said the Father, " do you then think, that what endures for ever is not more solid, than that which lasts but for a moment ; — and that the goods, which procure you a happy and never-end ing life, are not of more value than those, which so far from being able to avert death, cannot even ensure you one single day of life or health." "All that is very good," said the merchant ; " but we do not all choose to be paid in that coin." They had now reached the port ; and the boatman came, and demanded of each passenger his fare.

As soon as they had landed, the passengers se parated, and the two Capuchins walked off to gether. Brother Eudes, having now an opportu nity of expressing his sentiments on the subject of the late conversation, thus addressed Father

The Philosopher's Stone. 121

Anthony: "Truly, Father, you have given us an excellent Philosopher's Stone. What use Mr. Traffic will make of it, I do not know ; but for my part, I am determined to profit by it at all times." "You will do well," said Father An thony ; " but at the same time, you must pray for Mr. Traffic; for he listened to me with so much attention, that I have great hopes of him." " I understand," said Brother Eudes, " by what you said, that doing our actions for a good end, is changing them into silver : for example, prac tising good works, and giving alms, to efface one's sins, or to obtain the grace not to fall into them again, is gaining silver ; but that, to do these things for the love of God, is gaining gold.'' "My dear Brother," answered Father Anthony, " the motive of the love of God does not exclude other motives : in doing an action out of a particular motive, such, for instance, as the effacing of sin, you need not stop there, but go farther, and wish to efface your sins for the love and glory of God, and for the sanctification of his holy name ; and then all will be changed into gold. Every thing, even our sanctification, and perfection, ought to be referred to God." " Ah ! now," said the Bro ther, " I understand how it is, and see my ignor ance in this affair, for want of instruction : but from henceforth I will refer every thing ultimately to the love and glory of God." Discoursing in this manner, they arrived at the vessel, and em barked for America.

Four years after, affairs of the mission obliged

Father Anthony to return to Europe. At the first

. Capuchin Convent that he arrived at, he was sur-

122 Mary Anne, or

prised at the porter running to him, and saying, as he embraced him : " Ah ! Father Anthony, how glad I am to see you again !" — " To see me," said Father Anthony : " I do not recollect ever having seen you before : who are you ?" " I am,'* replied Brother Francis, " porter of the convent." " I know you no better for that," said the Father. " I did, however, sail down the river in the same boat with you." Then the Father, looking atten tively at him. "Are you then Mr. Traffic?" " The very person ; he, to whom you gave the Philosopher's Stone. This occupied all my thoughts, after I left you ; and instead of going to America, I came to this convent, where I gained admittance, and where I daily endeavour to profit by the Philosopher's Stone." The reli gious all assembled to receive Father Anthony, and Brother Francis related to them his history ; by which they were all much edified, and animated more than ever to do and suffer all for the love of God. Let us animate ourselves to this holy, sweet, and advantageous practice: it is true riches; it is the Philosopher's Stone.

PARABLE XXXV. Mary Anne, or the Orphan preferred.

A GENTLEMAN named Ralph, being left a widow and without children, as he was in the decline of life, retired to one of his estates, there to devote himself to the practice of good works, and the care of his salvation. It was his daily custom,

the Orphan preferred. 123

at a certain hour, to have soup, meat, bread, and money, carried into a large hall, where he distri buted them himself to all the poor that presented themselves. Among these was a young girl eleven years old, named Mary Anne, who always kissed the hand of her benefactor on receiving the alms. As she was the only one that thus testified her gratitude, Ralph could not but notice her ; and he was careful to give her always a larger portion than the rest. On a closer view, he discovered that, though covered with rags, she was very handsome. " This child," said he to himself, " must be possessed of noble sentiments, from the manner in which she testifies her gratitude, and I will be her friend. But yet, I think it will be proper to try her." The next day Mary Anne came, as usual, to receive an alms. Ralph served every body but her ; and she being left with him alone in the hall, he said: " I have nothing, child, for thee — all is given away." Mary Anne, how ever, kissed his hand as before. "Very well," thought Ralph ; but determined to make another trial of her. The day following, he passed her by again ; and when all was distributed, and she alone remained, assuming a look of displeasure, he told her abruptly, that there was nothing left for her. The child, for all that, did not fail to advance and kiss his hand. Ralph was charmed. " I can hardly find in my heart," said he, " to put her to another trial : however, if she sustain a third trial, there is nothing I will not do for her." The next day, the same ceremony took place : Mary Anne was passed by, and the rest were all served and gone. •< Child/' said Ralph, « there

124 Mary Anne, or

is nothing left for you even this time." She ad vanced as before, and kissed his hand. Ralph be ing no longer able to sustain so much goodness, thus addressed her : " My dear little girl, follow the servants into the kitchen, and they will give you your dinner." " Sir, it is not so much on my own account that I ask alms, as for the support of a good old woman who brought me up, and with whom I live. I would much rather, Sir, not dine, if you would have the goodness to order your servants to give me something for her." " Well," replied Ralph, " go and get your dinner : I have something to say to you, and you shall take some dinner for your good woman." Mary Anne having dined, he came into the kitchen to her ; and being seated, he called her to him and said ; " Mary Anne, what did you think of me the two last days, when I gave you nothing ?" " Sir," said she, " I did not think any thing." " How can that be ? — But you must positively tell me what your thoughts were : I insist upon it." " As you exact it, Sir, I will tell you. I thought, if it happened by chance, that such was the will of God, and that I ought to bear it with patience : but if on the contrar}^ you, Sir, did it designedly, it was for my good, and that you had your intentions, and that these intentions would be to my advantage." " But," rejoined Ralph, " on the second day, when I appeared an gry, and spoke sharply to you, what did you then think ?" " That, Sir, confirmed me in the opi nion that you did it designedly: I was well satis fied, and entertained still greater hopes." " Is it possible," exclaimed Ralph,.lookii>g at his servants.

the Orphan preferred. 125

who were listening to this conversation, " is it possible, that a child of her age should have such thoughts ?" " But," added he, turning to the little girl, suppose I had continued to do so for a long time ?" " I should, Sir," said she, " have still hoped." " Go, my dear child," said Ralph ; " take your good old woman some dinner, and tell her I wish afterwards to speak with her ; that she must come hither, and you along with her."

It is unnecessary to enter into a detail of what happened afterwards ; the relation would appear too much like romance. Suffice it to say, that Ralph learned from this woman, that Mary Anne was daughter of a gentleman of his acquaintance, who had died of chagrin at the loss of a law-suit, which his wife's heirs had carried on against him to his ruin. Ralph provided for the good old wo man, educated Mary Anne in a manner suitable to her condition, loved her as if she had been his own child, and some years after married her to his nephew, making her heiress to his estate.

How affecting is this story ! Let us consider it for a moment, and draw from it some instructions. In the goodness of Ralph, we see a faint image of the benefits of God, and of his designs over us ; and in the conduct of Mary Anne, we see what ours ought to be with regard to God. God gives abundantly to all ; let us thank him. If he gives to some more than to you, still thank him. In all the afflictions he may send you, be persuaded that he has his designs ; that they are all for your ad vantage ; and kiss the hand that chastises you. St. Paul gives us an excellent abridgment of a spi ritual life, when he tells us to thank God for all

126 The Microscope.

things, through our Lord Jesus Christ. Our in gratitude dries up the fountain of those graces and favours, which the Almighty would otherwise be stow upon us. " Know ye not," says St. Peter, " that a heavenly inheritance is the fruit of your patience ?" If then, you aspire at this happiness, be grateful. Gratitude will make God your Fa ther, Jesus Christ your Spouse, and Heaven your inheritance.

PARABLE XXXVI. The Microscope.

CARDINAL SFRANDATUS, a celebrated writer of the Benedictine Order, relates a curious fact that happened at the death of a German Jesuit. This Jesuit, whose name was Tanner, a man both pious and learned, was going from Prague* to In- spruck,f in hopes his native air would establish his health. Unable, however, to bear the fatigue of the journey, he died in a village on the road. The magistrate of the place immediately repaired to the house, and in taking an inventory of his luggage, found a little box, the extraordinary structure of which made it appear mysterious and suspicious ; for it was black, and composed of wood and glass. But how great was the surprise and astonishment, on the first who looked through the glass at the top, drawing back in affright, and

* A city of Germany, and capital of the kingdom of Bohemia, f A town of Germany, capital of the Tyrolese.

The Microscope. 127

exclaiming : " I renounce thee, Satan." The same effect was produced upon all that were hardy enough to look through the glass. The fact was, they saw in the box a living animal, black, enor mous, and frightful, of immense length, and with threatening horns. The terror was universal, and no one seemed to know what to think of so horrible a monster ; when a young gentleman, who had just finished his course of philosophy, observed to the assembly, that the animal which was in the box was much bigger than the box itself; that in the present instance, the contained was larger than the container, which was contrary to every prin