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the orphan, and teach him to offer masses for the souls of his parents.

At first, I have heard, the monks were sorely puzzled how to handle or what to do with me. An especial convocation was convened, in which it was determined to feed and cherish me as they would any other young and tender thing; and, after being baptized, I was assigned to the guardians of the hospital, with a room for my special use. But, one after another, the patience of the holy men was wearied out with my ceaseless cries and complainings, until it was resolved to commit me to the keeping of a respectable peasant woman in our village, called Magdalis Schröder. With her I grew to a healthy and merry boy, but the good monks always insist that the suavity of my temper at present is nothing less than a miracle, considering that so unmanageable and ill-natured a babe was never

seen.

In my youth I had occasionally strong desires to see something of the world beyond our valley, that before my profession I might know what I was renouncing; but the brotherhood always withheld me, saying that such a wish was like Eve's desire to be made wise by eating of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil-that in the world nothing was to be learnt but evil, and in the convent the knowledge of good. Their will was everything to me, and I unresistingly acquiesced; but I have often since thought that the evil lies nearer home, and that if I had to choose, I would not fly for refuge to a monastery. But what am I saying? The holy Benedict pardon me! All I mean is, that if, as they say, the earth is the same everywhere, as the heart certainly is, perhaps the Heavens are also the same, and as near. I say this to Mother Magdalis sometimes, when she groans under her burdens and cares; yet, for myself, I have no wish to change. Here I have lived, and here, if the Lord and the Abbot will it so, will I die.

Nevertheless, I was not always so content. At one time, when I was young, my heart felt strong, and fluttered for freedom, as the Prior's birds flutter in the spring, or as the young buds throw off their casings in the forest on an April morning, and tremble and open in the sun and the warm winds.

I used to go often and visit my foster-mother. She is a widow, but she has two children-the best, she says, a poor widow ever had. It is true, Karl is a little wrong-headed and fiery now and then, but Nannerl, certainly every

one must agree there are not many like her. It was not because of her large violet-blue eyes, and her fresh colour, like a rose-if a rose could change hue as she does (of such things I am no judge)--she was a strong and healthy maiden, and that is enough-but for truth and goodness, and singleness of heart, I never saw any like her. She was like a manuscript of a Psalm of thanksgiving, illuminated all round with holy images in fair colours, so joyous and in harmony. I often thought, when I looked at her, of the blessed words, "If thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light" so full of light, pleasant, cheering, fireside light was she within and without. I never passed her mother's cottage any morn ing, how early soever-and I passed it oftenbut she was up before me, getting her brother's breakfast, or doing her mother's work, with her bright morning face, and her pleasant words.

Now it came to pass, when I went one evening to the cottage with a basket of broken meat from the Abbey, I thought they all seemed happier than usual; Nannerl's face was brighter than ever, but it seemed to be shining with some hidden joy. At length, when she left the room to put aside the con tents of the basket, Mother Magdalis told me there was to be a wedding in the familyyoung Hans Reichardt, the Abbey carpenter, had asked Nannerl's hand. They had, she said, liked one another long; and before many weeks they would probably be coming to the Abbey church together.

I could not exactly comprehend why Mag dalis should make such a festival of this; I could not tell why, but I had never much admired young Reichardt, yet I congratulated them all as honestly as I could.

"It is a good providence," said my fostermother. "I am old, and the children have no father, and it is a blessed thing for them to have a home."

Nannerl's face glowed with quiet pleasure when I wished her joy of her new prospects. I did feel glad at their joy, but somehow I was less at home there that evening than I had ever been before-I felt left out of the circle. Hans Reichardt came to see his bride, and I took my departure early. Mother Magdalis's words rang in my ears, "It is a blessed thing to have a home." Home!-the word came to my heart with a new meaning that evening. It means very much; and for the first time I felt this the convent could never be; a shelter

from wind and rain it might be a refuge for the weary-a refectory for the hungry-a place to eat and sleep and live in-but home meant something more.

Who had shut me out from this? Who had a right to say that this world, this holy thing, might never be mine?

For many days these things rankled in my heart; and sad havoc they made there. Till then, I had not a want beyond the convent walls and the society of the brethren: now, my heart had looked beyond the old walls, and they girded me in like a prison. I was not then bound by any vows, and it was well.

I did not venture to tell any of the brethren what I felt; I did not believe it to be sin, but I knew they would all misunderstand me.

This lasted until one of our evening Scripture readings; for in our convent we still adhere to the rule of reading through a portion of the Scriptures in the winter evenings. I seated myself among the rest, prepared to be once more a weary listener to the oft-told tale. (Alas! how little I knew of its blessed meaning!) The reader stood at his desk, intoning the words in his lulling sing-song; the appointed monk went his rounds with the lantern, to see that none of us fell asleep. The monotonous voice of the reader-the uniform tread of the lantern-bearer-the monotonous recurrence of convent duties-all grated like so many instruments of torture on my impatient heart. In health, we do not notice habitual sights and sounds; but in a fever, the slow dropping of water from the eaves seems at each fall to eat into the brain. And this, I thought, is to be for life! My heart sickened and sank under the intolerable burden of countless to-morrows, all like to-day. And beside this weary circle of fruitless toil arose the haunting thought of home--fresh springs of love, ever fresh-life, growing, widening, deepening, day by day, around us, and all centring in that inner sanctuary of love, the home.

I was aroused from my dreams and murmurs by some words from the Gospel, which fell on my ear suddenly, as if I heard them for the first time:

"For even the Son of Man came not to be ministered untó, but to minister, and to give His life a ransom for many."

For the first time, the idea of self-sacrifice came to me with all the exalted joy the thought can bring the thought of laying down myself,

my life, for others. I arose from that evening reading strengthened and refreshed, for I had a purpose and life is never quite barren to us if we have one living purpose to sow in it, to grow and to bring forth fruit.

The thought of His life took possession of me. I longed, I prayed, I strove to be made like Him-the holy Child Jesus-like Him who went about doing good.

I made a collection in the convent, to furnish Nannerl's house-I laboured in the convent garden to rear vegetables for the sick-I travelled leagues through the pine forests, in the frost and snow, to visit them; but the more I read of the life of Jesus, the more unattainable the perfect Model seemed. Are not the stars as far from the mountains as from the valleys? The more I heard of the law of God, the more I saw how far it carried its claims upon the heart; and the heart was precisely the thing which all my efforts could not reach.

I could labour for the sick, I could toil and plead for Nannerl and her husband, but I could not expel the repining thought from my heart when I came back from her bright fireside to these dull, cold, convent walls.

But yet again God came to me and completed the work He had begun. The second part of my text healed the wound the first had made. How strange it was that I did not see it all at once:

"The Son of Man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give His life a ranson for many.”

The ransom is needed-for whom? Surely, for the sentenced criminal-for those who, not being able to fulfil the perfect law, can read in it nothing but their condemnation-that is, for me. The ransom is paid-for whom? Surely for those who need it. The ransom is paid; then the prisoner is free. I am free! "There is now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus." It is faith in this which gives strength to walk, not in the flesh, but in the Spirit.

From that time my whole life has been changed. Jesus, the Son of God, the Lamb of God, our Ransom, our Pattern, our Friend, He has redeemed me-I am His, and His cause is mine. The self-denial, which had been impossible as a sacrifice of expiation, became the joy of my life as a sacrifice of thanksgiving. With the eye of Him who died for us-and, dying, saved us-watching our lives, what is not possible? I learned that, before we can be

servants of God, we must be made children of God.

Since then, I have lost those restless yearnings for an earthly home. I have a home in Heaven, and my Father has sent me hither, for a little while, to call more of His children to Him, and to minister to all who need: thus journeying, and singing as I go, I am hastening homeward. I am happy, and can rejoice heartily in the happiness of Nannerl and Reichardt. In the convent, as well as else. where, we can bear one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.

And, perhaps, in this tumultuous world, it is well that there should be some set apart on high, so that the strife and eager chases of the present may sound to them faint as those of the past, with no seasons but the seasons of heaven; like church-towers rising above the common homes of men, yet echoing with deep tones their joys and sorrows, and telling them, amidst their toils and pleasures, how the time -is passing.

Yet, if any ask my advice as to leading a religious life, I usually say, "My child, in your home you are sure God has placed you. There He is sure to bless you. Be quite sure that He calls you away before you change. He knows what work to give His servants, and in good time He is sure to let them know."

April 13.-S. Justin, Martyr.

I am just returned from a preaching tour amongst the villages of the forest (anciently called of Odin), with two choristers and a deacon, to celebrate the mass, and preach the Easter sermons.

Much grieved at discovering in some of the peasants' houses a superstitious reverence and fear of the old heathen gods (or demons)—the people in many places using pagan charms and incantations against them, and even endeavouring to propitiate them with wheaten cakes and other offerings. I told them that either the old gods and goddesses were nothing, and therefore could do nothing either for or against them: or they were fiends, and God was stronger than they; and that, when affrighted at night, or in lonely places, they should have recourse to prayer and to the sign of the holy cross. Some places, where the apparitions and wicked demons seem to have been more than commonly malignant, I purified and exorcised, sprinkling them with holy water. Nevertheless, in my sermons, and at all times, I told the people, that it is only sin which gives the devil

power over us, and that none but those whose hearts are turned to God, through hearty repentance and true faith, are safe anywhere. I mourn much that these things are not oftener proclaimed by our brethren; also, that they have given the peasants images of saints in stead of their old gods-which they often confound, in their blindness, in a very profane

manner.

As we went on our way, I and my com panions made the woods resound, from time to time, with Psalms and holy hymns, thus lightening the way; and thus also, towards nightfall, effectually keeping the powers of darkness avaunt, the deacon Theodore being of somewhat a fearsome spirit. At other times, I meditated on some holy text, the theme of my next day's discourse, refreshing myself with the living bread wherewith I afterwards fed the people. At night, we cut down branches from the trees, and made palisades around our beasts of burden, which carried the holy vessels and vestments; lighting watchfires, also, to scare away wild beasts and other evil things.

Once I awoke at dead of night, hearing a strange rustling amongst the fir twigs which covered the ground, and a cracking of boughs, mingled with stifled, unearthly cries. Moreover, by the moonlight, which came down in strange and shifting patterns on the bare trunks, and on the ground, I perceived some dark object flitting rapidly away amongst the distant pine-stems. Whereat I arose, and, stirring the watchfires, commenced singing the fourth Psalm in a loud voice. When I had concluded the last verse, crossing myself on brow and breast, I laid me down in peace and slept.

In the morning our best ass was gone. With out it we could scarcely proceed, the other beasts being slow-paced and old; yet without it we feared to return, the creature being a favourite with our lord the Abbot. Wherefore, kneeling down, we laid our trouble before God, pleading that it was His errand on which we were journeying, and telling Him of our sore need; our lord the Abbot being withal a man of a hasty spirit. How marvellously He heard the prayers of His servants, the sequel will show.

A few days thereafter, I preached in a cer tain village, on the commandments, dwelling, amongst the rest, on the sin of theft. Great power was present to smite the consciences of the hearers. Many wept, and before the close of my sermon one came forth, and before

them all cried out, "Lay on me what penance you will. It is I who stole the Abbot's ass."

The whole assembly were greatly moved, and would have fallen on the thief, but, hastily descending from the pulpit, I went to him, and as he knelt before me, I said,

"Thou seest, my son, that the eyes of the Lord are in every place, seeing in the darkness of the pine forest at midnight, as in the assembly at midday. Thou canst not fly from Him, for He is everywhere; thou needest not fly from Him, for He is ready to forgive. It is because thou hast not known His grace, that thou hast despised His law. But, if now thou repentest, and with thine heart believest, I, although a sinner as thou art, absolve thee from thy sin." He had been a very fierce robber, the terror of the neighbourhood.

After the service he brought the ass to the door. As I left the place, the people thronged around us to seek my blessing; and lifting up my hands I blessed them, many weeping and kissing my hands. But I turned and said, "Mourn not, my brethren, that ye see me no more; but look, I pray you, to Him whose arms were stretched out on the cross to save you-whose hands are lifted up always to bless you. Look to Him!"

The robber went forth with us, although the deacon Theodore much misliked his company. He spoke not a word for many miles, walking, with head bowed down, at my ass's head.

At last, as it grew dusk, and we were entering on a thick part of the Odenwald, said to be infested with plunderers, brother Theodore came to my side and whispered,—

"Were it not better to send this man away? He may have too many friends here."

But I answered, in the words of the wise king, "The hearts of men are as the rivers of water; He turneth them whithersoever He will.' Let us not hinder His work on this poor soul."

At length the shadows fell around us, and, coming to a glade of the forest, we alighted for our night's encampment. The robber continued with us, serving us much in hewing branches and lighting our fires, he being more skilled in such work than we.

After offering our vesper prayer and hymn, I laid down to sleep, none making me afraid. The robber sat watching the fires, whilst brother Theodore lay, with half-closed eyes, watching him. But the peace of God kept my heart, and I slept soundly.

About midnight I awoke, startled by the crackling of the watchfires. The robber sat close to my head, stirring one of the fires with a huge pine-log. I arose and seated myself opposite to him.

"Father," he said, leaning on the log, his dark strong features glowing in the red light, "thou art a man of peace, but thou hast courage; knowest thou who I am?"

"I know, my son," I replied, " that thou hast been a great sinner; but I trust One stronger than thou is melting thy heart."

"I am he whom the peasants call Otho the Thunderbolt," he said. "My name has been a terror to thousands, yet thou fearest me not. I have many bold followers in this forest; if I were to give one of my gathering-cries, in half an hour you would see fifty men around these fires."

"The Name of the Lord," I said, "is more terrible than yours, my son; but to those who trust in it, it is a strong tower: the righteous runneth into it, and is safe. The voice of the Lord is stronger than yours; and legions of His angels encamp around those that fear Him. I have not much courage, but I have faith, which is stronger."

"I know it, father," he replied; "I, too, know that the voice of God is strong, for it has made my heart tremble like a reed. He is mighty, and He is against me, for I have sinued."

"Nay, He is for you," I said, "for He came to save the sinner."

Then he unfolded to me the terrible story of his life of violence, and I unfolded to him the good tidings.

It was a strange chapel-the wind roaring in the tops of the pine-trees, and driving the clouds overhead; and a strange audiencethe wolves howling around the fires-the chief of a robber band; but are not all places holy for holy words?

And the heart which had never quailed before man, but had quivered in the grasp of the Almighty, melted as a child's at the story of the love and sacrifice of Jesus.

"Father," he said, "can you admit one like me within your holy walls ? The meanest office would be welcome to me-the meaner the fitter for me, if only I might work for the poor I have robbed."

"Nay," I said, "go and tell thy companions what great things the Lord hath done for thee. Mayhap they too will repent and believe."

"I will return," he said, bitterly, "if you will not receive me; but it is scarcely possible for one like me to lead an honest life amongst those who have known me. They would say, The old wolf has clothed himself in sheepskin, but he shall not deceive us by that.'"

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'Go, then," I said, "and seek to restore your comrades, and afterwards repair to Marienthal: there ye shall all find an asylum and a sanctuary."

Before the morning broke he was gone.

The sun arose, throwing slanting rays up across the pine-stems, the birds awoke and sang, and the leaves trembled and glittered with the drops of dew-and we went on our way rejoicing for, that night, had not the Day-spring from on high arisen on one who sat in darkness and the shadow of death?

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Otho the Thunderbolt, and three of his companions, are now inmates of our Abbey. We think it best to employ them as much as possible. They therefore fell our firewood, draw our water, keep our cattle, and help to clear more of the forest for tillage. The rest of their time they spend in learning and reciting Psalms and litanies, and in listening to our solemn services. Otho, moreover, contrives to find leisure to weave mats and nets, the price of which he lays up for future restitution.

This event has greatly strengthened those amongst us who are truly seeking to lead a religious life, and has urged us afresh to prayer. But some, alas! continue idle and vain, caring for none of these things-for here, as elsewhere, our Lord and the devil have both their disciples.

June 7.-Vigil of the Nativity of St. John the Baptist.

We have entertained an angel since last I wrote. The holy Abbot Bernard, of Clairvaux, has stayed with us a day and a night-ever memorable at Marienthal. He came to preach the Crusade.

It is marvellous into what a ferment his coming has thrown the whole of Germany. People flocked from the towns and villages to meet him, bringing with them the sick on litters, that he might heal them with his touch -those esteeming themselves blessed who could kiss his hands. The churches were filled, and even the churchyards, when he preached, and men have taken the cross by hundreds. At Marienthal the peasants wept and sobbed at his sermon, although they could not understand a word he said-at which I marvelled greatly.

Scarcely could they have received the Lord Christ Himself with more devoted reverence: indeed, I wonder much that they should pay such homage to the words of His servant, and so little to His own. I fear for them, lest they be honouring the voice more than the words. Yet truly he is a man of a noble presence, and of a very lowly mind.

In the pulpit his eyes flash like flame, but in the confessional they are soft as any dove's. His stature is low, but his brow and bearing are so calm, and so full of gentle command, that the proudest bow naturally before himnot thinking of refusing what he never thinks of demanding. He seems worn out by the fervour of his piety and the severity of his life; yet the ardour which is wasting his frame is mild as the first sunshine of May to all else, At the Abbot's table more than once, I heard him laugh joyously as a child. Nevertheless, there is something in him I would shrink from encountering as a foe.

He gave a lamentable account of the world and the Church-bishops and priests buying and selling holy things, Christian princes fighting one another: and, meantime, the Turk ruling in the Holy Land, and the hereticsCathari, Paulicians, and Manichees-poison. ing the wells of Christian life within the

camp.

There are many of these heretics, he says, on the Rhine, and in Bohemia, and the south of France, who deny the Divine authority of the sacred priesthood, and mock at the holy sacraments, mimicking them in their ecrets assemblies-all the more dangerous, the holy Abbot says, because of the blameless, moral lives of many of them, and their upholding their errors from the Holy Scriptures, which they know and pervert in a wonderful manner. Yet is he averse from killing them, having compassion on their lost souls, and dreading the effect of public executions in spread. ing their madness, and giving notoriety to their errors.

He is also very earnest against the recent slaughter of the Jews on the banks of the Rhine, which some have rashly styled a “crusade," saying, that the true weapons wherewith to conquer them are the Word of God and prayer. Many have already been converted by these means.

Note.-Why not the same for the Turks? They are, however, without question, very wicked and obstinate infidels, and have no right to the Holy Land.

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