given the glimmerings of a Divine light,— the belief in one living God, who was his Father.

On the left side of the fine, high, bald head we found the sacred marks, the scars of those twenty-seven wounds which he received when he was a boy of only eighteen years of age, in defending his father, the elder Scipio. There is capability and energy in this face, but no adroitness or world-wisdom. One can well under

stand, while looking at it, that such a man could never maintain a hold over a mobile, capricious people as the Romans were.

"Like all leading republicans in stirring times," said Philip, "he was unconsciously a fine actor, and he played his part well. Look at that simple, wise face, and imagine it lighted up with the fire of wounded pride and indignation when, on the day of his trial before the Roman Senate, he rose up superbly, and made no other answer to his accusers but this grand one: Tribunes and citizens, on this very day did I conquer Hannibal and the Carthaginians. Come, Romans, let us all go to the Capitol and render thanks to the gods for our victories.'

And, gathering his mantle around him, he strode out of the Senate, followed by the whole assembly, who forgot the trial, the charges, everything, in the effect produced on them by this fine, telling point. Great Jove, but it must have been sublime."

"There was no play-acting, however," remarked Janet, "in his retirement to this Campania; there was an honest, indignant contempt and a sorrowful, true feeling in his words, 'My ungrateful country shall not have my bones."" "There is no bust of Cato here," I said. "What a pity! I should like to contrast it with this of Scipio. He was the one who drove him to Liternum."

"How unhappy our enemies would be," said Luigi, “if they could only know how often their persecutions and hatred turn out to be benefits to us. Scipio was happier away from Rome. Such a man as that, after the heated life of youth and action was over, with his fine tastes and culture, showed himself in a much better and more dignified light in retirement."

"His life here must have been a very agreeable one after all," cried Philip, laughing. "A charming villa, in a delightful region of country, leisure, taste, comfortable means, and the 'best society,' with the rather pleasant sting of a little martyrdom, a little unjust persecution to make him comfortably pharisaical and self-complacent. No, old Scipio, I do not think you need our sympathy in your afflictions. I shall give all my heart holds to that sorrowful old Spaniard, Seneca, who, supposing that the cruel things the relentless Mrs. Dale urges against him were true, is so much the more to be sorrowed with; for he had to live hourly and instantly with that divine inner man, who thought and wrote such sublime words, and whose reproaches must have been fearful if he was disloyal to himself.”

A MIRACLE.

E have been devoting the greater part of this first week in May to the famous spring festival of Naples, the "standing miracle," as Baronius calls it, the liquefaction of Saint Januarius's blood.

We have seen the miracle performed almost every day this week; but the most interesting ceremonies were those which took place the first day of the festival, last Saturday, which was the Saturday preceding the Sunday that falls next to the calends of May, the anniversary of the translation of the Saint's relics from Pozzuoli to Naples (400 A. D.).

Luigi had told me, some weeks ago, that he should make arrangements for me to see this miracle satisfactorily. When he learned that Mrs. Rochester and Janet also wished to be present, he kindly included them in the party; I say kindly, as it is an uncommon thing for Italian Catholics, no matter how intimate they may be with Protestants, to give them opportunities for seeing the most sacred services of their Church. They will show their galleries, their palaces, their works of art, with courteous freedom, but they jealously guard the solemn festivals of their religion from the curious and unbelieving spectator.

Through Luigi's intimacy with the Archbishop, permission was readily obtained for us to go behind the High Altar of Santa Chiara, into the space between it and those great mediæval treasures of the church, Masaccio's Royal Tombs, which I have already described. This recess was made private by heavy crimson curtains hung at each side; and eight or ten comfortable seats were placed there, for a few persons as favored as ourselves. It was a most desirable situation, for between the altar pillars and drapery we commanded a fine coup d'œil of the grand religious pageant which always takes place in the church the first day of the Miracle festival.

On entering the church, a little after midday, we placed ourselves in front of the altar, as we wished to see the bust of the Saint, the decorations, and, above all, the curious attendants on the ceremony; these are “the relations of Saint Januarius," as they are called, the oldest and poorest women in Naples, who are always seated within the altar balustrade, and form one of the most remarkable features of the spectacle. Seats are placed for them on the right of the altar, and from time immemorial they have literally "assisted" at these services. They were already assembled, filling up four or five benches, looking like the witches in Macbeth, clothed in grotesque costume, with horribly ugly faces, and chanting a rude, wild invocation; it was a Litany, which they repeated and repeated, unbroken and undisturbed, through the whole long ceremony. Neither the superb music of the orchestra, the interest excited by the procession, nor the intense emotion created by the slow performance of the miracle, interrupted their rude chanting; on the contrary, every interference only made them shriek the shriller, and louder; and, wild as the chanting was, there was a curious melody in it.

The costly High Altar, of fine marbles and lapis lazuli inlayings, was draped with crimson velvet, whose rich folds hung down beside and around the massive silver bust of the Neapolitan Saint. This bust, which was placed on the right of the altar (to the left of the spectator), holds in its interior Saint Januarius's skull.

The sunbeams streamed in on the jewelled mitre, gorgeous necklaces, and crosses adorning the bust, breaking into dazzling fragments of light as they fell on the four thousand rubies, sapphires, and diamonds there collected. One of the crosses alone had sixty-three handsome diamonds in it. Another superb one was composed of alternate large diamonds and sapphires; and still another, of fine-sized diamonds and emeralds, — all gifts from various Catholic sovereigns.

We looked at these splendors leisurely, and the Catholic members of the party had time to perform their devotions; for we were not to take our places behind the altar until the procession came near the church; and the warning for our removal was to be the martial music accompanying it.

The plan of that day's celebration was this. In the morning, the silver bust containing the Saint's head had been brought to Santa Chiara from its home, the Chapel of Saint Januarius, which is in the right aisle of the Cathedral, a beautiful little Greek cross building, that cost half a million of ducats, and is filled with exquisite works of art, such as Zampieri's, Giordano's, and Domenichino's paintings, Fiorelli's bronzes, and Vinaccia's marvellous silver basso-rilievos and sculpture.

After the bust departed, a procession formed in the Cathedral, consisting of the Cardinal-Archbishop, his clergy, and the municipal authorities; which after form