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tain great spiritual conceptions, and has illustrated them at work in the formation of saintly character, producing lovely and perfect lives, and as productive of that self-forgetfulness, the passionate surrender to the service of humanity of those who, "loving God, loved man the more," which shines in the devoted missionary labors of the ancient Roman and Celtic churches. The gladsome and luminous wisdom, the child's heart within the man's. maturer mind, the quiet yet expectant trustfulness that belongs to unquestioning faith, the intense glow of an unquenchable fire of aspiration,-these are but dim and remote to us in a season that seems by contrast the dull November of the world. So wise are we grown that we can scarce be joyful, and, though heirs of all the ages, can reduce only a small portion of our patrimony into actual ownership. Mr. de Vere would have us recover the ancient wealth of our fathers, while we retained what is exclusively our own; and in his verse the neglected truths, once in actual possession of the Christian peoples, are reverently and nobly emphasized. In reading Mr. de Vere's "Legends of the Saxon Saints," "Mediæval Records," and "Legends of St. Patrick," we confess that with us the uppermost feeling has been-a feeling which Mr. de Vere was doubtless desirous of inspiring-how much our material and scientific progress, our advance in civilization, has lost us. That there have been compensating gains Mr. de Vere would himself be the first to insist, but the loss is no less certain. It almost seems as if the

human race lay under the blighting necessity of paying for its greatest gains by the abandonment of other and no less priceless possessions. In a fine poem written at Lugano, we have Mr. de Vere's message to the present

age:

Teach us in all that round us lies To see and feel each hour, More than Homeric majesties,

And more than Phidian power; Teach us the coasts of modern life With lordlier tasks are daily rife

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Of that department of Mr. de Vere's work dealing with chivalry, the lives of saints and the records of the Christian Church, we have not left ourselves space to write. We omit a lengthened criticism with the less regret since this part of his work is most widely known. To a volume of selections, recently published under the editorship of Mr. Woodberry, an appreciative and excellent essay stands as preface, in which full justice is done to these Christian poems.

They succeed one another, as the poet's memory wanders back to the legends of the empire on the first establishment of the faith in Roman lands and along Asian shores, or moves through mediæval times with Joan of Arc and episodes of the Cid that recall Cuchullain in their light-hearted performance of natural deeds, now under the cross. The beauty of these separate stories is equable and full of a softened charm; but in them too, as in the Bardic myths, there abides that distance of time which makes them remote, as if they were not of our own. They are highly pictorial; and in reading them, each secluded in that silent, oldworld air that encompasses it, one feels that here is a modern poet, like those early painters of pious heart who spent their Christ; and one recalls, perhaps, some lives in picturing scenes from the life of

Convent of San Marco where each monastic cell bears on its quiet walls such scenes from the shining hand of the Florentine on whose face fell heaven's mildest light. These poems of Aubrey de Vere to characterize them largely-are scenes from the life of Christ in man; and there is something in them-in their gladness, their luminousness, their peacewhich suggests Fra Angelico, the halo of Christian art.

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One fine April morning, in the year of our Lord, 1880, Peter Morero awoke from the sound healthy sleep which was his nightly portion, and began hastily to dress himself for first mass. It was nearly four o'clock, and the bells were ringing when he came out into the keen morning air, and ran across the green which divided his little weatherbeaten house from the great white church which invests the mountain village of Cavalese with a prestige unshared by any other in Tyrol. When mass was over, Peter left the church with the other worshippers, but he did not follow them out of the churchyard. Instead, he stood a moment looking at the brightening east, then taking the brush out of the stoup of holy water

attached to the outer wall of the church, he bestowed a conscientious aspersion upon two graves which lay side by side in the shadow of the eastern portico, and after replacing the brush in the stoup, and laying his hat beside him on the grass, he knelt down and prayed for the souls of his father and mother. "And may they too pray for their poor orphan," he murmured, as he rose from his knees. Peter always thought of himself as an orphan, although he was forty-eight years old (a late hour in the hard-worked life of a Tyrolese peasant), and his parents had died only the year before at a very advanced age. But he had never been married, or even betrothed, and his affection for his good, loving parents, and his grief at their loss, had been the single emotion of his uneventful life. Now that the old couple slept in the churchyard he lived on alone, in contented bachelorhood, in the low, two-roomed cottage they had bequeathed to him; and notwithstanding the fact that it was by many degrees the poorest in Cavalese, and let in the summer rains and winter snows, he felt for it all the pride of a proprietor. It was a very modest and, so to speak, humble pride, however, for never, even in early youth, had Peter merited the description given in Holy Writ of certain characters, and of Jeshurun in particular, of whom we are told that they "waxed fat, and kicked," and were in consequence duly disciplined by adverse fate. It was true, indeed, that all opportunities to wax fat, either in a material or moral sense, had been denied him; but it was equally true that no amount of prosperity could have made him aggressive or boastful.

He was an unobtrusive, silent, sympathetic little man, and though dingy and wrinkled, physically wizened and unhandsomely hirsute, he was yet so honest and kindly that there was something pleasant in his aspect, notwithstanding his ugliness.

The clock was striking five as he issued from the churchyard, and he made haste home, for he had yet several things to do before his departure for the summer. His green fustian bag lay

ready strapped beside his staff, but it was still necessary for him to arrange his few poor sticks of furniture, and to leave everything in readiness for Anna Morero, his cousin Paul's widow, who, with her two boys, was to occupy his cottage during the summer. When all was in order, he carefully locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and began to water some fine carnations which stood on a bench placed against the outer wall of the cottage. Peter was considered to have a lucky hand with carnations, and he now looked lovingly at these, and cut off one really splendid blossom which he fastened in his hat. Then he took up the two big pots and carried them across the street to the postwoman, who had promised to care for them during his absence, and also to keep the key of his house until Anna Morero came to claim it. It was not without some qualms of conscience that he confided his plants to the postwoman. He felt that he would have dealt more handsomely by his cousin and her children had he left the carnations to their care. But, as he told himself, Anna had never been careful with plants, and her two boys, aged respectively thirteen and sixteen, were much more likely to spoil flowers than to care for them. To be sure, there was Luisa Badi, Anna's daughter by her first husband, she who was, until she could get something better, cow-girl at a farm some miles away. But Peter had never seen her since she was a baby, and though he knew her to be twenty-one years old, he still considered her too young to be trusted with his carnations. He fulfilled his errand to the postwoman therefore, and after due thanks and farewells, went his way.

He had a day's journey before him, for he was bound to the distant heights on the other side of the Adige; and as he walked on, now casting a glance at the mountains, and now at the valley to which he was descending, his thoughts were busy with the work which awaited him, for he had engaged himself to the landlord of the inn at Klobenstein as cowherd, and had after

wards learned that he was a master whom it was not easy to please. Now Peter liked his work, and understood it, but it annoyed him to be followed up and interfered with, because, when he had any spare time he liked to rest in the quiet stall and dream his fill. He would not have called it dreaming. Though in reality much given to daydreams, he had never heard the phrase; he called these long daily meditations "remembering." In truth he did delight in remembrance. He could neither read nor write, but he possessed an extraordinary memory, and it was richly stored with the folk-lore of the mountains. To lie on the warm straw in the cow-stall, and listen to that soothing sound, the chewing of the cud; to feel the gentle, sympathetic, but not importunate friendliness of the cows about him; to gaze idly at the motes dancing in the rare, slanting rays of sunshine which cleft the shadowy darkness of the interior, and through the slightly open door to see in the far distance the splendid pageant of lights and shadows and prismatic colors upon the fairy peaks of the Dolomites-all these delights were dear to the soul of Feter Morero, who, though he did not know it, was a poet and a sybarite in his own humble way.

Poor Peter, stepping steadily down the mountain, with all his personality packed into the green bag he carried on his back, with his jacket on his shoulder, his staff in his hand, and his pipe in his mouth, his mind full of a gentle, modest contentment, delicately tempered by a faint anxiety as to the well-being of Herr Mair's cows, and a slight apprehension as to that individual's treatment of his cowherd, was surely too modest a figure to invite, much less to deserve, a fling from destiny. Peter ventured to hope for nothing in the future that he had not had in the past, and feared nothing but the poor-house, and too long a stay in purgatory. Yet his last tranquil day lay behind him.

He had walked for about three hours, when a turn in the rough mountain road brought into view a narrow and

Then Peter had an inspiration. He called aloud, “Are you Luisa?"

She turned with a leisurely, nonchalant grace, and answered, but without looking at him, "There are so many Luisas; long Seppel's Luisa, and the miller's Luisa, and Anton the shoe

do I know which Luisa you want?"

Peter laughed: "I want Anna Morero's Luisa."

"Well, what do you want of her?" answered the girl, with a carelessness which would have been wounding but for the mysterious smile in her eyes.

"I am your cousin, Peter Morero," said Peter.

"My brother's cousin, not mine," returned the girl promptly. "Where are you going?" she added.

steep path which branched off abruptly. Some cows were slowly climbing this path, and making their way one by one into the field which overhung the road. Peter's eyes instinctively followed the cows, and his ear lent itself half unconsciously to the shouts of the cow-girl, who as yet was invisible to him. Sud-maker's Luisa, and many more. How denly she appeared above his head, following her cows. She dropped her stick for a moment to pick a sprig of pear-blossom which she put between her teeth, and taking her handkerchief from her head, turned and shook it, preparatory to putting it on again. The action showed to advantage her tall, youthful figure and the fine poise and beautiful shape of her head; while the broad sunlight set off the rich bloom of her complexion and bronzed the locks on her temples, now ruffled up and waving, although the mass of dark hair was closely braided and bound with the maiden snood. As with all cowgirls her feet were bare, and she wore the ordinary peasant's dress. But she was like no peasant girl Peter had ever seen; and as he stood looking up at her his staff slipped out of his hand, and fell noisily on the stony road. Instantly, the girl threw up her head like a listening deer; then she came forward to the edge of the field, and let her glance fall upon him for the first time. Her eyes were large and long, and in color like pools of clear water on a bed of brown autumn leaves. A dancing light, a ray, a laugh, played forever in the corners of the eyes, and produced an indescribably elusive, puzzling, but fascinating expression. Such eyes look out of Mona Lisa's portrait on the wall of the Louvre, and they have ever been troubling to the sons of men.

Our poor hero was no exception to the rule, and he stood mutely gazing upward, while the girl with a slight laugh, instantly suppressed, resumed the task of shaking and folding her handkerchief, replaced it on her head, and adroitly catching the ends in her teeth, without letting go her sprig of pear-blossom, she picked up her stick and turned away, glancing out of the corners of her eyes as she did so.

"To Klobenstein, plenty of cows, a good place. I shall be there until November. If the landlord wants a cowgirl, will you come? You would be better paid there than here."

"Who knows?" replied the girl with a sweet indifference, as she turned more decidedly away and began to follow her retreating cows. She had not said good-bye; it was apparently not her habit. Peter, left standing in the road, scarcely knew what he did as he called aloud, "Luisa!"

"Well!" said Luisa, glancing over her shoulder as she retreated slowly.

"Will you have this?" and taking the carnation from his hat, he threw it up to her. Now she turned, came back and picked it up, still with the same enchanting, piquant nonchalance. "Pretty!" she said, as she turned it over in her hand, but she did not thank him. She pushed back her handkerchief, placed the carnation over her right ear, adjusted her handkerchief again and prepared to go her way. "Luisa!"

"Well!"

"Will you give me that flower you have in your mouth?"

Luisa's only answer was to tighten her lips upon the sprig of pear-blossom, and to pull her handkerchief further over her head.

ready strapped beside his staff, but it was still necessary for him to arrange his few poor sticks of furniture, and to leave everything in readiness for Anna Morero, his cousin Paul's widow, who, with her two boys, was to occupy his cottage during the summer. When all was in order, he carefully locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and began to water some fine carnations which stood on a bench placed against the outer wall of the cottage. Peter was considered to have a lucky hand with carnations, and he now looked lovingly at these, and cut off one really splendid blossom which he fastened in his hat. Then he took up the two big pots and carried them across the street to the postwoman, who had promised to care for them during his absence, and also to keep the key of his house until Anna Morero came to claim it. It was not without some qualms of conscience that he confided his plants to the postwoman. He felt that he would have dealt more handsomely by his cousin and her children had he left the carnations to their care. But, as he told himself, Anna had never been careful with plants, and her two boys, aged respectively thirteen and sixteen, were much more likely to spoil flowers than to care for them. To be sure, there was Luisa Badi, Anna's daughter by her first husband, she who was, until she could get something better, cow-girl at a farm some miles away. But Peter had never seen her since she was a baby, and though he knew her to be twenty-one years old, he still considered her too young to be trusted with his carnations. He fulfilled his errand to the postwoman therefore, and after due thanks and farewells, went his way.

He had a day's journey before him, for he was bound to the distant heights on the other side of the Adige; and as he walked on, now casting a glance at the mountains, and now at the valley to which he was descending, his thoughts were busy with the work which awaited him, for he had engaged himself to the landlord of the inn at Klobenstein as cowherd, and had after

wards learned that he was a master whom it was not easy to please. Now Peter liked his work, and understood it, but it annoyed him to be followed up and interfered with, because, when he had any spare time he liked to rest in the quiet stall and dream his fill. He would not have called it dreaming. Though in reality much given to daydreams, he had never heard the phrase; he called these long daily meditations "remembering." In truth he did delight in remembrance. He could neither read nor write, but he possessed an extraordinary memory, and it was richly stored with the folk-lore of the mountains. To lie on the warm straw in the cow-stall, and listen to that soothing sound, the chewing of the cud; to feel the gentle, sympathetic, but not importunate friendliness of the cows about him; to gaze idly at the motes dancing in the rare, slanting rays of sunshine which cleft the shadowy darkness of the interior, and through the slightly open door to see in the far distance the splendid pageant of lights and shadows and prismatic colors upon the fairy peaks of the Dolomites-all these delights were dear to the soul of Peter Morero, who, though he did not know it, was a poet and a sybarite in his own humble way.

Poor Peter, stepping steadily down the mountain, with all his personality packed into the green bag he carried on his back, with his jacket on his shoulder, his staff in his hand, and his pipe in his mouth, his mind full of a gentle, modest contentment, delicately tempered by a faint anxiety as to the well-being of Herr Mair's cows, and a slight apprehension as to that individual's treatment of his cowherd, was surely too modest a figure to invite, much less to deserve, a fling from destiny. Peter ventured to hope for nothing in the future that he had not had in the past, and feared nothing but the poor-house, and too long a stay in purgatory. Yet his last tranquil day lay behind him.

He had walked for about three hours, when a turn in the rough mountain road brought into view a narrow and

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