first, in simple, natural, and pious ways, in the fourth century; and
as it grew stronger and stronger with the continually increasing
predominance of the material element in the Roman Church, so the
catacombs, the burial-places of the saints, were more and more visited
by those who desired the protection or the intercession of their
occupants. St. Jerome, who was born about this time in Rome, [A.D. 331,]
has a curious passage concerning his own experiences in the catacombs.
He says: "When I was a boy at Rome, being instructed in liberal studies,
I was accustomed, with others of the same age and disposition, to go on
Sundays to the tombs of the apostles and martyrs, and often to go into
the crypts, which, being dug out in the depths of the earth, have for
walls, on either side of those who enter, the bodies of the buried; and
they are so dark, that the saying of the prophet seems almost fulfilled,
_The living descend into hell._" But as the chapels and sacred tombs
in the catacombs became thus more and more resorted to as places for
worship, the number of burials within them was continually growing
less,--and the change in the spirit of the religion was marked by the
change of character in the paintings and inscriptions on their walls.
By the middle of the fifth century the extension of the catacombs had
ceased, and nearly about the same time the assemblies in them fell off.
The desolation of the Campagna had already begun; Rome had sunk rapidly;
and the churches and burial-places within the walls afforded all the
space that was needed for the assemblies of the living or the dead.

When the Goths descended upon Italy, ravaging the country as they passed
over it, and sat down before Rome, not content with stripping the land,
they forced their way into the catacombs, searching for treasure, and
seeking also, it seems likely, for the bodies of the martyrs, whom their
imperfect creed did not prevent them from honoring. After they retired,
in the short breathing-space that was given to the unhappy city, various
popes undertook to do something to restore the catacombs,[D]--and one
of them, John III., [A.D. 560-574,] ordered that service should be
performed at certain underground shrines, and that candles and all else
needful for this purpose should be furnished from the Basilica of St.
John Lateran. Just at the close of the sixth century, Gregory the Great
[590-604] again appointed stations in the catacombs at which service
should be held on special days in the course of the year, and a curious
illustration of the veneration in which the relics of the saints were
then held is afforded by a gift which he sent to Theodelinda, queen of
the Lombards. At this time the Lombards were laying all Italy waste.
Their Arian zeal ranged them in religious hate against the Roman
Church,--but Theodelinda was an orthodox believer, and through her
Gregory hoped to secure the conversion of her husband and his subjects.
It was to her that he addressed his famous Dialogues, filled with
the most marvellous stories of holy men and the strangest notions of
religion. Wishing to satisfy her pious desires, and to make her a very
precious gift, he sent to her many phials of oil taken from the lamps
that were kept burning at the shrines of the martyrs in the catacombs.
It was the custom of those who visited these shrines to dip
handkerchiefs, or other bits of cloth, in the reservoirs of oil, to
which a sacred virtue was supposed to be imparted by the neighborhood of
the saints; and even now may often be seen the places where the lamps
were kept lighted.[E]

[Footnote D: An inscription set up by Vigilius, pope from A.D. 538 to
555, and preserved by Gruter, contains the following lines:--

  "Dum peritura Getae posuissent castra sub urbe,
  Moverunt sanctis bella nefunda prius,
  Istaque sacrilego verterunt corde sepulchra
  Martyribus quondam rite sacrata piis.
  Diruta Vigilius nam mox haec Papa gemiscens,
  Hostibus expulsis, omne novavit opus."]

[Footnote E: The phials sent by Gregory to Queen Theodelinda were
accompanied by a list of the shrines from which they were taken; among
them was that of St. Cecilia. The document closes with the words, "Quae
olea sca temporibus Domini Gregorii Papae adduxit Johannes indignus
et peccator Dominae Theodelindae reginae de Roma." The oils are still
preserved in the treasury of the cathedral at Monza,--and the list
accompanying them has afforded some important facts to the students of
the early martyrology of Rome. A similar belief in the efficacy of oils
burned in lamps before noted images, or at noted shrines, still prevails
in the Papal City. In a little pamphlet lying before us, entitled
_Historic Notices of Maria SSma del Parto, venerated in St. Augustine's
Church in Rome_, published in 1853, is the following passage: "Many who
visited Mary dipped their fingers in the lamps to cross themselves with
the holy oil, by the droppings from which the base of the statue was so
dirtied, that hanging-lamps were substituted in the place of those that
stood around. But that the people might not be deprived of the trust
which they reposed in the holy oil, bits of cotton dipped in it were
wrapped up in paper, and there was a constant demand for them among the
devout." This passage refers to late years, and the custom still exists.
Superstition flourishes at Rome now not less than it did thirteen
hundred years ago; and superstitious practices have a wonderful vitality
in the close air of Romanism.]

But although the memory of those who had been buried within them was
thus preserved, the catacombs themselves and the churches at their
entrances were falling more and more into decay. Shortly after Gregory's
death, Pope Boniface IV. illustrated his otherwise obscure pontificate
by seeking from the mean and dissolute Emperor Phocas the gift of the
Pantheon for the purpose of consecrating it for a Christian church. The
glorious temple of all the gods was now dedicated [A.D. 608, Sept. 15]
to those who had displaced them, the Virgin and all the Martyrs. Its new
name was S. Maria ad Martyres,--and in order to sanctify its precincts,
the Pope brought into the city and placed under the altars of his new
church twenty-eight wagon-loads of bones, collected from the different
catacombs, and said to be those of martyrs. This is the first notice
that has been preserved of the practice that became very general in
later times of transferring bodies and bones from their graves in the
rock to new ones under the city churches.

Little more is known of the history of the catacombs during the next
two centuries, but that for them it was a period of desolation and
desertion. The Lombard hordes often ravaged and devastated the Campagna
up to the very gates of the city, and descended into the underground
passages of the cemeteries in search of treasure, of relics, and of
shelter. Paul III., about the middle of the eighth century, took many
bones and much ashes from graves yet unrifled, and distributed them
to the churches. He has left a record of the motives that led him
to disturb dust that had rested so long in quiet. "In the lapse of
centuries," he says, "many cemeteries of the holy martyrs and confessors
of Christ have been neglected and fallen to decay. The impious Lombards
utterly ruined them,--and now among the faithful themselves the old
piety has been replaced by negligence, which has gone so far that even
animals have been allowed to enter them, and cattle have been stalled
within them." Still, although thus desecrated, the graves of the martyrs
continued to be an object of interest to the pilgrims, who, even in
these dangerous times, from year to year came to visit the holy places
of Rome; and itineraries, describing the localities of the catacombs
and of the noted tombs within them, prepared for the guidance of such
pilgrims, not later than the beginning of the ninth century, have
been preserved to us, and have afforded essential and most important
assistance in the recent investigations.[F]

[Footnote F: Four of these itineraries are known. One of them is
preserved in William of Malmesbury's _Chronicle_. The differences and
the correspondences between them have been of almost equal assistance in
modern days in the determination of doubtful names and localities.]

About the same time, Pope Paschal I. [A.D. 817-824] greatly interested
himself in searching in the catacombs for such bodies of the saints as
might yet remain in them, and in transferring these relics to churches
and monasteries within the city. A contemporary inscription, still
preserved in the crypt of the ancient church of St. Prassede, (a church
which all lovers of Roman legend and art take delight in,) tells of the
two thousand three hundred martyrs whose remains Paschal had placed
beneath its altars. Nor was this the only church so richly endowed. One
day, in the year 821, Paschal was praying in the church that stood on
the site of the house in which St. Cecilia had suffered martyrdom, and
which was dedicated to her honor. It was now one of the oldest churches
in Rome. Two centuries before, Gregory the Great, St. Gregory, had
restored it,--for it even then stood in need of repairs, and now it was
in greater need than ever. Paschal determined, while praying, that he
would rebuild it from its foundations; but with this determination came
the desire to find the body of the Saint, that her new church might not
want its most precious possession. It was reported that the Lombards had
sought for it and carried it away, and the knowledge of the exact place
of the grave, even, was lost. But Paschal entered vigorously on the
search. He knew that she had been buried in the Cemetery of St.
Callixtus, and tradition declared that her sepulchre had been made near
the Chamber of the Popes. There he sought, but his seeking was vain.

On a certain day, however,--and here he begins his own story,--in the
Church of St. Peter, as he sat listening to the harmony of the morning
service, drowsiness overcame him, and he fell asleep.[G] As he was
sleeping, a very beautiful maiden of virginal aspect, and in a rich
dress, stood before him, and, looking at him, said,--"We return thee
many thanks; but why without cause, trusting to false reports, hast thou
given up the search for me? Thou hast been so near me that we might have
spoken together."

[Footnote G: "Quadam die, dum ante Confessionem Beati Petri
Apostoli psallentium matutinali lucescente Dominica residentes
observaremus harmoniam, sopore in aliquo corporis fragilitatem
aggravaute."--_Paschalis Papae Diploma_, as quoted in _L'Histoire de
Sainte Cécile_, par l'Abbé Guéranger. The simplicity of the old Pope's
story is wofully hurt by the grandiloquence of the French Abbé: "Le
Pontife écoutait avec délices l'harmonie des Cantiques que l'Église fait
monter vers le Seigneur au lever du jour. Un assoupissement produit par
la fatigue des veilles saintes vient le saisir sur le siége même où il
présidait dans la majesté apostolique," etc., etc., etc., _ad nauseam._]

The Pope, as if hurt by her rebuke, and doubtful of his vision, then
asked the name of her who thus addressed him.

"If thou seekest my name," she said, "I am called Cecilia, the
handmaiden of Christ."

"How can I believe this," replied the sleeping Pope, "since it was long
ago reported that the body of this most holy martyr was carried away by
the Lombards?"

The Saint then told him that till this time her body had remained
concealed; but that now he must continue his search, for it pleased God
to reveal it to him; and near her body he would also find other bodies
of saints to be placed with hers in her new-built church. And saying
this, she departed.

Hereupon a new search was begun, and shortly after, "by the favor of
God, we found her in golden garments, and the cloths with which her
sacred blood had been wiped from her wounds we found rolled up and full
of blood at the feet of the blessed virgin."

At the same time, the bodies of Valerian, Tiburtius, and Maximus were
found in a neighboring cemetery, and, together with the relics of Pope
Urban,--as well as the body of St. Cecilia,--were placed under the
high altar of her church.[H] The cypress coffin in which she had been
reverently laid at the time of her death was preserved and set within a
marble sarcophagus. No expense was spared by the devout Paschal to adorn
the church that had been so signally favored. All the Art of the time
(and at that time the arts flourished only in the service of the Church)
was called upon to assist in making the new basilica magnificent. The
mosaics which were set up to adorn the apse and the arch of triumph were
among the best works of the century, and, with colors still brilliant
and design still unimpaired, they hold their place at the present
day, and carry back the thought and the imagination of the beholder a
thousand years into the very heart of this old story. Under the great
mosaic of the apse one may still read the inscription, in the rude Latin
of the century, which tells of Paschal's zeal and Rome's joy, closing
with the line,

  "Roma resultat ovans semper ornata per
  aevum."

[Footnote H: It is a remarkable fact, to be explained by the believers
in the virtue of relics, that, notwithstanding the body of St. Cecilia
was deposited perfect in her grave, and, as we shall see, was long after
found complete, no less than five heads of St. Cecilia are declared
to exist, or to have existed,--for one has been lost,--in different
churches. One is in the church of the SS. Quattro Coronati, at Rome,
which possessed it from a very early period; a second is at Paris, a
third at Beauvais, a fourth was at Tours, and we have seen the reliquary
in which a fifth is preserved in the old cathedral of Torcello.]

And thus once more the body of the virgin was left to repose in peace,
once more the devout could offer their prayers to the Saint at the altar
consecrated by her presence, and once more the superstitious could
increase the number of the miracles wrought by her favor. Through the
long period of the fall and depression of Rome, her church continued to
be a favorite one with the people of the city, and with the pilgrims to
it. From time to time it was repaired and adorned, and in the thirteenth
century the walls of its portico were covered with a series of frescoes,
representing the events of St. Cecilia's life, and the finding of her
body by Paschal. These frescoes--precious as specimens of reawakening
Art, and especially precious at Rome, because of the little that was
done there at that period--were all, save one, long since destroyed
in some "restoration" of the church. The one that was preserved is now
within the church, and represents in its two divisions the burial of the
Saint by Pope Urban, and her appearance in St. Peter's Church to the
sleeping Paschal, whose figure is rendered with amusing naïveté and
literalness.

Meanwhile, after the translation of St. Cecilia's body, the catacombs
remained much in the same neglected state as before, falling more and
more into ruin, but still visited from year to year by the pilgrims,
whom even pillage and danger could not keep from Rome. For two
centuries,--from the thirteenth to the fifteenth,--scarcely any mention
of them is to be found. Petrarch, in his many letters about Rome, dwells
often on the sacredness of the soil within the city, in whose crypts and
churches so many saints and martyrs lie buried, but hardly refers to the
catacombs themselves, and never in such a way as to show that they were
an object of interest to him, though a lover of all Roman relics and a
faithful worshipper of the saints. It was near the end of the sixteenth
century that a happy accident--the falling in of the road outside the
Porta Salara--brought to light the streets of the Cemetery of St.
Priscilla, and awakened in Antonio Bosio a zeal for the exploration of
the catacombs which led him to devote the remainder of his long life to
the pursuit, and by study, investigation, and observation, to lay
the solid basis of the thorough and comprehensive acquaintance with
subterranean Rome which has been extended by the researches of a long
line of able scholars down to the present day. But to Bosio the
chief honor is due, as the earliest, the most exact, and the most
indefatigable of the explorers.

It was during his lifetime that the story of St. Cecilia received a
continuation, of which he himself has left us a full account. In
the year 1599, Paolo Emilio Sfondrati, Cardinal of the Title of St.
Cecilia,[I] undertook a thorough restoration of the old basilica erected
by Paschal. He possessed a large collection of relics, and determined
that he would place the most precious of them under the high altar. For
this purpose the vault containing the sarcophagi in which St. Cecilia
and her companions lay must be opened, and on the 20th of October the
work was undertaken. Upon breaking through the wall, two sarcophagi of
white marble were discovered. The Cardinal was on the spot, and, in the
presence of numerous dignitaries of the Church, whom he had sent for as
witnesses, he caused the heavy top of the first of these stone coffins
to be lifted. Within was seen the chest of cypress-wood in which,
according to the old story, the Saint had been originally placed.
Sfondrati with his own hands removed the lid, and within the chest was
found the body of the virgin, with a silken veil spread over her rich
dress, on which could still be seen the stains of blood, while at her
feet yet lay the bloody cloths which had been placed there more than
thirteen centuries before. She was lying upon her right side, her feet a
little drawn up, her arms extended and resting one upon the other,
her neck turned so that her head rested upon the left cheek. Her form
perfectly preserved, and her attitude of the sweetest virginal grace and
modesty, it seemed as if she lay there asleep rather than dead.[J]--The
second sarcophagus was found to contain three bodies, which were
recognized as being, according to tradition, those of Tiburtius,
Valerian, and Maximus.

[Footnote I: The _Titoli_ of Rome correspond nearly to Parishes. They
date from an early period in the history of the Church.]

[Footnote J: "Dormientis instar," says Bosio, in his _Relatio
Inventionis et Repositionis S. Caeciliae et Sociorum_. The discovery
of the body of the Saint in this perfect state of preservation has,
of course, been attributed by many Romanist authors to miraculous
interposition. But it is to be accounted for by natural causes. The
soil of the catacombs and of Rome is in many parts remarkable for its
antiseptic qualities. The Cavaliere de Rossi informed us that he had
been present at the opening of an ancient tomb on the Appian Way, in
which the body of a young man had been found in a state of entire
preservation, fresh almost as on the day of its burial, and with it was
a piece of sponge which had apparently been soaked in blood,--for his
death had been by violence. In the winter of 1857, two marble sarcophagi
were found in one of the passages of the Catacombs of St. Callixtus, in
which excavations were then going on, and upon being opened, a body
was found in each, in a state, not of entire, but of almost perfect
preservation. The skin had become somewhat shrunk, and the flesh was
hardened and darkened, but the general form and features were preserved.
Possibly these also may have been the bodies of saints. The sarcophagi
were kept through the winter in the catacombs where they were found, and
their marble lids being removed, covers of glass were fitted to them, so
that the bodies might be seen by the visitors to the catacombs. It was a
frequent custom, chiefly in the fourth and fifth centuries, to bury the
rich in sarcophagi placed within tombs in the catacombs.]

The day advanced as these discoveries were made, and Sfondrati having
had a chest of wood hastily lined with silk, and brought to a room in
the adjoining convent, which opened into the church, (it is the room
at the left, now used for the first reception of novices,) carried the
cypress chest with its precious contents to this apartment, and placed
it within the new box, which he locked and sealed. Then, taking the key
with him, he hastened to go out to Frascati, where Pope Clement VIII.
was then staying, to avoid the early autumn airs of Rome. The Pope was
in bed with the gout, and gave audience to no one; but when he heard of
the great news that Sfondrati had brought, he desired at once to see
him, and to hear from him the account of the discovery. "The Pope
groaned and grieved that he was not well enough to hasten at once to
visit and salute so great a martyr." But it happened that the famous
annalist, Cardinal Baronius, was then with the Pope at Frascati, and
Clement ordered him to go to Rome forthwith, in his stead, to behold and
venerate the body of the Saint. Sfondrati immediately took Baronius
in his carriage back to the city, and in the evening they reached the
Church of St. Cecilia.[K] Baronius, in the account which he has left
of these transactions, expresses in simple words his astonishment and
delight at seeing the preservation of the cypress chest, and of the body
of the Saint: "When we at length beheld the sacred body, it was then,
that, according to the words of David, 'as we had heard, so we saw, in
the city of the Lord of Hosts, in the city of our God.'[L] For as we had
read that the venerated body of Cecilia had been found and laid away by
Paschal the Pope, so we found it." He describes at length the posture
of the virgin, who lay like one sleeping, in such modest and noble
attitude, that "whoever beheld her was struck with unspeakable
reverence, as if the heavenly Spouse stood by as a guard watching his
sleeping Bride, warning and threatening: 'Awake not my love till she
please.'"[M] The next morning, Baronius performed Mass in the church in
memory and honor of St. Cecilia, and the other saints buried near her,
and then returned to Frascati to report to the Pope what he had seen. It
was resolved to push forward the works on the church with vigor, and
to replace the body of the Saint under its altar on her feast-day, the
twenty-second of November, with the most solemn pontifical ceremony.

[Footnote K: This account is to be found in the _Annals_ of Baronius,
_ad annum_ 821.]

[Footnote L: Psalm xlviii. 8.]

[Footnote M: Song of Solomon, ii. 7.]

Meanwhile the report of the wonderful discovery spread through Rome,
and caused general excitement and emotion. The Trasteverini, with whom
Cecilia had always been a favorite saint, were filled with joy, with
piety, and superstition. Crowds continually pressed to the church, and
so great was the ardor of worshippers, that the Swiss guards of the
court were needed to preserve order. Lamps were kept constantly burning
around the coffin, which was set near a grating in the wall between the
church and convent, so as to be visible to the devout. "There was
no need of burning perfumes and incense near the sacred body, for a
sweetest odor breathed out from it, like that of roses and lilies."

Sfondrati, desirous to preserve for future generations a memorial
likeness of the Saint, ordered the sculptor Stefano Maderno to make a
statue which should represent the body of Cecilia as it was found lying
in the cypress chest. Maderno was then a youth of twenty-three years.
Sculpture at this time in Rome had fallen into a miserable condition of
degraded conventionalism and extravagance. But Maderno was touched with
the contagion of the religious enthusiasm of the moment, and his work is
full of simple dignity, noble grace, and tender beauty. No other work
of the time is to be compared with it. It is a memorial not only of the
loveliness of the Saint, but of the self-forgetful religious fervor of
the artist, at a period when every divine impulse seemed to be absent
from the common productions of Art. Rome has no other statue of such
sacred charm, none more inspired with Christian feeling. It lies in
front of the high altar, disfigured by a silver crown and a costly
necklace, the offerings of vulgar and pretentious adoration; but even
thus it is at once a proof and prophecy of what Art is to accomplish
under the influence of the Christian spirit. The inscription that
Sfondrati placed before the statue still exists. It is as follows:
"Behold the image of the most holy virgin Cecilia; whom I, Paul,
Cardinal of the Title of St. Cecilia, saw lying perfect in her
sepulchre; which I have caused to be made in this marble, in the very
position of the body, for you."

The twenty-second of November arrived. The Pope had recovered from
his gout. The church was splendidly decorated. A solemn procession,
illustrated by the presence of all the great dignitaries of the Church,
of the ambassadors of foreign states, and the nobles of Rome, advanced
up the nave. Clement intoned the Mass. Then proceeding to the cypress
chest, it was lifted by four cardinals, and carried to the vault under
the altar, while the choir chanted the anthem, _O beata Coecilia,
quoe Almachium superâsti, Tiburtium et Valerianum ad martyrii coronam
vocâsti!_ The old coffin, undisturbed, was placed in a silver case; the
last service was performed, and the body of the virgin was once more
laid away to rest.

We pass now over two centuries and a half. About five years ago the
Cavaliere de Rossi found lying upon the ground, in a _vigna_ bordering
on the Appian Way, about two miles from Rome, a portion of a sepulchral
stone on which were the letters NELIUS MARTYR, the NE broken across.
He immediately conjectured that this was a piece of the stone that had
covered the grave of Pope Cornelius, [A.D. 250-252,] and on the truth of
this conjecture important results depended. It was known that this pope
had been buried in the Catacombs of St. Callixtus; and it was known
also, from the itineraries and some other sources, that his grave was
not in the same chamber with the graves of the other popes who were
buried in those catacombs, but that it was not far away from it. It was
further known, as we have seen, that the chapel in which St. Cecilia
had been buried was close to the Chamber of the Popes. But a tradition
dating from a late period of the Middle Ages had given the name of
Callixtus to the catacombs opening from the Church of St. Sebastian,
at a little greater distance from Rome. In these catacombs the place
supposed to be that of St. Cecilia's grave was pointed out, and an
inscription set up to mark the spot, by a French archbishop, in the
year 1409, still exists. Many indications, however, led De Rossi
to disbelieve this tradition and to distrust this authority. It
contradicted the brief indications of the itineraries, and could not be
reconciled with other established facts. Not far from the place where
the broken inscription was found was an accidental entrance into
catacombs which had been supposed to have been originally connected with
those of St. Sebastian, but were believed by De Rossi to be a portion of
the veritable Catacombs of St. Callixtus, and quite separate from the
former. The paths in this part, however, were stopped up in so many
directions, that it was impossible to get an entrance through them to
such parts as might determine the question. Again, in the neighborhood
of the discovery of the broken stone was an old building, used as a
stable, and for other mean purposes. On examination of it, De Rossi
satisfied himself that it had been originally one of the churches
erected in the fourth century at the entrance of the catacombs, and he
had little doubt that he had now found the place of the main descent
into the Catacombs of St. Callixtus. The discovery was a great one; for
near the main entrance had been the burial-place of the popes, and of
St. Cecilia. De Rossi laid the results of his inductive process of
archaeological reasoning before the pope, who immediately gave orders
for the purchase of the _vigna_, and directions that excavations should
be at once begun.[N]

[Footnote N: Another curious point was made by De Rossi previously to
the commencement of the explorations. It illustrates the accuracy of his
acquaintance with the underground archaeology. In one of the itineraries
it was said, speaking of the burial-place of Cornelius, that here also
St. Cyprian was buried. Now, as is well known, Cyprian was buried in
Africa, where he had suffered martyrdom. His martyrdom took place on
the same day with that of Cornelius, though in another year; and their
memories were consequently celebrated by the Church on the same day, the
16th of September. De Rossi declared, that, if he discovered the tomb of
St. Cornelius, he should find near it something which would explain the
error of the itinerary in stating that Cyprian's grave also was here.
And such proved to be the fact. On the wall, by the side of the grave,
was found a painting of Cornelius, with his name, "S[=c][=s] Cornelius,"
and by the side of this figure was another painting of a bishop in his
robes, with the letters "S[=c][=s] Ciprianus."]

[Transcriber's note: Here and below the = sign is used to indicate an
overscore.]

The work was scarcely begun, before an ancient stairway, long ago buried
under accumulated earth and rubbish, was discovered, leading down to the
second story of the catacombs. The passages into which it opened were
filled with earth, but, as this was cleared away, a series of chambers
of unusual size, reaching almost to the surface of the soil, was entered
upon. At the right a wide door led into a large chapel. The walls were
covered with rudely scratched names and inscriptions, some in Greek
and some in Latin. De Rossi, whose eyes were practised in the work,
undertook to decipher these often obscure scribblings. They were for the
most part the inscriptions of the pilgrims who had visited these places,
and their great number gave proof that this was a most important portion
of the cemetery. The majority of these were simply names, or names
accompanied with short expressions of piety. Many, for instance, were in
such form as this,--[Greek: Elaphin eis mneian echete],--"Keep Elaphis
in remembrance." Many were expressions of devotion, written by the
pilgrims for the sake of those who were dear to them, as,--_Vivat in
Domino_, "May he live in the Lord"; _Pet[ite] ut Verecundus cum suis
bene naviget_, "Seek that Verecundus with his companions may voyage
prosperously." The character of the writing, the names and the style,
indicate that these inscriptions belong mostly to the third and fourth
centuries. Among these writings on the wall were one or two which
confirmed De Rossi in the opinion that this must be the sepulchre in
which the greater number of the popes of the third century had been
buried. Carefully preserving all the mass of rubbish which was taken
from the chamber, he set himself to its examination, picking out from
it all the bits and fragments of marble, upon many of which letters
or portions of letters were cut. Most of them were of that elaborate
character which is well known to all readers of the inscriptions from
the catacombs as that of Pope Damasus,--for this Pope [A.D. 366-385] had
devoted himself to putting up new inscriptions over celebrated
graves, and had used a peculiar and sharply cut letter, easy to be
distinguished. It was known that he had put new inscriptions over the
tombs of the popes buried in the Cemetery of St. Callixtus. After most
patient examination, De Rossi succeeded in finding and putting together
the inscriptions of four of these early popes, and, with Cuvier-like
sagacity, he reconstructed, out of a hundred and twelve separate,
minute, and scattered pieces, the metrical inscription in which Damasus
expressed his desire to be buried with them, but his fear of vexing
their sacred ashes.[O]

[Footnote O: In another part of the catacombs the remainder of the stone
that had been set over the grave of Cornelius was found. It fitted
precisely the piece first found by De Rossi. The letters upon it
were CORN EP. The whole inscription then read, "Cornelius Martyr,
Ep[iscopus.]" It is rare that a bit of broken stone paves the way to
such discoveries. But it must be a man of genius who walks over the
pavement. Cardinal Wiseman has given an imperfect account of these
discoveries in his diverting novel, _Fabiola_.]

There could no longer be any doubt; this was the Chapel of the
Popes, and that of St. Cecilia must be near by. Proceeding with the
excavations, a door leading into a neighboring crypt was opened. The
crypt was filled with earth and _débris_, which appeared to have
fallen into it through a _luminare_, now choked up with the growth and
accumulated rubbish of centuries. In order to remove the mass of earth
with least risk of injury to the walls of the chamber, it was determined
to take it out through the luminare from above. As the work advanced,
there were discovered on the wall of the luminare itself paintings
of the figures of three men, with a name inscribed at the side of
each,--Policamus, Sebastianus, and Cyrinus. These names inspired fresh
zeal, for they were those of saints who were mentioned in one or more
of the itineraries as having been buried in the same chapel with St.
Cecilia. As the chapel was cleared, a large arcosolium was found, and
near it a painting of a youthful woman, richly attired, adorned with
necklaces and bracelets, and the dress altogether such as might befit
a bride. Below, on the same wall, was a figure of a pope in his robes,
with the name "S[=e][=s] Urbanus" painted at the side: and close to this
figure, a large head of the Saviour, of the Byzantine type, with a glory
in the form of a Greek cross. The character of the paintings showed that
they were of comparatively late date, probably not earlier than the
sixth century, and obviously executed at a time when the chapel was
frequented by worshippers, and before the traditional knowledge of the
exact site of St. Cecilia's sepulchre had been lost.

The discovery made by Paschal after the place had been deserted was thus
repeated by De Rossi after a second, longer, and more obscure period of
oblivion. The divine vision which had led the ancient Pope, according
to his own account, to the right spot, was now replaced by scientific
investigation. The statements of inspiration were confirmed, as in so
many more conspicuous instances, by the discoveries of science. Cecilia
had lain so near the popes, that she might, as she had said to Paschal,
have spoken to him when he was in their chapel, _as ad as_, "mouth to
mouth." But the questions naturally arose, Why was it that in Paschal's
time, before this chapel was encumbered with earth, it had been so
difficult to find her grave? and, Why had not the Lombards, who had
sought for her sacred body, succeeded in finding it? De Rossi was
able to furnish the solution. In several instances he had found walls
carefully built up in front of tombs so as to conceal them. It was plain
that this must have been done with some definite purpose; and it seems
altogether likely that it was to hide these tombs from sacrilegious
invaders. The walls had been built when the faithful were forced by
the presence of their enemies to desert the catacombs and leave them
unprotected. It was a striking illustration of the veneration in which
these holy places had been held. Upon examination of the floor in front
of the areosolium of this chapel, traces of the foundation of a wall
were discovered, and thus the Lombard failure and Paschal's difficulty
were explained.

So ends the story of St Cecilia and her tomb. Within her church are the
remains of the bath-chamber where she suffered death. The mosaics of
the apse and the arch of triumph tell of the first finding of her body;
Maderno's statue recalls the fact of its second discovery long after;
and now this newly opened, long forgotten chapel shows where her
precious body was first laid away in peace, brings the legend of her
faithful death into clearer remembrance, and concludes the ancient story
with dramatic and perfect completeness.

"The Lord discovereth deep things out of darkness, and bringeth out to
light the shadow of death."

[To be continued.]

HAPPINESS.

  Wing-Footed! thou abid'st with him
  That asks it not: but he who hath
  Watched o'er the waves thy fading path
  Will never more on ocean's rim,
  At morn or eve, behold returning
  Thy high-heaped canvas shoreward yearning:
  Thou only teachest us the core
  And inmost meaning of No More,
  Thou, who first showest us thy face
  Turned o'er the shoulder's parting grace,
  And whose sad footprints we can trace
  Away from every mortal door!

THE PURE PEARL OF DIVER'S BAY.

When the great storms raged along the Atlantic coast, they sometimes
tossed a token into Diver's Bay. In more than one of the rude cabins
composing the fishermen's settlement memorials of shipwreck and disaster
might be found; and these memorials did not always fail to kindle
imagination, and to arouse soft feelings of pity for the calamities they
suggested.

One morning, that dawned bright and mild after a week of tempest,
Clarice Briton went out with her coarse basket to gather the sea-weed
tossed on the shore. She was the first child out that morning, and on
account of the late storm, which had prevented the usual daily work, the
harvest was a rich one.

There was always need that Clarice should work with her might when she
found work to do, and she now labored from dawn till sunrise, filling
her basket many times over, until the boards where she spread the weed
to dry were nearly covered. Then she threw herself down to rest by her
father's door. But when the sun was rising she went and sat among the
rocks, and watched the changing of the sky and water, and the flocks of
birds as they came screaming from their nests to dive among the waves
and mount beyond her sight among the mists of morning. She never tired
of watching them, or of gazing on these scenes. She knew the habits of
the shore birds, understood their indications and devices, and whatever
their movements foreboded concerning the weather. Clarice was also
versed in winds and clouds, and knew as well as the wise fishermen what
the north-wind had in store, and what the south-wind would give them.

While she sat resting a few minutes, and wondering that the other
children of the beach were so long in waking to the pleasant day,
suddenly, as she looked down along the rocks that lay between her and
the water, she saw lying near her feet, securely lodged by the waves
among the stones, a basket. It was a very different affair from that
other, lying a few paces off, with which she went about gathering
sea-weed. It was small, and light, and delicately woven,--embroidered,
too, with floss. When she bent forward and picked it up, long strings
of shiny weed dangled dripping from the handles,--and something beside;
for, as she attempted to remove the traces of wild voyaging, something
that was not weed resisted her efforts, and caused her to raise the lid.
As she did so, a chain, which had been partly secured by the closing of
the lid, was disengaged, and fell into her lap.

"What's that, Clarice?" said a voice just above her, as she in amazement
lifted the chain, and endeavored to free it from the weed.

"Oh, Luke, there must have been a wreck! See! I found it just here at
my feet," said Clarice, sorrowfully,--apparently not taken by surprise
by the sudden coming and speaking of Luke Merlyn; she did not even lift
her head, nor for an instant turn to him from what occupied her.

"There's a ring, too, I declare!" said Luke, coming down to her side;
and he took from her lap a small ring, in which was set a solitary
pearl;--the ring had dropped from the chain. "What next? Look in."

Clarice opened the basket again, and turned out the white silk lining,
which was soaking and stained with wild sea-travel. "That is all," said
she.

"That chain is a gold one," remarked Luke Merlyn. "There must have been
a wreck. Who do you suppose these things belonged to? Some lady? Look at
that basket now. She kept her trinkets in it. I suppose lots of 'em got
shook out by the way. I am glad it was you found it, Clarice. Just try
that ring on your finger now; I should think it might fit you."

He took up the ring and looked at Clarice, but she shrunk back
shuddering.

"Oh, no!--I should feel as if it would drag me down to the bottom of the
sea after the owner."

"It's the neatest thing I ever saw, though, Clarice. Look, what a pearl!
You must keep it for your own, any way, if you won't wear it. Nobody
about here is fit but you. The poor little basket, too,--poor little
ark!"

He took it up and looked it over, much as though it were a dead bird, or
some other pretty thing that once had life, and knew bow to enjoy it.

"Are you going out to-day, Luke?" asked Clarice.

"Don't you see I've got the net? Father will be down by the time I'm
ready. We are tired enough hanging about waiting for the blow to be
over."

"May-be you will see something," said Clarice, in an undertone. "If you
could only find out about the ship, and the poor passengers!"

"May-be," answered Luke,--saying this to comfort her. "Is your father
going out to-day?"

"He said he would, last night. I'm glad it came off so pleasant. See
how long this chain is!--a great many times longer than his big
watch-chain!"

"Worth fifty times as much, too."

"Is it?" said Clarice, looking up in wonder, almost incredulous;--but
then Luke had said it.

"This is gold. Come and walk down to the boat, Clarice. How many times
have you filled your basket this morning? You look tired. How did you
come to wake up so soon? I believe I heard you singing, and that was
what brought me out so quick."

"I haven't sung any, Luke," she answered, looking at him in wonder.

"Oh, yes!--I'm sure I heard you. I got up and looked out of my window;
there you were. You are the best girl around, Clarice! Come now, why
don't you say I'm the best fellow? Then we'll be even. I am, you know.
But then I want to hear you say so."

The merry fellow was in earnest, though he laughed. He blushed more
deeply than the girl,--indeed, she did not blush at all,--when he thus
spoke to her. She looked at him a little surprised.

"Come," said he, with gentle coaxing. "I know what you think. Speak out,
and make me feel happy, all the days of my life. If it wasn't that you
feel so about the ring--But why shouldn't you feel solemn about it? It
belonged to some beautiful lady, I suppose, who lies at rest in the
bottom of the sea by this time. _H.H._"--he read the initials engraved
on the clasp of the chain.

Clarice, who held the ring, inadvertently turned it that moment to the
light so that her eyes could not fail to perceive that two letters were
also written by a graver underneath the pearl. These letters likewise
were _H.H._ She gave the ring, to Luke, pointing to the initials.

"Yes, to be sure," said he, examining it with his bright eyes. "It's the
prettiest thing I ever saw. These letters must have stood for something.
Clarice,"--he hesitated a moment,--"Clarice, they might stand for
something yet, _Heart and Hand_. Here they are,--take them,--they're
yours,--my heart and my hand,--till Death comes between!"

"Don't talk that way, Luke," answered the girl, gravely. "Your father is
waiting for you, I'm sure."

But Luke did not believe that she was in such haste to be rid of him.

"He hasn't gone down yet. I've watched," said he. "He'd be willing to
wait, if he knew what I was saying. Besides, if you are in a hurry, it
won't take but a minute to say yes, Clarice. Will you take my heart and
my hand? Here is your ring."

Clarice took the ring and looked away; but, in looking away, her eyes
fell on Luke, and she smiled.

"It's the prettiest thing, that ring is, in the world, except you,
Clarice,"--so the smile made him speak.

"That's new for me," said the girl. "Talk sense, Luke."

"Handsome is that handsome does, say I. And if you a'n't the best
girl in the Bay, Clary, who is, then? When are you going to say yes?"
demanded the young fellow.

"Now," replied Clarice, suddenly.

"Have you taken my heart and hand?" asked the lad as quickly, his face
glowing with delight.

"Yes."

"To keep forever, Clarice?" It seemed, after all, incredible.

"Yes, Luke." And so speaking, the girl meant _yes, forever_.

Now this promise had not really taken either of these children by
surprise. They had long understood each other. But when they had given
a mutual promise, both looked grave. Clarice stood by the water's edge,
careless that time was passing. Luke was in no hurry for his father.

But at length a shrill voice called the girl. Dame Briton stood in the
cabin door, and her angry tongue was laden with reproaches ready for
utterance when Clarice should come within easier reach of her voice.

"I must go," said Clarice to Luke.

"I'll follow you, to-night. Don't work too hard," he answered. "Take
care of my heart, Clarice."

A storm broke upon Clarice when she went home to her mother. She bore
the blame of her idleness with tolerable patience, until it seemed as if
the gale would never blow over. At last some quick words escaped her:--

"Three bushels of weed lie there on the boards ready spread, and drying.
I gathered them before another creature was stirring in Diver's Bay."
Then she added, more gently, "I found something besides."

But though Dame Briton heard, she passed this last bit of information
without remark.

"Idling down there on the beach to see the boys off fishing!" she could
not help saying. "You needn't be up afore the break o' day for work like
that."

"It was Luke Merlyn."

"No matter."

"I showed him what I had found. Ask him if I'm ever too free. He'd know
as quick as anybody,--and care as much."

Clarice, while speaking this, had departed yet farther both in look and
voice from her usual serenity.

The dame let her last words pass without taking them up. She was by this
time curious.

"What did you find?" asked she.

Clarice showed the basket and the gold chain. Her mother handled both
with wondering admiration, asking many a question. At last she threw the
chain around her neck.

"It's gold," said she. "It's worth much. If you could pick up the like
of that every day, you might let the old weed-basket drift."

"I had rather gather weeds till my back was broken doing it, than ever
find another," said Clarice.

The dame took this for a child's exaggeration; observing which, Clarice
said, sadly,--

"Why, don't you see how it came to shore? There's been a wreck in the
storm last week. Oh, may-be I've found all that will tell of it!"

"What's that in your hand?" asked the dame, who spied the ring.

Clarice half opened her palm; she did not like to let the ring pass from
her keeping, and all this while she had stood doubting whether or not
she should show it to her mother.

Dame Briton took it quickly. The dull glitter of greedy eyes fell on the
mild lustre of the pearl, but found no reflection.

"A ring!" said she, and she tried to fit it to her little finger. It
would not pass the first rough joint.

"Try it," said she to Clarice.

"No," was the quiet answer. "But I will keep the ring. It must have been
a lady's. May-be it was a token."

"May-be it was.--If your father should take that chain to the Port,
he might make a handsome bargain,--if he was worth a snap at
bargains.--Here's something; what be these marks? look here, Clarice."

The face of the girl flushed a little as she answered,--"_H. H_."

"_H.H.!_ What does that mean? I wonder."

"May-be the name of the owner," answered Clarice, timidly.

She was thinking, not of what the letters might have meant to others,
but of what they had come to signify to her and Luke.

"Who knows?" answered her mother; and she stood musing and absent, and
her face had a solemn look.

Clarice now took the basket to the fireplace and held it there till it
was dried. With the drying the colors brightened and the sand was easily
brushed away; but many a stain remained on the once dainty white silk
lining; the basket would hardly have been recognized by its owner.
Having dried and cleansed it as well as she was able, Clarice laid it
away in a chest for safe-keeping, and then ate her breakfast, standing.
After that, she went out to work again until the tide should come in.
She left the chain with her mother, but the ring she had tied to a cord,
and hung it around her neck.

By this time the children of the fishermen were all out, and the most
industrious of them at work. They scattered among the rocks and crags,
and wandered up and down the coast three miles, gathering sea-weed,
which it was their custom to dry, and then carry to town, the Port, not
many miles distant, where it was purchased by the glassmakers.

Clarice had neither brother nor sister, and she made little of the
children of the neighboring fishermen; for her life was one of toil, and
her inheritance seemed very different from theirs, though they were all
poor, and ate the crusts of labor.

Her father, had Nature only given him what she seemed to have intended
at the outset, might have been as successful a fisherman as lived at
the Bay. But he trusted to luck, and contrived to make half of what he
earned a serious damage to him. The remainder was little enough for the
comfort of his family, small though that family was.

Briton was a good fellow, everybody said. They meant that he was always
ready for sport, and time-wasting, and drinking, and that sort of
generosity which is the shabbiest sort of selfishness. They called him
"Old Briton," but he was not, by many, the oldest man in Diver's Bay;
he might have been the wickedest, had he not been the jolliest, and
incapable of hiding malice in his heart. And if I said he was out and
out the wickedest, I should request that people would refrain from
lifting up their hands in horror, on account of the poor old fellow. We
all know--alas, perhaps, we all love--wickeder souls than could have
been produced from among the older fishermen, had all their sins been
concentrated in one individual.

Old Briton was what the people called a lucky fisherman. In seasons when
he chose to work, the result was sufficiently obvious, to himself and
others, to astonish both. But even in the best seasons he was a bad
manager. He trusted everybody, and found, to his astonishment, how few
deserve to be trusted.

Dame Briton was a stout, loud-talking woman, whom experience had not
softened in her ways of speech or thought or action. She was generally
at strife with her husband, but the strife was most illogical. It did
not admit of a single legitimate deduction in the mind of a third
person. It seemed sometimes as if the pair were possessed of the
instincts of those animals which unite for mutual destruction, and as if
their purpose were to fulfil their destiny with the utmost rapidity.

In the years when Dame Briton, by nature proud and ambitious, was
putting forth the most successful efforts she ever made at decent
housekeeping, endeavoring to transform her husband into such a person as
he was not born to be, striving hard to work her will,--in those years
Clarice was born.

Is the pearl a product of disease?

Clarice grew up in the midst of influences not the purest or most
elevating. She was not by nature gay, but silent, truthful, and
industrious. She was no coward by nature, and her training made her
brave and hardy. Sometimes Old Briton called her his boy, and exacted
from her the service of a son. Dame Briton did not quarrel with him for
that; she was as proud as the fisherman of any feat of skill or strength
or courage performed by Clarice. In their way they were both fond of the
child, but their fondness had strange manifestation; and of much tender
speech, or fondling, or praise, the girl stood in no danger.

Idleness especially was held up before her, from the outset, as the most
destructive evil and dire iniquity of which human creature was capable;
and Old Briton, lounging about all day with his pipe in his mouth,--by
no means a rare spectacle,--did not interfere with the lesson the
child's mother enforced. Winter and summer there was enough for the
little feet and hands to do. So, as Clarice grew up, she earned the best
reputation for industry of any girl in Diver's Bay.

Before she became the praise of the serious Bay people, Luke Merlyn's
bright eyes were on the little girl, and he had a settled habit of
seeking times and opportunities for quiet talks with her. He liked to
ask and follow her advice in many matters. Many a heavy basket of weeds
had he helped her carry home from the rocks; many a shell and pebble had
he picked up in his coast-work, when he went beyond the limits of the
Bay,--because he knew the good girl had a liking for every pretty thing.

If Clarice Briton was the finest girl, Luke Merlyn, beyond question, was
the most promising fellow in this little village of fishermen. He was
strong, active, ready for any undertaking that required a bold spirit
and firm hand,--was quicker in thought and readier in speech than any
lad about. He had a little personal vanity,--and good looks to encourage
the same; but he had besides a generous heart, and the conviction was
general, whether expressed or not, that in Luke a man was growing up who
would some day take the lead among the fishermen of Diver's Bay. He had
a livelier fancy, a more active imagination, than any lad thereabout;
these qualities of mind, united to his courage and warmth of heart,
seemed to point toward a future worth arriving at.

II.

When Luke returned from fishing, towards evening, he went down to
Briton's cabin, hardly taking time to remove from his person the traces
of his day of toil, his haste was so great.

Briton had arrived before him, and now sat at supper with his cup of
grog beside him. When Luke entered, Dame Briton was exhibiting the gold
chain, reserved, in spite of her impatience, till she had cooked the
supper.

It was partly on account of this chain that Luke had made such haste in
coming. He felt interested in the fortunes of the family to-night, and
he knew Briton's habit of bargaining and throwing away treasure.

Clarice was standing on the hearth when he arrived. As Luke passed the
window, he thought her face looked very sad; but when he crossed the
threshold, the expression greatly changed, or else he was mistaken. She
had been telling her father how she found the chain,--but concerning the
ring was silent, as in the morning. That ring was still fastened to its
cord, and hung about her neck. With reluctance she had shown it even
to her mother, and by this time, having scarcely thought of anything
beside, it possessed an almost sacred charm to her eyes. Why should I
not say it was the most sacred of all things to her, since that is but
true?

"Is that the chain," asked Luke, as he came up behind the fisherman's
chair, and clapped Old Briton on the shoulder. "You could trade that for
a silver watch."

"What's that?" asked Briton, quickly taking up the lad's words; and he
pulled out his pewter watch and laid it on the table. "A silver watch?"
said he.

"A silver watch, as good as ever run, for that gold chain. Just see how
fine it is!"

"So, so!" said the fisherman, thoughtfully resting his rough chin in his
broad palm. That was his attitude, when, at home, he contemplated any
of those famous bargains which always turned out so differently from
anything that he anticipated.

"Let Luke do the trading for ye," said Briton's wife, quickly
recognizing his symptoms.

She looked from the lad to her daughter, and back again, five or six
times in a second,--seeing more than most people could have seen in
observation apparently so careless and superficial.

"I kept a sharp look out, Clary, all day, but I saw nothing," said Luke,
going over to the hearth.

"Nothing,--but," he added, she looked so disappointed, "but, for all
that, some one else may."

"Oh, I hope so"!"

"What are you talking about?" asked Briton.

"The shipwreck," said Luke.

"Oh!--well, Luke,--will you make the trade, Sir? What do _you_ say,
Clarice? The chain belongs to you, after all," said Briton, with a
laugh,--he could not help the shipwreck. "What are you going to do with
it, my girl?"

"It is yours, father."

"Thank ye!--a present!" Old Briton looked well pleased.

"And if Luke will take it over"--

"I'll go to-night," said Luke, ready to start that moment, if such was
the wish of any person in the house.

Briton laughed. "No, you won't," said he. "What the deuse!--Sit down and
take something. What are you all standing about for? Sit down. You shall
do the trading, Luke. There now, I've said it, and I hope you are all
easy."

He laughed again; for he knew very well--he had often enough heard it
stated in full--the estimate set on his skill in making a bargain.

"You haven't seen the ring yet?" said Dame Briton, quite kindly, now
that this matter was settled to her mind. "Where's the ring, Clarice?"

Other eyes were on the girl besides those of her mother. Old Briton
pushed back his dish, and looked at Clarice. Luke was smiling. That
smile became joyful and beautiful to see, when Clarice, blushing,
removed the string from her neck and showed the ring.

"That's neat," said Briton, turning the delicate ornament round and
round, examining its chaste workmanship admiringly. "I never saw a
pearl like that, Mother. What do you wear it round your neck for,
Clarice?--put it on your finger."

Luke Merlyn had come to Briton's cabin to explain how matters stood
between him and Clarice, as well as to look after the other bargain.
Taking advantage of her hesitation, he now said,--

"She could not wear it at her work. And it's a token betwixt her and me.
_Heart and Hand_. Don't you see the letters? That's what they mean to
us."

Luke spoke out so boldly, that Clarice ceased to tremble; and when he
took her hand and held it, she was satisfied to stand there and answer,
that the joined hands were a symbol of the united hearts.

"What's that, old woman?" asked Briton, looking at his wife, as if for
an explanation.

"Luke, what do you mean? Are you asking for Clarice?" inquired the dame.

"Yes, Mrs. Briton."

"That's right enough, old woman," said Briton; and strong approval,
together with some emotion, was in his voice.

"Babes in arms, both of 'em! But a promise a'n't no hurt,"--was the
dame's comment. Neither was she quite unmoved, as she looked at the
young pair standing on the hearth; such another, her heart told her, was
not to be found in Diver's Bay.

"Clarice is a good girl, Luke Merlyn," said Old Briton, solemnly.

"She is so," confirmed the mother. "So take the ring there for your
token."

Luke came forward and received the ring from Old Briton, and he laid the
string that held it round Clarice's neck.

"Take this chain," said Briton, with a softened voice. "It's fitter than
the string, and none too good for Clarice. Take it, Luke, and put the
ring on't."

"I'm going to trade that chain for a silver watch," said Luke, answering
according to the light he saw in the eyes of Clarice. "That chain is
Clary's wedding present to her father."

"Thank you, Luke," said Briton,--and he drew his hand across his eyes,
not for a pretence. Then he took up his old pewter watch, the companion
of many years; he looked at it without and within, silently; perhaps was
indulging in a little sentimental reflection; but he put it into his
pocket without speaking, and went on with his supper, as if nothing had
happened.

This took place before Clarice was fourteen years of age. At seventeen
she was still living under her father's roof, and between her and Luke
Merlyn the pearl ring still remained a token.

Luke used to praise her beauty when there was little of it to praise.
He was not blinder when the young face began to be conspicuous for the
growing loveliness of the spirit within. The little slender figure
sprang up into larger, fuller life, with vigor, strength, and grace; the
activity of her thoughts and the brightness of their intelligence became
evident, as well as the tenderness and courage of her heart. Her own
home, and many another, was the better for Clarice.

Some Sunday in this summer of her seventeenth year, when the missionary
came down to the Bay, they were to be married. It was settled where they
were to live. A few years before, a young artist came to the Bay and
built a cabin near the settlement; there, during the summer months, he
lodged, for several seasons,--spending his time in studying the rocks
of the coast and sailing about in his pleasure-boat. The last autumn he
spent here he gave the cabin to Luke, in consideration of some generous
service, and it was well known that to this home Luke would bring his
wife ere long.

III.

But one bright day of this gay summer of anticipated bridal, Luke Merlyn
went with his father, taking the fishing-nets, and a dozen men beside
sailed or rowed out from the moorings; and all that went returned, save
Merlyn and his son,--returned alive, but rowing desperately, sails
furled, rowing for life in the gale. Nearly all the women and children
of the Bay were down on the beach at nightfall, watching for the coming
of husband, son, and brother; and before dark all had arrived except
Merlyn and his Luke.

The wind was blowing with terrific violence, and darkness fell on the
deep like despair. But until the windows of heaven were opened, and the
floods poured down, Clarice Briton and her father, and the wife and
children of Merlyn, stood on the beach, or climbed the rocks, and waited
and tried to watch.

There was little sleep among them all that night. With the first
approach of day, Clarice, who had sat all night by the fire watching
with her fears, was out again waiting till dawn should enable her
to search the shore. She was not long alone. The fishermen gathered
together, and when they saw the poor girl who had come before them, for
her sake they comforted each other, as men dare,--and for her sake, more
than their own, when they saw that there had come in to shore by night
no token of disaster. Doubtless, they argued, Merlyn had put into the
nearest port when the sudden storm arose. As the day advanced, they one
after another got out their boats, and rowed down the bay, but did not
take their nets.

Bondo Emmins went out with Old Briton, and Clarice heard him say, though
he did not address her, that, if Luke Merlyn was alive, they would never
come home without him. Now Bondo Emmins never loved Luke Merlyn, for
Luke won every prize that Bondo coveted; and Bondo was not a hero to
admire such superior skill. When Clarice heard his words, and saw that
he was going out with her father, her heart stood still; it did not
bless him; she turned away quickly, faint, cold, shivering. What he said
had to her ears the sound of an assurance that this search was vain.

All day there was sad waiting, weary watching, around Diver's Bay. And
late in the afternoon but one or two of the boats that went out in
search had returned.

Towards evening Clarice walked away to the Point, three miles off;
thence she could watch the boats as they approached the Bay from the
ocean. Once before, that day, under the scorching noontide sun, she had
gone thither,--and now again, for she could not endure the sympathy of
friends or the wondering watch of curious eyes. It was better than to
stand and wait,--better than to face the grief of Merlyn's wife and
children,--better than to see the pity in her neighbors' faces, or even
than to hear the voice of her own mother.

The waves had freight for her that evening. When the tide came in, and
her eyes were lifted, gazing afar, scanning the broad expanse of water
with such searching, anxious vision, as, it seemed, nothing could
escape, Luke Merlyn's cap was dashed to her very feet, tossed from the
grave.

Moving back to escape the encroaching tide, Clarice saw the cap lying,
caught on the cragged point of rock before her. Oh, she knew it well!
She stooped,--she took it up,--she need not wait for any other token.
She dared not look upon the sea again. She turned away. But whither?
Where now was her home? So long a time, since she was a child, it had
been in the heart of Luke! Where was that heart lying? What meant this
token sent to her from the deep sea? Oh, life and love! was not all now
over? Heart still, hand powerless, home lost, she sat on the beach till
night fell. At sunset she stood up to look once more up and down the
mighty field of waters, along the shore, as far as her eyes could
reach,--but saw nothing. Then she sat down again, and waited until long
after the stars appeared. Once or twice the thought that her mother
would wonder at her long absence moved her; but she impatiently
controlled the feeble impulse to arise and return, until she recalled
the words of Bondo Emmins. Luke's mother, too,--and the cap in her care.
If no one else had tidings for her, she had tidings.

Her father had reached home before her, and there was now no watcher on
the beach, so far as Clarice could discover. Perhaps there was no longer
any doubt in any mind. She hurried to the cabin. At the door she met
Bondo Emmins coming out. He had a lantern in his hand.

"Is that you, Clarice?" said he. "I was just going to look for you."

She scanned his face by the glare of the lantern with terrible
eagerness, to see what tidings he had for her. He only looked grave. It
was a face whose signs Clarice had never wholly trusted, but she did not
doubt them now.

"I have found his cap," said she, in a low, troubled voice. "You said,
that, if he was alive, you would find him. I heard you. What have you
found?"

"Nothing."

Then she passed by him, though he would have spoken further. She went
into the house and sat down on the hearth with Luke's cap in her hand,
which she held up before the fire to dry. So she sat one morning holding
the tiny basket which the waves had dashed ashore.

Briton and his wife looked at each other, and at young Emmins, who,
after a moment's hesitation, had put out the lantern light, and followed
her back into the house.

"It is his cap," said Bondo, in a low voice, but not so low as to escape
the ear of Clarice.

"The sea sent it for a token," said she, without turning her gaze from
the fire.

The old people moved up to the hearth.

"Sit down, Emmins," said Briton. "You've served us well to-day." In any
trouble Old Briton's comfort was in feeling a stout wall of flesh around
him.

Bondo sat down. Then he and Briton helped each other explain the course
taken by themselves and the other boat-men that day, and they talked of
what they would do on the morrow; but they failed to comfort Clarice,
or to awaken in her any hope. She knew that in reality they had no hope
themselves.

"They will never come back," said she. "You will never find them."

She spoke so calmly that her father was deceived. If this was her
conviction, it would be safe to speak his own.

"The tide may bring the poor fellows in," said he.

At these words the cap which the poor girl held fell from her hand.
She spoke no more. No word or cry escaped her,--not by a look did she
acknowledge that there was community in this grief,--as solitary as if
she were alone in the universe, she sat gazing into the fire. She was
not overcome by things external, tangible, as she had been when she sat
alone out on the sea-beach at the Point. The world in an instant seemed
to sink out of her vision, and time from her consciousness; her soul set
out on a search in which her mortal sense had failed,--and here no arm
of flesh could help her.

"I shall find him," she said, in a whisper. They all heard her, and
looked at one another, trouble and wonder in their faces. "I shall find
him," she repeated, in a louder tone; and she drew herself up, and bent
forward,--but her eyes saw not the cheerful fire-light, her ears took
in no sound of crackling fagot, rising wind, or muttered fear among the
three who sat and looked at her.

Bondo Emmins had taken up the cap when Clarice dropped it,--he had
examined it inside and out, and passed it to Dame Briton. There was
no mistaking the ownership. Not a child of Diver's Bay but would have
recognized it as the property of Luke Merlyn. The dame passed it to the
old man, who looked at it through tears, and then smoothed it over his
great fist, and came nearer to the fire, and silence fell upon them all.

At last Dame Briton said, beginning stoutly, but ending with a sob, "Has
anybody seen poor Merlyn's wife? Who'll tell her? Oh! oh!"

"I will go tell her that Clarice found the cap," said Bondo Emmins,
rising.

Clarice sat like one in a stupor,--but, that was no dull light shining
from her eyes. Still she seemed deaf and dumb; for, when Bondo bade her
good-night, she did not answer him, nor give the slightest intimation
that she was aware of what passed around her.

But when he was gone, and her father said,--"Come, Clarice,--now for
bed,--you'll wake the earlier,"--she instantly arose to act on his
suggestion.

He followed her to the door of her little chamber and lingered there a
moment. He wanted to say something for comfort, but had nothing to say;
so he turned away in silence, and drank a pint of grog.

IV.

Bondo Emmins was not a native of Diver's Bay. Only during the past three
or four years had he lived among the fishermen. He called the place his
home, but now and then indications of restlessness escaped him, and
seemed to promise years of wandering, rather than a life of patient,
contented industry. He and Luke Merlyn were as unlike as any two young
men that ever fished in the same bay. Luke was as firm, constant,
reliable, from the day when he first managed a net, as any veteran whose
gray hairs are honorable. Emmins flashed here and there like a wandering
star; and whatever people might say of him when he was out of sight, he
had the art of charming them to admiration while they were under his
personal influence. He was lavish with his money; almost every cabin had
a gift from him. He could talk forever, and with many was a true oracle.
Though he worked regularly at his business, work seemed turned to play
when he took it in hand. He could shout so as to be heard across the
ocean,--so the children thought; he told stories better than any; and at
the signal of his laughter it seemed as if the walls themselves would
shake to pieces. When he hit on a device, it was strange indeed if
he did not succeed in executing it; and no one was the wiser for the
mortification and inward displeasure of the man, when he failed in any
enterprise.

When Emmins came to Diver's Bay Clarice Briton was but a child, yet
already the promised wife of Luke Merlyn. If this fact was made known
to him, as very probably it was, Clarice was not a girl to excite his
admiration or win his love. But as time passed on, Emmins found that he
was not the only man in Diver's Bay; of all men to regard as a rival,
there was Luke Merlyn! Luke, who went quietly about his business,
interfering with no one, careful, brave, exact, had a firm place among
the people, which might for a time be overshadowed, but from which he
could not be moved. Two or three times Bondo Emmins stumbled against
that impregnable position, and found that he must take himself out of
the way. A small jealousy, a sharp rivalry, which no one suspected,
quietly sprang up in his mind, and influenced his conduct; and he was
not one who ever attempted to subdue or destroy what he found within
him, he was instead always endeavoring to bring the outer world
into harmony with what he found within. A fine time he had of it,
persistently laboring to make a victim of himself to himself!

People praised Clarice Briton, and now and then Emmins looked that way,
and saw that the girl, indeed, was well enough. He despised Luke, and
Clarice seemed a very proper match for him. But while Bondo Emmins was
managing in his own way, and cherishing the feeling he had against Luke,
by seeking to prove himself the braver and more skilful fellow, Clarice
was growing older in years and in love, her soul was growing brighter,
her heart was getting lighter, her mind clearer,--her womanhood was
unfolding in a certain lovely manner that was discernible to other eyes
than those of Luke Merlyn. Luke said it was the ring that wrought the
change,--that he could see its light all around her,--that it had a
charm of which they could know nothing save by its results, for its
secret had perished with its owner in the sea. His mermaid he would
sometimes call her,--and declared that often, by that mysterious pearly
light, he saw Clarice when far out at sea, and that at any time by two
words he could bring her to him. She knew the words,--they were as dear
to her as to him.

While Clarice was thus unfolding to this loveliness through love, Bondo
Emmins suddenly saw her as if for the first time. The vision was to him
as surprising as if the ring had indeed a power of enchantment, and
it had been thrown around him. He was as active and as resolute in
attempting to persuade himself that all this was nothing to him as
he was active and resolute in other endeavors,--but he was not as
successful as he supposed he should be. For it was not enough that
Emmins should laugh at himself, and say that the pretty couple were
meant for each other. Now and then, by accident, he obtained a glimpse
of Clarice's happy heart; the pearl-like secret of their love, which was
none the less a secret because everybody knew that Luke and Clarice were
to be married some day, would sometimes of itself unexpectedly give some
token, which he, it seemed, could better appreciate than any one beside
the parties concerned. When some such glimpse was obtained, some such
token received, Bondo Emmins would retire within himself to a most
gloomy seclusion; there was a world which had been conquered, and
therein he had no foothold. If Clarice wore the pearl in her bosom, on
Luke's head was a crown, and Bondo Emmins just hated him for that.

But he never thought of a very easy method by which he might have
escaped the trouble of his jealousy. The great highway of ocean was open
before him, and millions of men beside Luke Merlyn were in the world,
millions of women beside Clarice Briton. No! Diver's Bay,--and a score
of people,--and a thought that smelt like brimstone, and fiery enough
to burn through the soul that tried to keep it,--this for
him;--fishing,--making bargains,--visiting at Old Briton's,--making
presents to the dame,--telling stories, singing songs by that fireside,
and growing quieter by every other,--that was the way he did it;--cured
himself of jealousy? No! made himself a fool.

Old Briton liked this young man; he could appreciate his excellences
even better than he could those of Luke; there were some points
of resemblance between them. Emmins was as careless of money, as
indifferent to growing rich, as Briton ever was; the virtues of the
youth were not such as ever reproached the vices of the veteran. They
could make boisterous merriment in each other's company. Briton's praise
was never lacking when Bondo's name was mentioned. He accepted service
of the youth, and the two were half the time working in partnership. In
the cabin he had always a welcome, and Dame Briton gave him her entire
confidence.

Luke did not fear, he had once admired the man; and because he was a
peace-maker by nature, and could himself keep the peace, he never took
any of Bondo's scathing speech in anger nor remembered it against him.
Usually he joined in the laugh, unless some brave, manly word were
required; honorable in his nature, he could not be always jealous in
maintaining that of which he felt so secure.

If Clarice did not penetrate the cause, she clearly saw the fact that
Bondo Emmins had no love for Luke. She might wonder at it, but Luke
suffered no loss in consequence,--it was rather to his praise, she
thought, that this was so. And she remembered the disputes between the
young men which she had chanced to hear, only to decide again, as she
had often decided, in favor of Luke's justice and truth.

When the time of great trouble came, and this man was going out with her
father in search of Merlyn and his son, her impulse, had she acted on
it, would have prevented him. He looked so strong, so proud, in spite
of his solemn face! He looked so full of life, she could not endure to
think that his eyes might discover the dead body of poor Luke.

When she came home and found that he had returned with her father,
before her, on the evening of that day of vain search for Merlyn and his
son, a strange satisfaction came to Clarice for a moment,--touched her
heart and passed,--was gone as it came. When she said, "I shall find
him," conviction, as well as determination, was in the words,--and more
beside than entered the ears of those that heard her.

[To be continued.]

THE STORY OF KARIN.

A DANISH LEGEND.

  Karin the fair, Karin the gay,
  She came on the morn of her bridal day,--

  She came to the mill-pond clear and bright,
  And viewed hersel' in the morning light.

  "And oh," she cried, "that my bonny brow
  May ever be white and smooth as now!

  "And oh, my hair, that I love to braid,
  Be yellow in sunshine, and brown in shade!

  "And oh, my waist, sae slender and fine,
  May it never need girdle longer than mine!"

  She lingered and laughed o'er the waters clear,
  When sudden she starts, and shrieks in fear:--

  "Oh, what is this face, sae laidly old,
  That looks at my side in the waters cold?"

  She turns around to view the bank,
  And the osier willows dark and dank;--

  And from the fern she sees arise
  An aged crone wi' awsome eyes,

  "Ha! ha!" she laughed, "ye're a bonny bride!
  See how ye'll fare gin the New Year tide!

  "Ye'll wear a robe sae blithely gran',
  An ell-long girdle canna span.

  "When twal-months three shall pass away,
  Your berry-brown hair shall be streaked wi' gray.

  "And gin ye be mither of bairnies nine,
  Your brow shall be wrinkled and dark as mine."

  Karin she sprang to her feet wi' speed,
  And clapped her hands abune her head:--

  "I pray to the saints and spirits all
  That never a child may me mither call!"

  The crone drew near, and the crone she spake:--
  "Nine times flesh and banes shall ache.

  "Laidly and awsome ye shall wane
  Wi' toil, and care, and travail-pain."

  "Better," said Karin, "lay me low,
  And sink for aye in the water's flow!"

  The crone raised her withered hand on high,
  And showed her a tree that stood hard by.

  "And take of the bonny fruit," she said,
  "And eat till the seeds are dark and red.

  "Count them less, or count them more,
  Nine times you shall number o'er;--

  "And when each number you shall speak,
  Cast seed by seed into the lake."

  Karin she ate of the fruit sae fine;
  'Twas mellow as sand, and sweet as brine.

  Seed by seed she let them fall;
  The waters rippled over all.

  But ilka seed as Karin threw,
  Uprose a bubble to her view,--

  Uprose a sigh from out the lake,
  As though a baby's heart did break.

  Twice nine years are come and gone;
  Karin the fair she walks her lone.

  She sees around, on ilka side,
  Maiden and mither, wife and bride.

  Wan and pale her bonny brow,
  Sunken and sad her eyelids now.

  Slow her step, and heavy her breast,
  And never an arm whereon to rest.

  The old kirk-porch when Karin spied,
  The postern-door was open wide.

  "Wae's me!" she said, "I'll enter in
  And shrive me from my every sin."

  'Twas silence all within the kirk;
  The aisle was empty, chill, and mirk.

  The chancel-rails were black and bare;
  Nae priest, nae penitent was there.

  Karin knelt, and her prayer she said;
  But her heart within her was heavy and dead.

  Her prayer fell back on the cold gray stone;
  It would not rise to heaven alone.

  Darker grew the darksome aisle,
  Colder felt her heart the while.

  "Wae's me!" she cried, "what is my sin?
  Never I wrongèd kith nor kin.

  "But why do I start and quake wi' fear
  Lest I a dreadful doom should hear?

  "And what is this light that seems to fall
  On the sixth command upon the wall?

  "And who are these I see arise
  And look on me wi' stony eyes?

  "A shadowy troop, they flock sae fast
  The kirk-yard may not hold the last.

  "Young and old of ilk degree,
  Bairns, and bairnies' bairns, I see.

  "All I look on either way,
  'Mother, mother!' seem to say.

  "'We are souls that might have been,
  But for your vanity and sin.

  "'We, in numbers multiplied,
  Might have lived, and loved, and died,--

  "'Might have served the Lord in this,--
  Might have met thy soul in bliss.

  "'Mourn for us, then, while you pray,
  Who might have been, but never may!'"

  Thus the voices died away,--
  "Might have been, but never may!"

  Karin she left the kirk no more;
  Never she passed the postern-door.

  They found her dead at the vesper toll;--
  May Heaven in mercy rest her soul!

THE ABBÉ DE L'ÉPÉE.

It was well said, by one who has himself been a leader in one of the
great philanthropic enterprises of the day,[A] that, "if the truthful
history of any invention were written, we should find concerned in it
the thinker, who dreams, without reaching the means of putting his
imaginings in practice,--the mathematician, who estimates justly the
forces at command, in their relation to each other, but who forgets to
proportion them to the resistance to be encountered,--and so on, through
the thousand intermediates between the dream and the perfect idea, till
one comes who combines the result of the labor of all his predecessors,
and gives to the invention new life, and with it his name."

[Footnote A: M. Edouard Seguin.]

Such was the history of the movement for the education of deaf-mutes.
There had been a host of dreamy thinkers, who had invented, on paper,
processes for the instruction of these unfortunates, men like Cardan,
Bonet, Amman, Dalgarno, and Lana-Terzi, whose theories, in after years,
proved seeds of thought to more practical minds. There had been men
who had experimented on the subject till they were satisfied that
the deaf-mute could be taught, but who lacked the nerve, or the
philanthropy, to apply the results they had attained to the general
instruction of the deaf and dumb, or who carefully concealed their
processes, that they might leave them as heir-looms to their
families;--among the former may be reckoned Pedro de Ponce, Wallis, and
Pietro da Castro; among the latter, Pereira and Braidwood.

Yet there was wanting the man of earnest philanthropic spirit and
practical tact, who should glean from all these whatever of good there
was in their theories, and apply it efficiently in the education of
those who through all the generations since the flood had been dwellers
in the silent land, cut off from intercourse with their fellow-men, and
consigned alike by the philosopher's dictum and the theologian's decree
to the idiot's life and the idiot's destiny.

It was to such a work that the Abbé de l'Épée consecrated his life. But
he did more than this; he, too, was a discoverer, and to his mind was
revealed, in all its fulness and force, that great principle which lies
at the basis of the system of instruction which he initiated,--"that
there is no more necessary or natural connection between abstract ideas
and the articulate sounds which strike the ear, than there is between
the same ideas and the written characters which address themselves to
the eye." It was this principle, derided by the many, dimly perceived by
the few, which led to the development of _the sign-language_, the means
which God had appointed to unlock the darkened understanding of the
deaf-mute, but which man, in his self-sufficiency and blindness, had
over-looked.

It is interesting to trace the history of such a man,--to know something
of his childhood,--to learn under what influences he was reared, to what
temptations exposed,--to see the guiding hand of Providence shaping his
course, subjecting him to the discipline of trial, thwarting his most
cherished projects, crushing his fondest hopes, and all, that by these
manifold crosses he may be the better prepared for the place for which
God has destined him. We regret that so little is recorded of this truly
great and good man, but we will lay that little before our readers.

Charles Michel de l'Épée was born at Versailles, November 5th, 1712. His
father, who held the post of Architect to the King, in an age remarkable
above any other in French history for the prevalence of immorality,
which even the refinement and pretended sanctity of the court and
nobility could not disguise, was a man of deep piety and purity of
character. Amid the lust, selfishness, and hypocrisy of the age,
he constantly sought to impress upon the minds of his children the
importance of truthfulness, the moderation of desire, reverence for God,
and love for their fellow-men.

To the young Charles Michel compliance with the behests of such a parent
was no difficult task; naturally amiable and obedient, the instructions
of his father sunk deep into his heart. At an early age, he manifested
that love of goodness which made every form of vice utterly distasteful
to him; and in after years, when he heard of the struggles of those who,
with more violent passions or less careful parental training, sought to
lead the Christian life, his own pure and peaceful experience seemed
to him wanting in perfection, because he had so seldom been called to
contend with temptation.

As manhood approached, and he was required to fix upon a profession, his
heart instinctively turned toward a clerical life, not, as was the case
with so many of the young priests of that day, for its honors, its
power, or its emoluments, but because, in that profession, he might
the better fulfil the earnest desire of his heart to do good to his
fellow-men. He accordingly commenced the study of theology. Here all
went well for a time; but when he sought admission to deacon's orders,
he was met by unexpected opposition. To a pious mind, like that of young
De l'Épée, the consistent and Scriptural views of the Jansenists, not
less than their pure and virtuous lives, were highly attractive, and
through the influence of a clerical friend, a nephew of the celebrated
Bossuet, he had been led to examine and adopt them. The diocesan to whom
he applied for deacon's orders was a Jesuit, and, before he would admit
him, he required him to sign a formula of doctrine which was abhorrent
alike to his reason and his conscience. He refused at once, and, on his
refusal, his application was rejected; and though subsequently admitted
to the diaconate, he was insultingly told by his superior, that he need
not aspire to any higher order, for it should not be granted.

It was with a saddened heart that he found himself thus compelled to
forego long cherished hopes of usefulness. With that glowing imagination
which characterized him even in old age, he had looked forward to the
time when, as the curate of some retired parish, he might encourage the
devout, reprove and control the erring, and, by his example, counsel,
and prayers, so mould and influence the little community, that it should
seem another Eden. But an overruling Providence had reserved for him a
larger field of usefulness, a more extended mission of mercy, and it was
through the path of trial that he was to be led to it.

Regarding it as his duty to employ his time, he at length determined
to enter the legal profession. He passed with rapidity through the
preliminary course of study, and was admitted to the bar. The practice
of the law was not, at that time, in France, nor is it, indeed, now,
invested with the high character attaching to it in England. Its
codes and rules bore the impress of a barbarous age; and among its
practitioners, fraud, artifice, and chicanery were the rule, and honesty
the rare and generally unfortunate exception.

For such a profession the pure-minded De l'Épée found himself entirely
unfitted, and, abandoning it with loathing, his eyes and heart were
again directed toward the profession of his choice, and, this time,
apparently not in vain. His early friend, M. de Bossuet, had been
elevated to the see of Troyes, and, knowing his piety and zeal, offered
him a canonry in his cathedral, and admitted him to priest's orders.
The desire of his heart was now gratified, and he entered upon his new
duties with the utmost ardor. "In all the diocese of Troyes," says one
of his contemporaries, "there was not so faithful a priest."

But his hopes were soon to be blasted. Monseigneur de Bossuet died, and,
as the Jansenist controversy was at its height, his old enemies, the
Jesuits, exerted their influence with the Archbishop of Paris, and
procured an interdict, prohibiting him from ever again exercising the
functions of the priesthood.

A severer blow could scarcely have fallen upon him. He sought not for
honor, he asked not for fame or worldly renown; he had only desired to
be useful, to do good to his fellow-men; and now, just as his hopes were
budding into fruition, just as some results of his faithful labors were
beginning to appear, all were cut off by the keen breath of adversity.

It was while suffering from depression, at his unjust exclusion from
the duties of his calling, that his attention was first directed to the
unfortunate class to whom he was to be the future evangelist, or bringer
of good tidings. Bébian thus relates the incident which led him to
undertake the instruction of the deaf and dumb:--

"He happened one day to enter a house, where he found two young females
engaged in needlework, which seemed to occupy their whole attention. He
addressed them, but received no answer. Somewhat surprised at this, he
repeated his question; but still there was no reply; they did not even
lift their eyes from the work before them. In the midst of the Abbé's
wonder at this apparent rudeness, their mother entered the room, and
the mystery was at once explained. With tears she informed him that
her daughters were deaf and dumb; that they had received, by means
of pictures, a little instruction from Father Farnin, a benevolent
ecclesiastic of the order of "Christian Brothers," in the neighborhood;
but that he was now dead, and her poor children were left without any
one to aid their intellectual progress.--'Believing,' said the Abbé,
'that these two unfortunates would live and die in ignorance of
religion, if I made no effort to instruct them, my heart was filled with
compassion, and I promised, that, if they were committed to my charge, I
would do all for them that I was able.'"

It was in 1755 that the Abbé de l'Épée thus entered upon his great
mission. Six years before, Jacob Rodriguez de Pereira had come from
Spain, and exhibited some deaf and dumb pupils whom he had taught,
before the Academy of Sciences. They were able to speak indifferently
well, and had attained a moderate degree of scientific knowledge.
Pereira himself was a man of great learning, of the most agreeable and
fascinating manners, and possessed, in a high degree, that tact and
address in which the Spanish Jews have never been surpassed. He soon
made a very favorable impression upon the court, and led a pleasant life
in the society of the literary men of the age. During his residence in
France, he taught some five or six mutes of high rank to speak and to
make considerable attainments in science,--charging for this service
most princely fees, and at the same time binding his pupils to perfect
secrecy in regard to his methods, which it was his intention to
bequeathe to his family. This intention was thwarted, however, soon
after his death, by a fire which destroyed nearly all his papers, and to
this day his method has remained a secret, unknown even to his children.
It is certain, however, that he made no use of the sign-language, though
there is some evidence that he invented and practised a system of
syllabic dactylology. Of this, the only successful effort which, up to
that time, had been made in France, to teach deaf-mutes, it is obvious
that De l'Épée could have known nothing, save the fact that it
demonstrated the capacity of some of this class to receive instruction.
It is, indeed, certain, from his own statements, that, at the time of
commencing his labors, he had no knowledge of any works on the subject.
He had somewhere picked up the manual alphabet invented by Bonet in
1620; and in subsequent years he derived some advantages from the works
of Cardan, Bonet, Amman, Wallis, and Dalgarno.

It was well for the deaf and dumb that he entered upon his work thus
untrammelled by any preconceived theory; for he was thus prepared to
adopt, without prejudice, whatever might facilitate the great object
for which he labored. "I have not," he said, in a letter to Pereira, in
which he challenged an open comparison of their respective systems of
instruction, promising to adopt his, should it prove to be better than
his own,--"I have not the silly pride of desiring to be an inventor;
I only wish to do something for the benefit of the deaf-mutes of all
coming ages."

We have already adverted to the great principle which lay at the
foundation of his system of instruction. The corollary deduced from
this, that the idea was substantive, and had an existence separate
from and independent of all words, written or spoken, was a startling
proposition in those days, however harmless we may now regard it.
But, convinced of its truth, De l'Épée set to himself the problem of
discovering how this _idea_ could be presented to the mind of the mute
without words; and in their gestures and signs he found his problem
solved. Henceforth, the way, though long and tedious, was plain before
him. To extend, amplify, and systematize this language of signs was his
task. How well he accomplished his work, the records of Deaf and Dumb
Institutions, in Europe and America, testify. Others have entered into
his labors and greatly enlarged the range of sign-expression,--modified
and improved, perhaps, many of its forms; but, because Lord Rosse's
telescope exceeds in power and range the little three-foot tube of
Galileo Galilei, shall we therefore despise the Italian astronomer? To
say that his work, or that of the Abbé De l'Épée, was not perfect, is
only to say that they were mortals like ourselves.

But it is not only, or mainly, as a philosopher, that we would present
the Abbé De l'Épée to our readers, he was far more than this; he was, in
the highest sense of the word, a philanthropist. While Pereira, in the
liberal compensation he received from French nobles for the instruction
of their mute children, laid the foundation of that fortune by means of
which his grandsons are now enabled to rank with the most eminent of
French financiers, De l'Épée devoted his time and his entire patrimony
to the education of indigent deaf-mutes. His school, which was soon
quite large, was conducted solely at his own expense, and, as his
fortune was but moderate, he was compelled to practise the most careful
economy; yet he would never receive gifts from the wealthy, nor admit to
his instructions their deaf and dumb children. "It is not to the rich,"
he would say, "that I have devoted myself; it is to the poor only. Had
it not been for _these_, I should never have attempted the education of
the deaf and dumb."

In 1780, he was waited upon by the ambassador of the Empress of Russia,
who congratulated him on his success, and tendered him, in her name,
valuable gifts. "Mr. Ambassador," was the reply of the noble old man, "I
never receive money; but have the goodness to say to her Majesty, that,
if my labors have seemed to her worthy of any consideration, I ask, as
an especial favor, that she will send to me from her dominions some
ignorant deaf and dumb child, that I may instruct him."

When Joseph II., of Austria, visited Paris, he sought out De l'Épée,
and offered him the revenues of one of his estates. To this liberal
proposition the Abbé replied: "Sire, I am now an old man. If your
Majesty desires to confer any gift, upon the deaf and dumb, it is not my
head, already bent towards the grave, that should receive it, but the
good work itself. It is worthy of a great prince to preserve whatever is
useful to mankind." The Emperor, acting upon his suggestion, soon after
sent one of his ecclesiastics to Paris, who, on receiving the necessary
instruction from De l'Épée, established at Vienna the first national
institution for the deaf and dumb.

A still more striking instance of the self-denial to which his love for
his little flock prompted him is related by Bébian. During the severe
winter of 1788, the Abbé, already in his seventy-seventh year, denied
himself a fire in his apartment, and refused to purchase fuel for this
purpose, lest he should exceed the moderate sum which necessarily
limited the annual expenditure of his establishment. All the
remonstrances of his friends were unavailing; his pupils at length cast
themselves at his feet, and with tears besought him to allow himself
this indulgence, for their sake, if not for his own. Their importunities
finally prevailed; but for a long time he manifested the greatest regret
that he had yielded, often saying, mournfully, "My poor children, I have
wronged you of a hundred crowns!"

That this deep and abiding affection was fully reciprocated by those
whom he had rescued from a life of helpless wretchedness was often
manifested. He always called them his children, and, indeed, his
relation to them had more of the character of the parent than of the
teacher. On one occasion, not long before his decease, in one of his
familiar conversations with them, he let fall a remark which implied
that his end might be approaching. Though he had often before spoken of
death, yet the idea that _he_ could thus be taken from them had never
entered their minds, and a sudden cry of anguish told how terrible to
them was the thought. Pressing around him, with sobs and wailing, they
laid hold of his garments, as if to detain him from the last long
journey. Himself affected to tears by these tokens of their love for
him, the good Abbé succeeded, at length, in calming their grief; he
spoke to them of death as being, to the good, only the gate which
divides us from heaven; reminded them that the separation, if they were
the friends of God, though painful, would be temporary; that he should
go before them, and await their coming, and that, once reunited, no
further separation would ever occur; while there the tongue would be
unloosed, the ear unsealed, and they would be enabled to enjoy the music
as well as the glories of heaven. Thus quieted, with chastened grief
came holy aspiration; and it is not unreasonable to hope that the world
of bliss, in after years, witnessed the meeting of many of these poor
children with their sainted teacher.

It is interesting to observe the humility of such a man. The praises
lavished on him seemed not in any way to elate him; and he invariably
refused any commendation for his labors: "He that planteth is nothing,
neither he that watereth, but God, who giveth the increase," was his
reply to one who congratulated him on the success which had attended his
labors.

With one incident more we must close this "record of a good man's life."
Some years after the opening of his school for deaf-mutes, a deaf and
dumb boy, who had been found wandering in the streets of Paris, was
brought to him. With that habitual piety which was characteristic of
him, De l'Épée received the boy as a gift from Heaven, and accordingly
named him Theodore. The new comer soon awakened an unusual interest
in the mind of the good Abbé. Though dressed in rags when found, his
manners and habits showed that he had been reared in refinement and
luxury. But, until he had received some education, he could give no
account of himself; and the Abbé, though satisfied that he had been the
victim of some foul wrong, held his peace, till the mental development
of his _protégé_ should enable him to describe his early home. Years
passed, and, as each added to his intelligence, young Theodore was able
to call to mind more and more of the events of childhood. He remembered
that his ancestral home had been one of great magnificence, in a large
city, and that he had been taken thence, stripped of his rich apparel,
clothed in rags, and left in the streets of Paris. The Abbé determined,
at once, to attempt to restore his _protégé_ to the rights of which he
had been so cruelly defrauded; but, being himself too infirm to attempt
the journey, he sent the youth, with his steward, and a fellow-pupil
named Didier, to make the tour of all the cities of France till they
should find the home of Theodore. Long and weary was their journey, and
it was not till after having visited almost all of the larger cities,
that they found that the young mute recognized in Toulouse the city of
his birth. Each of its principal streets was evidently familiar to him,
and at length, with a sudden cry, he pointed out a splendid mansion as
his former home. It was found to be the palace of the Count de Solar.
On subsequent inquiry, it appeared that the heir of the estate had been
deaf and dumb; that some years before he had been taken to Paris, and
was said to have died there. The dates corresponded exactly with the
appearance of young Theodore in Paris. As soon as possible, the Abbé
and the Duke de Penthièvre commenced a lawsuit, which resulted in the
restoration of Theodore to his title and property. The defeated party
appealed to the Parliament, and, by continuing the case till after the
death of the Abbé and the Duke, succeeded in obtaining a reversal of the
decision, and the declaration that the claimant was an impostor. Stung
with disappointment at the blighting of his hopes, young Theodore
enlisted in the army, and was slain in his first battle.

The Abbé de l'Épée died at Paris on the 23d of December, 1789, in the
seventy-eighth year of his age. Had he been spared two years longer, he
would have seen his school, the object of his fond cares, adopted by the
government, and decreed a national support. But though this act, and the
accompanying vote, which declared that it was "done in honor of Charles
Michel de l'Épée, _a man who deserved well of his country_," were
creditable to the National Assembly, and the people whom it represented,
yet we cannot but remember the troublous times that followed,--times in
which no public service, no private goodness, neither the veneration
due to age, the delicacy of womanhood, nor the winsome helplessness
of infancy, was any protection against the insensate vengeance of a
maddened people; and remembering this, we cannot regret that he whose
life had been so peaceful was laid in a quiet grave ere the coming of
the tempest.

It is but justice, however, to the French people to say, that no name
in their history is heard with more veneration, or with more profound
demonstrations of love and gratitude, than that of the Abbé de l'Épée.
In 1843, the citizens of Versailles, his birth-place, erected a bronze
statue in his honor; and the highest dignitaries of the state, amid the
acclamations of assembled thousands, eulogized his memory. In 1855, the
centennial anniversary of the establishment of his school for deaf-mutes
was celebrated at Paris, and was attended by delegations from most of
the Deaf and Dumb Institutions of Europe.

But sixty-eight years have elapsed since the death of this noble
philanthropist, and, already, more than two hundred institutions for the
deaf and dumb have been established, on the system projected by him and
improved by his successors; and tens of thousands of mutes throughout
Christendom, in consequence of his generous and self-denying zeal, have
been trained for usefulness in this life, and many of them, we hope,
prepared for a blissful hereafter. To all these the name of the Abbé de
l'Épée has been one cherished in their heart of hearts; and, through
all the future, wherever the understanding of the deaf-mute shall be
enlightened by instruction, his memory shall be blessed.

WHO IS THE THIEF?

(_Extracted from the Correspondence of the London Police_.)

FROM CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE, OF THE DETECTIVE POLICE, TO SERGEANT
BULMER, OF THE SAME FORCE.

London, 4th July, 18--.

Sergeant Bulmer,

This is to inform you that you are wanted to assist in looking up a case
of importance, which will require all the attention of an experienced
member of the force. The matter of the robbery on which you are now
engaged you will please to shift over to the young man who brings you
this letter. You will tell him all the circumstances of the case, just
as they stand; you will put him up to the progress you have made (if
any) towards detecting the person or persons by whom the money has been
stolen; and you will leave him to make the best he can of the matter now
in your hands. He is to have the whole responsibility of the case, and
the whole credit of his success, if he brings it to a proper issue.

So much for the orders that I am desired to communicate to you. A word
in your ear, next, about this new man who is to take your place. His
name is Matthew Sharpin; and between ourselves, Sergeant, I don't think
much of him. He has not served his time among the rank and file of the
force. You and I mounted up, step by step, to the places we now fill;
but this stranger, it seems, is to have the chance given him of dashing
into our office at one jump,--supposing he turns out strong enough to
take it. You will naturally ask me how he comes by this privilege. I can
only tell you, that he has some uncommonly strong interest to back him
in certain high quarters, which you and I had better not mention except
under our breaths. He has been a lawyer's clerk; and he looks, to my
mind, rather a mean, underhand sample of that sort of man. According to
his own account,--by the bye, I forgot to say that he is wonderfully
conceited in his opinion of himself, as well as mean and underhand to
look at,--according to his own account, he leaves his old trade and
joins ours of his own free will and preference. You will no more believe
that than I do. My notion is, that he has managed to ferret out some
private information, in connection with the affairs of one of his
master's clients, which makes him rather an awkward customer to keep in
the office for the future, and which, at the same time, gives him hold
enough over his employer to make it dangerous to drive him into a corner
by turning him away. I think the giving him this unheard-of chance among
us is, in plain words, pretty much like giving him hush-money to keep
him quiet. However that may be, Mr. Matthew Sharpin is to have the case
now in your hands; and if he succeeds with it, he pokes his ugly nose
into our office, as sure as fate. You have heard tell of some sad stuff
they have been writing lately in the newspapers, about improving the
efficiency of the Detective Police by mixing up a sharp lawyer's clerk
or two along with them. Well, the experiment is now going to be tried;
and Mr. Matthew Sharpin is the first lucky man who has been pitched on
for the purpose. We shall see how this precious move succeeds. I put
you up to it, Sergeant, so that you may not stand in your own light by
giving the new man any cause to complain of you at head-quarters, and
remain yours,

Francis Theakstone.

FROM MR. MATTHEW SHARPIN TO CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE.

London, 5th July, 18--.

Dear Sir,

Having now been favored with the necessary instructions from Sergeant
Bulmer, I beg to remind you of certain directions which I have received,
relating to the report of my future proceedings, which I am to prepare
for examination at head-quarters.

The document in question is to be addressed to you. It is to be not only
a daily report, but an hourly report as well, when circumstances may
require it. All statements which I send to you, in this way, you are, as
I understand, expected to examine carefully before you seal them up and
send them in to the higher authorities. The object of my writing and of
your examining what I have written is, I am informed, to give me, as an
untried hand, the benefit of your advice, in case I want it (which I
venture to think I shall not) at any stage of my proceedings. As the
extraordinary circumstances of the case on which I am now engaged make
it impossible for me to absent myself from the place where the robbery
was committed, until I have made some progress towards discovering the
thief, I am necessarily precluded from consulting you personally. Hence
the necessity of my writing down the various details, which might,
perhaps, be better communicated by word of mouth. This, if I am not
mistaken, is the position in which we are now placed. I state my own
impressions on the subject, in writing, in order that we may clearly
understand each other at the outset,--and have the honor to remain your
obedient servant,

Matthew Sharpin.

FROM CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE TO MR. MATTHEW SHARPIN.

London, 5th July, 18--.

Sir,

You have begun by wasting time, ink, and paper. We both of us perfectly
well knew the position we stood in towards each other, when I sent you
with my letter to Sergeant Bulmer. There was not the least need to
repeat it in writing. Be so good as to employ your pen, in future, on
the business actually in hand. You have now three separate matters
on which to write me. First, you have to draw up a statement of your
instructions received from Sergeant Bulmer, in order to show us that
nothing has escaped your memory, and that you are thoroughly acquainted
with all the circumstances of the case which has been entrusted to you.
Secondly, you are to inform me what it is you propose to do. Thirdly,
you are to report every inch of your progress, (if you make any,) from
day to day, and, if need be, from hour to hour as well. This is your
duty. As to what _my_ duty may be, when I want you to remind me of it, I
will write and tell you _so_. In the mean time I remain yours,

Francis Theakstone.

FROM MR. MATTHEW SHARPIN TO CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE.

London, 6th July, 18--.

Sir,

You are rather an elderly person, and, as such, naturally inclined to be
a little jealous of men like me, who are in the prime of their lives
and their faculties. Under these circumstances, it is my duty to be
considerate towards you, and not to bear too hardly on your small
failings. I decline, therefore, altogether, to take offence at the tone
of your letter; I give you the full benefit of the natural generosity of
my nature; I sponge the very existence of your surly communication out
of my memory; in short, Chief Inspector Theakstone, I forgive you, and
proceed to business.

My first duty is to draw up a full statement of the instructions I have
received from Sergeant Bulmer. Here they are at your service, according
to my version of them.

At Number Thirteen, Rutherford Street, Soho, there is a stationer's
shop. It is kept by one Mr. Yatman. He is a married man, but has no
family. Besides Mr. and Mrs. Yatman, the other inmates of the house are
a lodger, a young single man named Jay, who occupies the front room on
the second floor,--a shopman, who sleeps in one of the attics,--and a
servant-of-all-work, whose bed is in the back-kitchen. Once a week a
charwoman comes to help this servant. These are all the persons who, on
ordinary occasions, have means of access to the interior of the house,
placed, as a matter of course, at their disposal.

Mr. Yatman has been in business for many years,--carrying on his affairs
prosperously enough to realize a handsome independence for a person in
his position. Unfortunately for himself, he endeavored to increase
the amount of his property by speculating. He ventured boldly in his
investments, luck went against him, and rather less than two years ago
he found himself a poor man again. All that was saved out of the wreck
of his property was the sum of two hundred pounds.

Although Mr. Yatman did his best to meet his altered circumstances, by
giving up many of the luxuries and comforts to which he and his wife had
been accustomed, he found it impossible to retrench so far as to allow
of putting by any money from the income produced by his shop. The
business has been declining of late years,--the cheap advertising
stationers having done it injury with the public. Consequently, up
to the last week, the only surplus property possessed by Mr. Yatman
consisted of the two hundred pounds which had been recovered from the
wreck of his fortune. This sum was placed as a deposit in a joint-stock
bank of the highest possible character.

Eight days ago, Mr. Yatman and his lodger, Mr. Jay, held a conversation
together on the subject of the commercial difficulties, which are
hampering trade in all directions at the present time. Mr. Jay (who
lives by supplying the newspapers with short paragraphs relating to
accidents, offences, and brief records of remarkable occurrences in
general,--who is, in short, what they call a penny-a-liner) told his
landlord that he had been in the city that day, and heard unfavorable
rumors on the subject of the joint-stock banks. The rumors to which he
alluded had already reached the ears of Mr. Yatman from other quarters;
and the confirmation of them by his lodger had such an effect on his
mind,--predisposed, as it was, to alarm, by the experience of his former
losses,--that he resolved to go at once to the bank and withdraw his
deposit. It was then getting on toward the end of the afternoon; and he
arrived just in time to receive his money before the bank closed.

He received the deposit in bank-notes of the following amounts:--one
fifty-pound note, three twenty-pound notes, six ten-pound notes, and six
five-pound notes. His object in drawing the money in this form was
to have it ready to lay out immediately in trifling loans, on good
security, among the small tradespeople of his district,--some of whom
are sorely pressed for the very means of existence at the present time.
Investments of this kind seemed to Mr. Yatman to be the most safe and
the most profitable on which he could now venture.

He brought the money back in an envelope placed in his breast pocket;
and asked his shopman, on getting home, to look for a small flat tin
cash-box, which had not been used for years, and which, as Mr. Yatman
remembered it, was exactly of the right size to hold the bank-notes. For
some time the cash-box was searched for in vain. Mr. Yatman called to
his wife to know if she had any idea where it was. The question was
overheard by the servant-of-all-work, who was taking up the tea-tray at
the time, and by Mr. Jay, who was coming down stairs on his way out
to the theatre. Ultimately the cash-box was found by the shopman. Mr.
Yatman placed the bank-notes in it, secured them by a padlock, and
put the box in his coat pocket. It stuck out of the coat pocket a very
little, but enough to be seen. Mr. Yatman remained at home, up stairs,
all that evening. No visitors called. At eleven o'clock he went to bed,
and put the cash-box under his pillow.

When he and his wife woke the next morning, the box was gone. Payment
of the notes was immediately stopped at the Bank of England; but no news
of the money has been heard of since that time.

So far, the circumstances of the case are perfectly clear. They point
unmistakably to the conclusion that the robbery must have been committed
by some person living in the house. Suspicion falls, therefore, upon the
servant-of-all-work, upon the shopman, and upon Mr. Jay. The two first
knew that the cash-box was being inquired for by their master, but did
not know what it was he wanted to put into it. They would assume, of
course, that it was money. They both had opportunities (the servant,
when she took away the tea,--and the shopman, when he came, after
shutting up, to give the keys of the till to his master) of seeing the
cash-box in Mr. Yatman's pocket, and of inferring naturally, from its
position there, that he intended to take it into his bedroom with him at
night.

Mr. Jay, on the other hand, had been told, during the afternoon's
conversation on the subject of joint-stock banks, that his landlord had
a deposit of two hundred pounds in one of them. He also knew that Mr.
Yatman left him with the intention of drawing that money out; and he
heard the inquiry for the cash-box, afterwards, when he was coming down
stairs. He must, therefore, have inferred that the money was in the
house, and that the cash-box was the receptacle intended to contain it.
That he could have had any idea, however, of the place in which Mr.
Yatman intended to keep it for the night is impossible, seeing that he
went out before the box was found, and did not return till his landlord
was in bed. Consequently, if he committed the robbery, he must have gone
into the bedroom purely on speculation.

Speaking of the bedroom reminds me of the necessity of noticing the
situation of it in the house, and the means that exist of gaining easy
access to it at any hour of the night. The room in question is the back
room on the first floor. In consequence of Mrs. Yatman's constitutional
nervousness on the subject of fire, which makes her apprehend being
burnt alive in her room, in case of accident, by the hampering of the
lock, if the key is turned in it, her husband has never been accustomed
to lock the bedroom door. Both he and his wife are, by their own
admission, heavy sleepers. Consequently, the risk to be run by any
evil-disposed persons wishing to plunder the bedroom was of the most
trifling kind. They could enter the room by merely turning the handle of
the door; and if they moved with ordinary caution, there was no fear
of their waking the sleepers inside. This fact is of importance. It
strengthens our conviction that the money must have been taken by one of
the inmates of the house, because it tends to show that the robbery, in
this case, might have been committed by persons not possessed of the
superior vigilance and cunning of the experienced thief.

Such are the circumstances, as they were related to Sergeant Bulmer,
when he was first called in to discover the guilty parties, and, if
possible, to recover the lost bank-notes. The strictest inquiry which he
could institute failed of producing the smallest fragment of evidence
against any of the persons on whom suspicion naturally fell. Their
language and behavior, on being informed of the robbery, was perfectly
consistent with the language and behavior of innocent people. Sergeant
Bulmer felt, from the first, that this was a case for private inquiry
and secret observation. He began by recommending Mr. and Mrs. Yatman to
affect a feeling of perfect confidence in the innocence of the persons
living under their roof; and he then opened the campaign by employing
himself in following the goings and comings, and in discovering the
friends, the habits, and the secrets of the maid-of-all-work.

Three days and nights of exertion on his own part, and on that of others
who were competent to assist his investigations, were enough to satisfy
him that there was no sound cause for suspicion against the girl.

He next practised the same precautions in relation to the shopman.
There was more difficulty and uncertainty in privately clearing up this
person's character without his knowledge, but the obstacles were at last
smoothed away with tolerable success; and though there is not the same
amount of certainty, in this case, which there was in the case of the
girl, there is still fair reason for believing that the shopman has had
nothing to do with the robbery of the cash-box.

As a necessary consequence of these proceedings, the range of suspicion
now becomes limited to the lodger, Mr. Jay. When I presented your letter
of introduction to Sergeant Buhner, he had already made some inquiries
on the subject of this young man. The result, so far, has not been at
all favorable. Mr. Jay's habits are irregular; he frequents public
houses, and seems to be familiarly acquainted with a great many
dissolute characters; he is in debt to most of the tradespeople whom
he employs; he has not paid his rent to Mr. Yatman for the last month;
yesterday evening he came home excited by liquor, and last week he was
seen talking to a prize-fighter. In short, though Mr. Jay does call
himself a journalist, in virtue of his penny-a-line contributions to the
newspapers, he is a young man of low tastes, vulgar manners, and bad
habits. Nothing has yet been discovered, in relation to him, which
redounds to his credit in the smallest degree.

I have now reported, down to the very last details, all the particulars
communicated to me by Sergeant Buhner. I believe you will not find an
omission anywhere; and I think you will admit, though you are prejudiced
against me, that a clearer statement of facts was never laid before you
than the statement I have now made. My next duty is to tell you what I
propose to do, now that the case is confided to my hands.

In the first place, it is clearly my business to take up the case at
the point where Sergeant Buhner has left it. On his authority, I am
justified in assuming that I have no need to trouble myself about the
maid-of-all-work and the shopman. Their characters are now to be
considered as cleared up. What remains to be privately investigated is
the question of the guilt or innocence of Mr. Jay. Before we give up
the notes for lost, we must make sure, if we can, that he knows nothing
about them.

This is the plan that I have adopted, with the full approval of Mr. and
Mrs. Yatman, for discovering whether Mr. Jay is or is not the person who
has stolen the cash-box:--

I propose, to-day, to present myself at the house in the character of a
young man who is looking for lodgings. The back room on the second floor
will be shown to me as the room to let; and I shall establish myself
there to-night, as a person from the country, who has come to London to
look for a situation in a respectable shop or office. By this means I
shall be living next to the room occupied by Mr. Jay. The partition
between us is mere lath and plaster. I shall make a small hole in it,
near the cornice, through which I can see what Mr. Jay does in his room,
and hear every word that is said when any friend happens to call on him.
Whenever he is at home, I shall be at my post of observation. Whenever
he goes out, I shall be after him. By employing these means of watching
him, I believe I may look forward to the discovery of his secret--if he
knows anything about the lost bank-notes--as to a dead certainty.

What you may think of my plan of observation I cannot undertake to
say. It appears to me to unite the invaluable merits of boldness
and simplicity. Fortified by this conviction, I close the present
communication with feelings of the most sanguine description in regard
to the future, and remain your obedient servant,

Matthew Sharpin.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

7th July.

Sir,

As you have not honored me with any answer to my last communication, I
assume, that, in spite of your prejudices against me, it has produced
the favorable impression on your mind which I ventured to anticipate.
Gratified and encouraged beyond measure by the token of approval which
your eloquent silence conveys to me, I proceed to report the progress
that has been made in the course of the last twenty-four hours.

I am now comfortably established next door to Mr. Jay; and I am
delighted to say that I have two holes in the partition, instead of one.
My natural sense of humor has led me into the pardonable extravagance
of giving them both appropriate names. One I call my Peep-Hole, and the
other my Pipe-Hole. The name of the first explains itself; the name of
the second refers to a small tin pipe, or tube, inserted in the hole,
and twisted so that the mouth of it comes close to my ear, when I am
standing at my post of observation. Thus, while I am looking at Mr. Jay
through my Peep-Hole, I can hear every word that may be spoken in his
room through my Pipe-Hole.

Perfect candor--a virtue which I have possessed from my childhood--
compels me to acknowledge, before I go any farther, that the ingenious
notion of adding a Pipe-Hole to my proposed Peep-Hole originated with
Mrs. Yatman. This lady--a most intelligent and accomplished person,
simple, and yet distinguished, in her manners--has entered into all my
little plans with an enthusiasm and intelligence which I cannot too
highly praise. Mr. Yatman is so cast down by his loss, that he is quite
incapable of affording me any assistance. Mrs. Yatman, who is evidently
most tenderly attached to him, feels her husband's sad condition of mind
even more acutely than she feels the loss of the money; and is mainly
stimulated to exertion by her desire to assist in raising him from the
miserable state of prostration into which he has now fallen. "The money,
Mr. Sharpin," she said to me yesterday evening, with tears in her eyes,
"the money may be regained by rigid economy and strict attention to
business. It is my husband's wretched state of mind that makes me so
anxious for the discovery of the thief. I may be wrong, but I felt
hopeful of success as soon as you entered the house; and I believe,
that, if the wretch who has robbed us is to be found, you are the man to
discover him." I accepted this gratifying compliment in the spirit in
which it was offered,--firmly believing that I shall be found, sooner or
later, to have thoroughly deserved it.

Let me now return to business,--that is to say, to my Peep-Hole and my
Pipe-Hole.

I have enjoyed some hours of calm observation of Mr. Jay. Though rarely
at home, as I understand from Mrs. Yatman, on ordinary occasions, he has
been in-doors the whole of this day. That is suspicious, to begin with.
I have to report, further, that he rose at a late hour this morning,
(always a bad sign in a young man,) and that he lost a great deal
of time, after he was up, in yawning and complaining to himself of
headache. Like other debauched characters, he eat little or nothing for
breakfast. His next proceeding was to smoke a pipe, a dirty clay pipe,
which a gentleman would have been ashamed to put between his lips. When
he had done smoking, he took out pen, ink, and paper, and sat down
to write, with a groan,--whether of remorse for having taken the
bank-notes, or of disgust at the task before him, I am unable to say.
After writing a few lines, (too far away from my Peep-Hole to give me
a chance of reading over his shoulder,) he bent back in his chair, and
amused himself by humming the tunes of popular songs. I recognized "My
Mary Anne," "Bobbin' Around," and "Old Dog Tray," among other melodies.
Whether these do or do not represent secret signals by which he
communicates with his accomplices remains to be seen. After he had
amused himself for some time by humming, he got up and began to walk
about the room, occasionally stopping to add a sentence to the paper on
his desk. Before long, he went to a locked cupboard and opened it. I
strained my eyes eagerly, in expectation of making a discovery. I saw
him take something carefully out of the cupboard,--he turned round,--it
was only a pint-bottle of brandy! Having drunk some of the liquor, this
extremely indolent reprobate lay dawn on his bed again, and in five
minutes was fast asleep.

After hearing him snoring for at least two hours, I was recalled to
my Peep-Hole by a knock at his door. He jumped up and opened it with
suspicious activity. A very small boy, with a very dirty face, walked
in, said, "Please, Sir, I've come for copy," sat down on a chair with
his legs a long way from the ground, and instantly fell asleep! Mr. Jay