understood not. But one there was, nigh at hand, who knew them, and rejoiced in the midst of the trial of his brother, as he heard these ejaculations :

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?

"In all these things we are more than conquerors, through Him that loved us.

"Neither death nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

Callistus bowed his head in resignation and hope.

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Father," sighed he, "not our will, but thine, be done."

A swaying of the multitude, and a shout, caused him to look up; and the headless and bleeding trunk of the martyr, Valentine, lay before him!

"THE blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church." The blood of God's saints was not shed in vain on the soil of pagan Rome. Scarce a century elapsed before a Church, bearing his name, stood on the spot where Valentine had suffered; and in later time, another was erected to his memory, near the Ponte Molo; and when Christian emperors swayed the Roman sceptre, the Flaminian Way and Gate, through which the saint passed to his martyrdom, were known as the Via and Porta Valentiniana.

The stranger who now visits Rome may wander over the scene of our story; yet how changed its aspect and fortunes! He can enter through the magnificent gate, the "Porta del Popolo," which the genius of Canina has constructed, and pass down through the palaces that line the Corso on either side. He may wander through her forums; but he will look in vain for the living grandeur of the imperial city—

-"tra l'erbe

Cercando i grandi avanzi e le superbe
Reliquie dello splendor latino."

Her temples are prostrate; her palaces unroofed and in ruins; her arches and columns defaced and broken. All so changed that the antiquarian pauses often in doubt, amidst the lonely and half-unburied ruins around, before he will venture to pronounce to what temple belong the still beautiful shafts that meet his eye, or fix the spot where the citizens met in their assembly, or the orators pleaded for their clients.

Yet over the pagan ruins and the pagan memories rise on every side the Christian shrines. Many a cross is now planted, and many a pilgrim prays in the area of that circus which drank the blood of Christ's saints, as it flowed in rivers on its stones. And if the memory of Valentine arise to the mind, as the visitor lingers near the Roman Forum, let him turn his footsteps to the Church of San Pietro, in Carcere, and he will be shown the Mamertine prison, with some of its steps still remaining; and the cell where Paul lay in chains, and Valentine made converts.

"Well," said the Parson, laying down the paper, "what do you think of it, Jonathan ?"

"I protest," said I, "I am the worst judge in the world of such matters. I presume there is a great deal in it for which no authority can be adduced."

"Very likely there is," replied the Parson, "but that does not appear to me to furnish any valid objection to it. There is nothing contradictory either to history or tradition in it." "Are you sure of that," said I. "For instance, was not Saint Valentine a bishop?

but

"There was, no doubt, an African bishop of that name; he who suffered martyrdom in Rome had not attained to that rank in the Church. I admit, he is called a bishop in some of the modern calendars, but the ancient historians of the Church, and all the martyrologies which I have been able to consult, call him simply 'presbyter.""

"In that case, I have nothing to say against the tale, on the score of historical correctness. But what say you as to the tradition?"

"That such a tradition has been handed down through ages."

"But do you require me to believe it?"

"I require nothing of you on the subject. I am content to insist it justifies the tale.”

"Will you lend me the manuscript ?"

"Certainly; but for what purpose?

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Why, I have a friend in town on whose judgment I place great reliance. I wish to have his opinion."

"Who is that, Jonathan?"

"Mr. Poplar."

"Good; but will he keep it to himself? I would not have the poor boy's composition scanned and criticised by your city literati."

"I must confess he has a most unjustifiable habit of making public anything that hits his fancy."

The Parson mused for a moment, as if undecided; at length he said:

"Well, be it so, Jonathan; send it to him, and let it take its fate. Poor Somers is now beyond the reach of earthly criticism."

ST. PATRICK'S DAY IN MY OWN PARLOUR.

If you were like Asmodeus, my dear reader (though I am far from insinuating that you resemble him in any respect), and had the gift of looking into another man's dwelling at your desire, and that it chanced to be your fancy to look into mine on the evening of the 17th of March, in a certain year, you would have seen me, about the hour of half-past six o'clock, seated at my fire-side, evidently in a state of expectation.

A glance at my table would have showed you that I had dined-not that any vestiges of dinner were to be seen on the table, but it was in the occupation of a force whose presence always announces that the eatables have heen driven from the field, or, as Jack Bishop would say, that the flesh had given

way to the spirit. In a word, certain flasks of blue and amber stood upon the board, with a few long-necked, graceful bottles, whose transparent glass was rivalled by the limpid liquor within them. Some dishes of dried fruits were scattered around, with glasses and doyleys for, it might be, half-a-dozen persons, and in the midst lay a square box, from which issued an aroma that breathed "Havannah" upon the grateful senses. Upon a distant table that stood against the wall might be seen a tongue, a few cold chickens, and some trifles of that sort, modestly awaiting the time when a sufficient interval should elapse from the hour of dinner, to render their nearer approach to the scene of action, a matter to be desired. But I was still alone. The pendule on my mantelpiece had chimed seven when the door was softly opened, and the quietest step imaginable— such as a man with his heavy gait can never accomplish-stole across the apartment, and placed a small brass kettle on the hob. I scarcely noticed the presence of her who entered till she came up to where I sat, and placing her hand lightly on my shoulder, she looked gently into my face, and said with an affectionate freedom ::

"Well, now, I do believe you are going to sleep?"

"Nay, dear Bridget," said I, "I was only musing."

And then I turned up my eyes to that sweet countenance. Now, dear reader, I know very well what you think, and how you turn up your eyes, and what you are going to say, but I must request you to keep your thoughts and your suspicions to yourself, and hear me out at all events. I turned, I repeat it, my eyes to that sweet countenance, and saw it beaming with love for me, a love whieh I returned with all my heart. Dear Bridget!-thine eye may have lost some of its brightness, but none of its benevolence, and the wrinkles that are gathering on thy old face mar not its placidity; the lily is not purer than thy coif, nor the snow than thy hair, and yet I love thee better than when thy cheek was brighter and thy tresses were black. And now, sir, what have you to say against my loving my old nurse?

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"I think, Bridget, they ought to be here shortly; I'll just step out and see if they're coming."

And so I passed out and stood before the door.

How beautiful was the scene around me! The sun had set nearly an hour before, and not the faintest tint of twilight in the west left, as it were, a memory of his brightness, but yet were the heavens filled with a light so pure, so tender, so holy, that one might almost wish that day should never come again to flout its pallid lustre with his bright hot flushes. The moon was at her full, and had already climbed up some degrees in heaven; for she rose at sunset; and as she glittered down in her serene glory on the outstretched earth, her beams, as if endued with a celestial mesmerism, threw all that they smote into a delicious repose. The stars winked far away and feebly in the deep blue impermeable heaven; the mountain tops faded mistily away into the vapour; the stream gleamed in a silvery slumber, and field and forest had a dim, distant, drowsy look, like the landscape that passes over a sleeper's vision, or the pictures that are produced by a camera obscura. Sound there was none to break the spell, save the faintest of breezes that crept over the leaves of the early rose, the gurgling of the streamlet, like the murmurings of a child as he stirs in sleep, and the solemn distant boom of the ocean waves as they broke against the rocks, or rippled fretfully up the sloping sands.

Ever restless Ocean! life-pulse of Nature! Thou, like thy great Maker, knowest neither sleep nor slumber. All things rest save thee, and rest refreshes them, but rest would be to thee what a pause would be to the heart-stagnation and death. And so when the wearied world lies with her giant limbs relaxed in repose, thy heave is still seen and thy throbbing heart still heard, to tell that she "is not dead, but sleepeth!"

Not more naturally does the flame, kindled on the earth, mount up towards heaven, or the vapour on her bosom float skyward, than do the thoughts, which have their origin in the contemplation of terrestrial things, rise by an almost natural necessity to their mighty primal Creator, "who dwelleth in the heavens." So from the moving ocean my thoughts passed to Him whose power first stirred it with life :