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of persons holding erroneous religious opinions; and if "persecute" had then the same signification that it now has, they must have sworn, if they took that oath, to visit with what they admitted to be unjust and undeserved infliction a portion of their people. But did persecute then mean to inflict unjustly? Or did it mean "to follow, to consider closer, to write thoroughly?" &c.

Cicero probably understood the Latin language about as well as do we moderns, and he has this use of the verb "to persecute:" "Has res persecutus est Xenophon in eo libro;" and a fair translation of that sentence is," These things Xenophon has discoursed of in his book."

It is said with much truth, that, "in judging of the merits of any act

in the distant past, we must make ourselves acquainted with the manners and customs of that period." So also in fixing a meaning to certain words we must understand what was their signification at the time of their employment.

It would not be permissible at the present time to say that our generals prevented their armies at the moment of going into battle. Nor would our Secretary of the Navy escape some ridicule if, in advertising for naval stores, he should call for "sincere tar and turpentine." And the District Attorney would astonish the good people of Philadelphia if he were to give notice that he should persecute his erring fellow-citizens.

We may, at a future time, call attention to a few more improprieties of speech.


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They speak in tongues of every race,
The crowds, with wonder spelled,
Declare them, who overflow with grace,
By new-made wine impelled.

This mystery completes the space
Of festal Paschaltide,

Through whose blest days the law of grace

Is to sin's debt applied.

Thee now we pray, sweet Holy Ghost,
As we adoring bend,
O let the gifts of Pentecost
Upon our souls descend.

As Thou of old didst fill with grace
The Apostolic breast,
With thy pure rays our guilt efface
And give us tranquil rest.

To God the Father glory be,

And to His risen Son,

The same, sweet Paraclete, to Thee,
While endless ages run.

THE PROSE AT MASS. Veni Sancte Spiritus. COME, thou ever sacred Dove, From thy radiant throne above

Shoot thy resplendent darts; Come, father of the poor, come, thou Rich source from which all blessings flow,

Come, purest light of hearts.

Come, consoler, highest, best,
Come, the soul's thrice welcome guest,
Refreshment sweet bestow;
Amid our labor thou art ease,
Amid our heat a cooling breeze,
Solace of griefs, o'erflow.

Come, thou luminary blest,
Come, and every faithful breast
With thy pure radiance fill;
Without thine impulses divine
Naught can man e'er claim of thine,
Or naught be free from ill.

Lave, Lord, these sordid stains of ours,
Our dryness dew with heavenly showers,
Our sin-wrought bruises cure;
Our rigid obstinacy sway,
Our frozen sense solve with thy ray,
Our wandering steps assure.

Upon our souls, who Thee adore
By faith, we pray, sweet Spirit, pour
Thy blessings sevenfold.
The merit of thy grace oh lend,
Grant us to share thy saints' sweet end
With joys etern untold.



"IT is useless to say anything more, Mary, my decision is irrev ocable; with my consent she shall never take so infamous a step. What!"-and here the angry man sprang to his feet, and impatiently walked the floor" my daughter, a descendant of a family whose name is without blemish, to disgrace it now by joining a set of low ignorant women, that live, God only knows how! No! a thousand times no!"

"Oh! Charles, Charles, do not speak so harshly of what you know nothing; far from being low and ignorant, these holy sisters are for the most part noble women, who for religion's sake have thrown aside all luxuries, and separated themselves from their friends and all most dear to them, to devote their lives to God and their less fortunate fellow-beings. What would our land be without our good sisters of charity? Whom do you see in the hospitals, where nothing but suffering and misery are to be found, but the sister of charity, moving quickly from bed to bed, and by her gentle words and soothing touch, bringing alike consolation to the body and mind of the poor sufferer, who never fails to call down a blessing on her as she passes. For my part, though the separation would be a terrible trial, I will never ask for a better fate for our darling child, than that she may have the grace and strength necessary to enable her to renounce the world, and persevere in the holy path she has chosen."

"What could I expect from a daughter, whose mother had such ideas? Oh! unfortunate day that I allowed myself to be persuaded

to send Ethel to a convent! When I married you, Mary, I promised never to interfere with your religion, but to allow you to live up to it, and follow the dictates of your own conscience in all matters."

"Yes, Charles, and you have kept your promise nobly; no wo

man ever had a better or kinder

husband than mine. Oh! my husband, be as generous to our child as you have been to me. Do you not suppose that this trial will be far harder for her to bear than it is for us, she who voluntarily gives up everything and adopts a life of hardship and poverty? But she feels that it is a call from on high; and feeling and knowing this, how can she hope to work out her salvation if she neglects it?"

"Nonsense, Mary, this is all superstition. Ethel will be quite and even more likely to reach heaven by acting like a sensible girl, and obeying her father (for I know there is a commandment telling children to obey their parents), than by going in direct opposition to my commands. I never opposed your bringing her up a Catholic, for I felt that a religion that could make such a good wife as you were, would certainly make a good daughter, but could I have seen the end of my blind ignorance, rather would I have seen her in her coffin than have ever allowed her to put a foot in a Catholic church or school. Send Ethel to me now, and I will end this folly, once for all."

Here let us take a few moments to explain the above scene.

Charles Merrill was a wealthy citizen of Richmond; he was a man who commanded the respect and admiration of all who came in contact with him in any way. En

dowed by nature with every gift of body and mind, he was well fitted to shine in any sphere. He had married in early life a young Catholic girl, and the one cloud that marred her married life was, that her husband had no religion. In vain she had prayed and sought by her example and gentle admonitions to lead him aright, but while he was not at all bigoted, but on the contrary entertained very liberal ideas, she saw that there was very little hope of his conversion; still she left it all in the hands of God, and did not despair. Ethel was now their only child, one son, a few years older than she, had been his father's idol, but he had died some years before the opening of our story, and since that time Mr. Merrill had fairly worshipped his daughter. She was a girl that any man might be proud to have call him father. Tall and fair, with thoughtful gray eyes and a profusion of golden hair. Mr. Merrill had looked forward with impatience to her return from school, and enjoyed in anticipation the sensation that she, with her beauty and accomplishments, could not fail to create in any society into which he might take her. Bitter had been the blow to the proud man when, a few days after her return, he first heard of her intention of joining the order of the Sisters of Charity in which she had been educated. Fearing her father's opposition, she had revealed her secret to her mother, and implored her to obtain his consent. Mrs. Merrill dreaded the effect such an announcement would have upon her husband, but wisely considered it was better to get it over at once, and hence the opening of our chapter. Ethel entered the room a few moments after her mother left it; she was very pale, and visibly agitated, but around her mouth was an expression that to a close observer would have announced unwavering pur

pose. When she entered her father was standing at the window, with his back to the door: he turned quickly as he heard the door open, and, without giving her time to speak, said:

"Ethel, your mother has just apprised me of your very singular infatuation; I hope it will be only necessary for me to tell you that I will never consent to your taking such a step."

"Papa, forgive me if I offend you; in anything else, you know I would not act against your wishes, but in this pray do not oppose me. I must go, it is my duty, and I can never be happy anywhere else."

"It is your duty to do what I tell you; this is my decision, and you must abide by it. You are but eighteen, and for three years anyhow will be under my control; during that time I positively forbid you to see or correspond with any one from the convent, and if you were to brave me and enter, I will drag you out, if I had to burn the house around you. After that, if you persist in going, the consequences be on your own head. From the day you leave my house for such a purpose, I have no longer a daughter, and my curse will follow you."

"Papa, I must do as you say for the present, but at the end of the three years my determination will be as fixed as it is now, for I know that I will be only doing right, and I can only pray that, if I persevere after so long a time, you will see that it is not infatuation, but a divine grace given me, which if I negleet will destroy my happiness in this life and hopes of salvation in the next."

"A little knowledge of the world, Ethel, will destroy all such delusive ideas. I sincerely hope before the end of the three years to see you happily married; but for that time, never let me hear the subject again."

Slowly and wearily the time passed to poor Ethel, who had no heart for the gayeties in which her father forced her to mingle. For his sake she was always cheerful and smiling, and seemed to enjoy the pleasures by which she was surrounded. Never was a daughter more affectionate and loving than Ethel; she knew the misery she was to inflict upon her fond father, and she pitied him and blamed herself, though at the same time she felt that what she was going to do was not her will, but her Heavenly Father's, and she trusted to Him to comfort her father, and knew that the time would come when he would forgive her and take her back to his heart, for she knew him too well to hope for anything different from the treatment he had told her to expect if she disobeyed him.

And he, poor man, how did he feel all this time? He vainly hoped against hope; at times when Ethel seemed bright and happy, he would persuade himself that she had forgotten her intention or willingly abandoned it; and again he would watch her, when she was not aware of his presence, and sometimes see such a melancholy yearning look come over her face, that he would turn away with a sigh and deep bitterness in his heart. He was much to be pitied, for, having been brought up amongst people who were bigoted and looked with contempt upon nuns, he had naturally imbibed some of their erroneous ideas, and though these were partly corrected by his wife's gentle teaching, still sufficient remained for him to look with aversion upon the thought of his cherished child deserting him for a class of people of which he had such a dread.

Well, all time, whether it leave us with joyful recollections or sad memories, must pass at last, and too quickly for Mr. Merrill, and

oh! how slowly for Ethel, dawned her twenty-first birthday. As she entered the breakfast-room her father rose from his chair, and, kissing her tenderly, wished her "many, many happy returns of the day."

"Heigh ho, Ethel," he said, resuming his seat, "I am fortunate in having my darling so long, but I know whose fault it is that she has not been run away with long ago. You must not be so hard to please much longer now, my pet, for after all I am not selfish enough to want my little girl to be an old maid; but I guess I need not fear: you will be giving me a son-in-law soon enough, and I can safely promise to be well satisfied with your choice, whoever he may be, provided he keeps you near enough for me to see you every day, for I never could live away from my little girl."

Ethel's eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing, and her father watched her through the meal with a vague sense of uneasiness that he could not account for; though he felt that she might leave him in the end, it never occurred to him that it would be soon. When he rose to go she threw herself into his arms, and said, "Papa, kiss and bless me before you leave," and then, bursting into tears, hastily left the room. Her father turned to his wife for an explanation, but as she said nothing, and looked as puzzled as he did, he left the house with a clouded brow.

Ethel had made her arrangements to be received as a postulant that day. She had told her mother nothing of it, for though she knew she would not oppose her, still she felt that she would rather not assist her plans, in opposition to her husband's wishes. Though Mrs. Merrill had not been told, still she felt it, and was not surprised, when about an hour after breakfast, Ethel presented herself in her room

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