house, which our guide called the "Palazzo." The pictures and furniture bespoke wealth and station, and the party assembled was attractive in appearance, with fine classical features-the lady of the house in particular; their manners pleasing and well-bred. We retired to separate lodgings in the houses of some acquaintances of our guide; and in the morning, at five o'clock, the loud chorus of the birds awakened one scatterbrained fellow, who had planned an early bathe in the Farfar, and descended the hill to accomplish it. His purpose having been discovered, the astonishment of the early-stirring population was excessive; a glass was procured to watch him take his plunge. The water was warm for six in the morning on the 2d of March; but the act was imprudent, and was probably the cause of fever and ague on his return to Rome. In his descent, he found the olivegatherers already at their labor. They offered him some berries, and when he made a wry face at their bitter taste, they laughed, and, placing a few beneath the embers of a wood fire which smouldered beneath the tree, they let them roast a little space, and then gave them to him to eat. They were now agreeable, having lost their bitterness, and were soft and rich. "Have you any olives in your country?" was their question. "No, none. "O, what a country!" they exclaimed; "no olives!" The thickets were still sounding with the chaffinch, Acalanthide dumi, as we started in the morning air for a tour among the hills. The morning song of birds in Italy is a shout rather than a song, so joyous and loud. The spring was just breaking, the air balmy and full of perfume, every bank and bush glancing and rustling with bright restless little lizards, playing in the sun, which was powerful enough, but not oppressive. On our way we passed an olivepress. A mule was drawing round a heavy millstone, under which the fruit was crushed to a pulp; this is gathered into round cakes, which again are placed under a powerful press moved by a lever on a screw; the oil flows from it into a trough cut in the marble slab below, and is received in a vat beneath, from which sheepskins are filled and laid on asses, and so conveyed to Rome. The oil is as clear as the finest water, and so sweet, when it first issues, that we were invited to dip a piece of bread in it and taste it. We found it indeed sweet and pure, and delightful to the taste. After many ascents and descents through oak and hazel, we found ourselves in a new valley under Salesano, the town to which we were making our way. It is perched on a mountain-top, like the other cities of Sabinum. You would think it could have neither water nor access; but the white buildings crowning the crags are most picturesque. The view on every side was very beautiful; the hillsides covered with myrtles and evergreens full of birds and lizards, smelling of the myrtle leaf and flower, and every bud bursting under the influence of the sun, which was now hot and powerful. Low in the bottom of the vale, beneath three wild and wooded hills, on a strong, rocky, steep cone, lay a Gothic castle and town in ruins,-the "Rocca Buldesca," or Castle of Theobald, built in the feudal times; such as might have served the purpose of the Unknown in the Promessi Sposi of Manzoni. Our road wound through deep gorges overhung with holm oak, by the little stream which springs from the mountain of Salesano. A friend of Domenico's came down to meet us leading a donkey, if we wished to ride, kissed Domenico on the cheek, and bowed to us. A steep ascent but good road brought us up to Salesano by midday. We were hospitably received, and found excellent provision of omelette, bread, fruit, and wine. Salesano, as its name implies, is so healthy a little town that, with a population of about 500, only three had died in the last two years, and these of old age. The houses are open to all, for wine, olives, figs, and cheese, are so cheap and abundant that they are next to nothing in value, and as for bread, "you can get it for nothing down at Rieti yonder." We entered the church, built in the best Roman style, adorned with marble and with excellent paintings. A little child plucked the stranger by the sleeve of his blouse, and, pointing to a beautiful picture, said, with an affectionate look and smile: "Yonder is our Lady della Rosea Valle." From Salesano you view to the right the valley of the Farfar, to the left the high ranges of the snow-clad Apennines, in the front Lucretilis. There was talk in the town of gold lately discovered in the mountain just by; but they said, and truly, "What do we want with it?" They said themselves, We are happy - we want nothing we are content and free. The young men, with their gun, hat, and feathers, were the pictures of happy and rather idle mountaineers. The curse of revolution and impiety has fallen on that once happy Paradise, to blight and destroy. weather, both seas can be seen; through the distant haze we could catch a glimpse of the Mare Inferum, towards the west; but mountains seemed to shut the Adriatic from our view. Around us were the snowy peaks of the Apennines; below, in the wide expanse of the valley, lay the city of Rieti, with the Velinus winding its way to join the Nar through the Velino and Lugo lakes, and the dewy fields of the Rosei Campi-the "Rosea rura Velina" (Virgil, Æn. vii). It was such a spot as in the fancy of Virgil Alecto takes her stand upon, when "De culmine summo Audiit et Triviæ longe lacus, audiit amnis To the left the Tiber, rolling like a serpent through the Campagna from Etruria and the Volsinian Mountains; behind us to the southward Lucretiis, on which the snow yet lingered. Though we cooled our cup of wine with snow, the air on the mountain-top breathed mild and soft. The blouse was sufficiently warm, though sunset was coming on. The night closed in upon us with bright deep colors over the Etrurian mountains, as we stumbled our way over rough broken paths back to Castel S. Pietro. We were glad to arrive there, and to receive the hearty welcome of our kind host, who had been at the trouble, as it was a meat-day, to go to a neighboring town to procure us a "beefsteak." We found him in a great heat, after his evening "predicazione" of an hour. But to return. We passed from Salesano after midday, with a guide, in his brigand hat and jacket, with his gun, for we had resolved to climb the nearest of the Apennines. The valley side through which we passed In the morning, again so clear, was filled with evergreens and stately and ushered in by the songs of birds, cypress trees; but we soon gained the the wanderer strolled out early to naked mountain-sides; and climbing look down upon the "paese" or vilhill upon hill, each commanding a lage of Boccignali, lying in a hollow nobler view, we found ourselves, after of the mountains, in the midst of the a toilsome and hot walk, wading in vineyards. The olive-gatherers were the snows of the Apennines, at first at their morning work. The Angelus in patches and then continuous, was ringing from the campanelle of until we arrived at the summit, on the towns; Soracte and the distant which stood a wooden cross. Etrurian mountains were tipped with From this lofty point, in clear the light of the morning sun. Our kind old host came out to bid us good-by, and begged that we would bring the whole of the family party from Rome to visit him. Two of Domenico's friends accompanied us some way in their bandit hats and jackets, and then wished us farewell with the air of Rob Roy. We returned from S. Pietro on the right side of the valley, towards the north, in the direction of Poggio, Mirteto and Terni. The Farfar ran beside us some way, until we passed it by a singular natural bridge, where the river has forced itself through a projecting promontory of rock, and forms an arch, hung with ivy and evergreens, over the rapid river. Here the Farfar left us, continuing its course through hanging banks and woods. By our present route we neared Soracte, with its seven convents on its several peaks; a wood lay between us and it, the ancient "lucus Feroniæ." At length we arrived at Cures, which is now "Gabiis desertior." osteria, we heard loud voices below; Domenico informed us they were playing at the "Passatella," a game forbidden on account of the violence that often follows. By flinging out the fingers, as at the mora, they find a magister vini, who has full command for two rounds over the wine, either to make or forbid to drink, or to drink ad libitum himself. He then appoints a second master; and so the game proceeds, upon a fresh order of wine. The quarrel often arises when an unfortunate thirsty individual can get no compassion from the master. The occurrence was interesting from the classical antiquity of the game-"Nec regna vini sortiere talis." Again passing the Allia, and the lines of fallen masonry on the hill which mark the old site of Crustumerium, Marcigliano, we passed the Ponte Salaro over the Anio, and re-entered Rome, sunburnt by our walk, and considering that Domenico had redeemed his promise to show us some fine counWhile eating our omelette in the try and good people in Sabinum. MOUNTAINS, that upwards to the clouds arise, Odorous with thyme, whereon the wild bees linger, Jewelled with flowers of a thousand dyes, Their petals tinted by no mortal finger; How solemn in their gray-worn age they stand, Hills piled on hills in silent majesty! Lofty and strong, and beautiful and grand: II. Come forth into the woods,-in yonder valley, Where rippling waters murmur through the glade ; Or couched on mossy banks we'll lie and listen III. Know ye the land where fragrant winds awaken IV. The roaring torrents from the ice-cliffs leaping- But ah! their thunder fails, their music falters: V. A gentler sound wakes in the hush of even, VI. Night comes at last, in mystic shadows folding Then on each bough the feathered chanters, waking, Cease, cease your songs, ye birds; my heart-strings breaking VII. Yea, all the fairest forms that Nature scatters, The golden harvest-fields that crown the year, VOL. XII.-24 -- RELIGION AND HEROISM. PART THE SECOND. "GOD has concealed in affliction a restorative and mysterious balsam,' says Lacordaire, and this was in many ways the lesson taught by the invasion. The French people learned then, as never before, that the spirit of sacrifice is the first of all duties. Flushed with the glory of their victories and successes of every kind, they could not dream even that a time of sacrifice was rapidly approaching; still less could they dream that the prestige, which had so long surrounded the soldier's calling, was so soon to receive such a cruel blow. The time soon came, however, when every man was called upon to take a part, more or less active, in the war; when every Frenchman, without exception, was called upon to sacrifice himself to the good of his country. We desire only to recall here the sacrifices made by the village curés. The Abbé Miroy, curé of the village of Cuchery, near Rheims, had just learned that his father and mother had perished in the conflagration of a neighboring hamlet, burned by the Prussians. A few days afterwards some inhabitants of the village begged their cure to allow several fowling-pieces to be concealed in a garret of the presbytery. Overwhelmed by grief, or perhaps wishing to aid them, the Abbé Miroy let them do as they wished. The next day the cure was arrested by the Prussians, carried to Rheims, thrown into a dungeon, judged by a council of war, and condemned to death. On Sunday morning, February 12th, 1871, at six o'clock, while the day was scarcely dawning, and sharp cold and silence reigned in the city of Rheims, the measured steps of many men resounded in one of the streets leading to the principal dows the inhabitants of the city gate, and through half-opened wincould see the gleam of bayonets. Twelve Prussian soldiers, armed and wrapped in their dark cloaks, were marching in two lines; between them walked silently a French Catholic priest, dressed in his cassock, his head, covered with a black velvet skull-cap, bowed slightly on his breast, his hands bound behind his back, so that he could not touch the rosary which hung around his neck. The end of the cord was held by a corporal. The Abbé Miroy was going to the gate of Rheims to be shot. Since his arrest he had been kept in a damp prison, and given only black bread and water; but in spite of bodily weakness his soul remained steadfast. he had refused to sign a petition for The day before pardon, saying: “I desire only to join my father and mother in a better world." The city clock struck six; a shot was heard, and the body of the Abbé Miroy rolled bleeding resignation of a martyr and the on the ground. He died with the courage of a soldier. This crime was committed during the armistice, four days after the general elections. Pious hands gave Christian burial to the martyr, his grave was covered with "immortelles," and on a monumental cross these words are inscribed: "Here rests the Abbé Charles Miroy, who died the victim of his patriotism.” The following episode of the war was gathered from French soldiers escaped from Montmédy: We are from the Jura, soldiers of the fourth battalion of chasseurs; taken pris oners in the battle of Mouzon; fifty-three of us were guarded by a platoon of Prussian cavalry. On the fourth day we arrived in a little village of La Meuse, exhausted with |