FROM THE FRENCH OF VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND. The woods, the sand-beach desolate and bare, Blend dusky with the shadows dim and far, And, glittering from the depths, the evening star Gleams solitary through the silent air. Westward, and sparkling under purest skies, Foams on the long, low reef the line of white; And towards the north, o’er seas of crystal light, The gathering mist of deepening purple flies. The mountains redden still with sunset fire, Soft dies the plaintive breeze in murmurs low, And, each to each linked in their gentle flow, The waves roll calmly shoreward and expire. All grandeur, mystery, love! In this, the time Of dying day, all nature with her state Of mountain ranges and her forests great, The eternal order and the plan sublime, Stands like a temple on whose walls of light The beauties of creation’s day are shown―― A sanctuary, where is the Godhead’s throne Veiled by the curtains of the holy night Whose cupola high to the zenith towers, A glorious harmony, a work divine, And painted with the heavenly hues that shine In dawns, in rainbows, and in summer flowers. LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER. FROM THE FRENCH. NOVEMBER 2. “Voici les feuilles sans sève Qui tombent sur le gazon.”[21] What a solemn day to the Christian is All Souls’ day! I prayed much, very much, for all our dear friends in the other world. Oh! how I pity the suffering souls consumed by the flames of purgatory. They have seen God; they have had a glimpse of his glory on the day of their judgment; they long for the Supreme Good with unutterable ardor. What torment! And some there are who will be in those lakes of fire even to the end of the world. We can do nothing but offer our prayers, and they bring deliverance! Who would not devote themselves to the suffering souls? What misfortune more worthy of pity than theirs? I love the “Helpers of the Holy Souls!”[22] It is to me a great happiness to be united with them in thought, prayer, and action. A thousand memories have come into my mind; there have passed before me all my beloved dead, all the dead whom I have known or whom I have once seen. How numerous they are, and yet I have not been living so very long. Each day thins our ranks, links drop off from the chain. Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord! Here is winter upon us――melancholy winter, which makes poor mothers weep. Meditated yesterday on the joys of the love of Jesus, which in Holy Communion melts our heart like two pieces of wax into one only――Jesus, the only true friend, who consoles and sustains, and without whom all is vanity. The Christian who has prayer and Communion ought to live in perpetual gladness of heart.