A spectacle of equal brilliancy, though less pompous, was presented by the grand torchlight procession which formed one evening in the square of Lourdes, where all were provided with candles. Thirty thousand persons were in this procession. They marched to the grotto of Massabielle and to the church upon the rock, moving slowly and singing hymns. As they moved they formed a great stream of glittering light, which rolled on and on and up and up, across the meadow and up the sinuous mountain-path. This impressive display lasted until midnight, when the greater number of the lights had died out and their bearers retired. But a goodly company still remained in the crypt of the church at prayer, in some instances fighting off sleep by marching up and down in companies, chanting night-prayers. Thus a nation's ardent worshipers assembled in devotion at the spot sanctified by the visions of Bernadette Soubirons. And what shall we say of her? Her professed visions cannot be set aside as impostures against the voice of thousands whose skepticism, as great as ours, has been abashed. It could not have been in the nature of this artless child, unencouraged and alone, to have been an impostor. Such would have been a rôle thoroughly foreign to her character. Perhaps there may have been illusion, a self-nourished fancy, evoked from the silent reveries of those solitary days at Bastres, when her mind was for long periods given up to undisturbed imaginings. Who can say? WILLIAM D. WOOD. BENEDICTION. Good-bye, good-bye, my dearest! My bravest and my fairest! I bless thee with a blessing meet For all thy manly worth. Good-bye, good-bye, my treasure! My only pride and pleasure! I bless thee with the strength of love Before I send thee forth. Mine own! I fear to bless thee, I hardly dare caress thee, Because I love thee with a love That overgrows my life; And as the time gets longer Its tender throbs grow stronger: My maiden troth but waits to be The fondness of the wife. Alas! alas! my dearest, The look of pain thou wearest! The kisses thou dost bend to give Are parting ones to-day! Thy sheltering arms are round me, But the cruel pain hath found me. What shall I do with all this love When thou art gone away? Ah well! One poor endeavor Shall nerve me while we sever: I will not fret my hero's heart With piteous sobs and tears. I send thee forth, my dearest, My truest and my rarest, And yield thee to the keep of Him Who blessed our happier years. Once more good-bye! and bless thee! My faltering lips caress thee. When shall I feel thy hand again Go kindly o'er my hair? Let the dear arms that fold me One last sweet moment hold me: In life or death our love shall be No weaker for the wear! HOWARD GLYNDON. A NIGHT IN BEDFORD, VIRGINIA.