From all these results we can frame an accurate judgment of the prince's career, which was but one continuous struggle--a glorious struggle, teeming with usefulness. When Gallitzin opened his mission, the vicar of Christ was persecuted and proscribed. A prisoner, torn away from his spiritual family, Pius VI. heard the voices of a _philosophic_ world applauding his abduction, as, ten years later, it applauded the violence inflicted on the person of Pius VII. It was just at that dark period which overshadowed the Holy See that the Church inaugurated her peaceful labors in the United States, and, at the end of ten years, had marked her beneficent influences by a progress so rapid that its result could not escape the eye of even the least observant. While Europe was organizing a settled persecution of the papal power, the Church in America was growing up and expanding in influence. Her very adversaries were compelled to bear even reluctant witness to her triumphs. In one of the meetings of a Bible society some years ago. Lord Barclay exhibited a summary, in which he lamented the spread of Catholicity in a country in which he said that in the year 1790 there was not even a bishop. "Strange," he said, "that while, in Europe, the power of the see of Rome is overthrown, the Pope is a prisoner, and Rome is declared to be the second city of the French empire--strange, I say, that, at this very moment, the power of the Pope should be rooted in America in this still stranger manner." Ay! strange indeed, my Lord Barclay; but in no way strange for those who know that martyrdom is the life of the Church, and that she woos triumph in persecution. Gallitzin's life is a living, convincing proof of her triumphs and her hopes. ------ {159} From The Sixpenny Magazine. "DUM SPIRO SPERO." (AN APOLOGUE.) My soul was restless, and I sought The elf's wild haunt, and breath'd sweet airs: I track'd the river's devious route:-- In vain!--my heart was vext with cares. I wandered from the noble park, The trimly gay parterre to view; Thence pluck'd a rose, without one mark To rob it of its faultless hue; And, home returning, quaintly placed My trophy in a tiny tray Of antique silver curious traced; Then, charg'd with odor, turn'd away. * * * * * I enter'd yestermorn the room Where, all forgotten, dwelt my flower Unhappy fate! that tender bloom Fell, fainting for the genial shower. Vanish'd all vigor had; and now-- The perfume fled--the tints grown dull-- It had been sin, I did allow, For this so choice a bud to pull. Then, with sore heart, I brought a stream Of clearest water to its cup. What wonder if new life 'gan gleam, And care restored what hope gave up? Lo! leaf by leaf was slowly raised, Till olden flashes came at length: Each plaintive petal oped, and gazed. And thank'd me with its growing strength. * * * * *