University of Virginia Library

THE GLORY.

“Never, father, thanks be to Him above, never!”
said the Neophyte solemnly raising his eyes to the
vaulted roof—“Here amid the holy cloisters have
I grown from infancy to youth—here when
thought and memory first awoke within me, did I
wander silently beneath the shadow of the Holy
Cross, and here afar from the world, afar from
the strife of men, afar from the woe, the wrong,
the passion, the despair that attends Life in her
pilgrimage without these hallowed walls, here
will I die! Here, while the sound of the swelling
organ, and the melody of the vesper hymn break
on my freezing ear—the last of earthly sounds—
here, where my last look shall be met by the
vision of the solemn cross, made more glorious by
the beams of the setting sun, here will the orphan
give back to God, the spirit which he gave, without
a sigh, without a pang. Father, mother,
brother, sister, have I none—but—”

“God is thy Father—Christ the Blessed thy
Brother—the Virgin thy Mother!”

And as the grey-haired Abbot passed his thin
and withered hands along the brow of the Neophyte
with the gesture of benediction, a tear dimmed
the eye of the youth, but it was a tear of holy
joy, of sublime enthusiasm, a tear of hope and
heaven-born love—and as that tear sparkled between
the eyelids of the youthful face, it shone
like a star, trembling along the pathway of the
skies.

“Adrian, my son—” the Abbot continued, as
they paced toward the emblazoned window—
“Thy life has been a strange mystery. Since the
day—the cold winter's day, when the friendless
foundling first entered these walls—well do I
remember it! 'Tis now more than nineteen years
gone,—on the return of the next Mass of Christ
'twill be twenty years—since that dark and desolate
day, thou hast not passed beyond the cloisters
of this our monastery of St. Benedict, in the good
city of Florence the Fair. The world with its
good and evil is all unknown to thee, save from
the rare knowledge gained from the tomes of the
sacred library. And yet thou hast made passing
wondrous advancement in the holy mystery of
music. Who in this good city may wake such
sounds of melody from the chords of the harp, as
swell along the air when the strings are touched
by thy fingers? Nay, blush not, my son—'tis no
mock-praise I offer thee. Who in all our House
of St. Benedict, may illuminate the holy missal
of devotion, with such rare emblazonings as warm
the parchment when touched by thy pencil? Thou
art a strangely gifted youth, my brother—nay, my
son—and thy life has been a wondrous mystery.
Still when I look on that young brow of thine,
methinks there must be, within thy heart a lurking
desire, to mingle with the world without the
convent walls? What sayst Adrian?”

The Neophyte turned to the Abbot, and as he
turned the warm glow of the setting sun, fell in a
veil of light over his features. As he stood there
on the tesselated pavement, with every lineament
of his countenance brightening with enthusiasm,
the grey eyes sparkling with the light of inward
soul, the lips parted with sudden rapture, the
cheek flushed, and the brow unclouded, as thus he
stood with his hands upraised and his youthful
form elevated with a feeling of heaven-born dignity,
the holy father looked upon him, and started
as he thought, how much the youth seemed like
the pictures of the Saint John, which were hung
along the gallery of the convent.

“Mingle with the world without, reverend
father!” exclaimed the Neophyte—“A wish ever
cross my heart to mingle with its scenes of earthly
triumph, and earthly toil? Look around, holy
father, and gaze upon this sacred place! Above,
the fretted roof wrapped in gloom and shadow—
beneath, the tesselated pavement, with soft gleams
of sunlight breaking the misty veil that is thrown
around the lofty pillars—yonder the high altar,
with its cross—See! how the light of the setting
sun gleams over the face of the Blessed One!—
Look around, father, and mark this solemn place,
with its light and its gloom—its pillars rich with
age-worn sculpturings—its rare paintings, where
Genius waits at Devotion's shrine—its altar and
its cross—its sublime roof—and then father as
you mark the solemn silence that rests upon this
hour, think, here has been my home since infancy!
Here have I wandered while visions of
God lifted my soul to that Brighter World—at
the foot of yonder cross have I knelt prostrate
while the glories of the Unreal have been bared

to the eye of Faith! Look, holy father, look,
and then think how poor, how vile the soul, that
would prefer the scenes of the world without to
the holy hours of this awful temple!”