University of Virginia Library

THE LIGHT OF THE PICTURE.

It was in the ancient time, when Religion
dwelt in the shadows of the solemn temple, and
the lofty fane, and made her home amid the
recesses of age-worn altars, the time of glorious
deeds and magnificent superstitions, when Romance
came forth from the minds of men, and
walked abroad, a thing of visible life, the age of
war and love and song, on the afternoon of a
bright summer's day, that a young Student paced
the aisles of a gorgeous cathedral, with slow and
measured steps, while the melancholy echoes
sprang from pillar to pillar, and leaped from
gloomy arch to shadowy niche.

Advancing from the shadow of a massive column,
the student paused for a moment, where the
warm sunbeams, streaming thro' a lofty window,
gaudy with rare emblazonings, fell with all their
golden light, over a simple altar, tinting the
opened missal with a ruddy glow, and flinging
a halo around the cross, which rose above
the altar like a thing of sacred hopes and hallowed
affections.

As the student paused in his walk, and standing
in front of the altar, clasped his hands upon his
priestly robe, in reverence of the holy symbol, the
sunbeams fell warmly upon the outline of his
youthful figure, and his face, with its darkened
hue, the forehead broad and high, and pale with
thought, relieved by clustering masses of lustrous
brown hair, sweeping in ringlets to his shoulders,
the marked eyebrows curving with the frown of
meditation, the dark grey eyes, brilliant with fancy,
the bold nose, the expressive mouth, and the
rounded chin, all were shown in the warm glow
of the golden light; and the head and features of the
Neophyte stood out from the background of gloom
and shadow, like a picture, wrought by the hand
of an inspired master.

He bowed his head, low on his breast, and
raising his clasped hands in the sunlight, in a low
and deep-toned voice, he spoke—

“A solemn place and a hallowed hour”—he
murmured in that rich, melodious voice, with
which the full heart ever whispers its mysteries
to the silent air.—“A solemn place, and a hallowed
hour. Let others chose the glittering scenes
of the courtly hall, the music of the war-trump, or
the glare of the gay and flitting world. For me
—Ah, thanks to the Ever-Living, whose emblem
is the Holy Cross—For me, my home is made
amid the solitude of these quiet aisles and solemn
arches. The music of the organ, lofty and sublime,
fills my soul with vague and dreamy emotions—more
solemn, more grand, because most
vague and dreamy. And the scenes of the far-extending
procession where golden crosses
glitter, and sacred banners wave—the High Mass
when the Host is elevated, while the million bow
their heads in speechless adoration—the still melancholy
of the vesper hour, when the dying day
with its thousand sounds, re-echoes the twilight
calls to prayer—ah, these scenes to me are far
more dear, far more hallowed than all the pomp,
the show, and the glitter of the world.”

And raising his full grey eyes solemnly upward,
while his youthful face, warming with all
the inspiration that lightens the soul whose
thoughts are in the far-world of the unreal, glowed
and brightened in the light of the mellow sunbeams,
in a voice made holy by intense and absorbing
feeling, the Neophyte exclaimed—

“Thanks be unto God, the Ever-Living—
thanks be unto the Saviour, called the Blessed—
and unto the Holy Mary, the Pure Woman and
the Sublime Divinity; the thanks of the heart, and
the adoration of the soul be rendered; now and
forevermore.”

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4

“Benedicite!” said a calm and solemn voice—
“Benedicite, my son!”

The youth turned and beheld an aged man
clad in robes of undimmed white, with the mitre
of an Abbot, surmounting his high and thoughtful
brow. His blue eyes gleamed with the calm
light of a soul that knows no thoughts save
those that are of the Awful Unseen, while floating
along his wrinkled cheeks and over his shoulders,
the locks of snow white hair, gave grandeur
and dignity to the appearance of the holy
man.

“Holy Father, thy son returns thee thanks and
blessing!” said the youth in a solemn tone as he
bowed low before the venerable Abbot.

“Adrian my son,” said the Abbot, in the mild,
soft voice of a father, speaking to a beloved child,
“like the sweet sound of far-off music, melting away
among twilight hills comes the voice of youthful
enthusiasm over my heart. Adrian, my boy, thy
voice is now deep-toned, and thy heart throbs with
the warm feeling of youth—how oft have I heard
the voice of youth, deep-toned as thine, change to
the shrill and piercing laugh of reckless despair—
how oft have I noted hearts throbbing with youth
and hope like thine, wither and die, beneath the
cold death-chill of the first heart-break. But with
thee Adrian this may never be.”