Blind Agnese: Or, The Little Spouse of the Blessed Sacrament
Cecilia Mary Caddell
fc. a^- ^ -<^-^ ^ ' cf^ ^ ^ ^ , 0 c^A t€-- 0-->^'<— _ ■ I p' I'.- TO THE SACKED HEART OF JESUS. On earth, so laden with the sorrows of His humanity — in heaven, so overflowing with the joys of His divinity — and in the adorable Sacrament of the Altar, a fountain of joy, and peace, and consolation; of purity, of love, of gladness, and of grace — to all who seek Him there, this little book, in lowliest reverence, is ofiered — as a tribute of grati- tude and love — a confession of faith — and a reparation (inasmuch as may be) for the in- sults, neglect, ingratitude, and blasphemies heaped upon Him in this mystery of love, both by those who believe it not, and those who are cold in their believing. Sweet Mother Mary, to thy pure heart and hands I confide this offering, hoping thus to make a double reparation — to the Son, 6 DEDICATION. and to the Mother— so often and so deeply wounded in the injurious treatment cast upon the Son. Present it to him, I pray thee,^ and give thy maternal benediction to me, and the little ones for whom I write. Engrave indelibly on their tender hearts the lesson I have sought to trace. Teach them that none are too young to love Jesus, none too little or too low to be loved by him. Persuade them, as none but thou canst do, sweet Mother, that He, who from out of the Judean crowd did deign to call one little as themoelves, and to impart to that young child a father’s bene- diction, will likewise give to them His bless- ing, and lift their hearts to higher thoughts and holier aspirations, each time they kneel before Him in His Eucharistic Presence; there to offer, through thy pure heart and hands, their tribute of most grateful love to His Divine and Sacred Heart, in the ever adorable Sacrament of the Altar j \ ’ Feast of the Pure Heart of Mary, 1853. BLIND AGNESE ; OR, THE ptUt BpMt of fUsselj Sscrsmfttt CHAPTER I. HE lights were extinguished, the people were gone, the orange and the myrtle, the rose and the jessamine, were fading on the floor, and Jesus, who, in the sacrament of His love, had upon that day presided visibly from his altar- throne over the devotions of His creatures, was once more concealed beneath the veils of the tabernacle, where, for more than eighteen cen- turies, His love had held him captive. It was , the Feast of His Most Sacred Heart, which comes to us in the midst of the fervid days of June, as if to remind us of the love with which He burns for us, and of the love with which He would have 8 BLIND AGNESE. US to burn for Him ; and during the sweet service of the evening benediction, the lovers of that most blest devotion had knelt before Him — ^some in joy, and some in sorrow; some with souls con- sciously burning in His embraces ; others without any sensible perception of His presence ; but all with the prayer of Jacob upon their lips and in their hearts — “ I will not let thee go except thou bless me.’* And He did bless them in that hour ; He would not be less merciful than His angel — He would not deny the petition which His minis- tering spirit had been unable to refuse ; but high above the altar, in the hands of His priest, amid clouds of incense, and dying strains of music, and tinkling of low bells and falling of fresh flowers. He poured out upon them His parting benedic- tion, such a benediction as he had already breathed upon His disciples when ascending from them into Heaven — a benediction as full of mercy, as full of love, as full of majesty, as full of power, and falling upon hearts, if not as faithful, at least, it may be said, as full of faith. For in that mighty multitude not one was found to doubt of the reality of His presence among them ; not one who, with beating heart, and bowed down head, and spirit rapt into hushed and voiceless adoration, did not kneel before his Encharistic Saviour in the full conviction that His eye was on them, and His heart was with them, and His lips unclosed to speak His blessing, and His hands extended to BLIND AGNESE. 9 invoke it on their heads ; and with such a faith as this among them, who shall wonder if, when the service was over, and they once more went forth to their homes, it was with hearts lightened at least of half their cares, filled to overflowing in the consolations showered on them by that pre- sence, made even as a plentiful field which the Lord, hath blest,” beneath the gifts and graces im- parted in that blessing ? They were gone, but not all : one there was who yet knelt before His altar, attracted, compelled, chained to it, as it were, by the fascination of His presence. To that wrapt up, bowed down spirit. He was invisible, and yet most visible ; He was silent, and yet most eloquently persuasive of his love ; and if he were held apart and separated from it by the door of the tabernacle, yet did he draw it to run after Him in the sweet odour of his ointments, until love made Him all but tangible to its spiritual embraces. And in whom, do you think, and in what visible form was this spirit of love and devo- tion enshrined ? It was no aged priest, grown grey in the service of the altar, who now knelt at its foot. No cloistered nun, who had identified herself with the Lord of the sanctuary by a life- long renunciation of his enemy, the world. No high prince, descended from his throne, to adore Him with the Magi. No courtly dame come hither, like another Magdalen, to lay her beauty, her tresses, and her perfumes at his feet It was B 10 BLIND AGNESE. but a poor beggar girl, who, in her innocent years, and her tattered rags, and her humble station, seemed an earthly embodiment of His favourite virtues. If she were alone, or if the crowd were still around her, she knew it not, for her whole soul was with the Silent Dweller in the tabernacle, feeding upon His sweetness, who Himself doth feed among the lilies ; and yet in that hour a human eye was fixed upon her, and a human mind was speculating about her. Nor was it for her beauty, although the beauty of devotion, the true beauty of the seraph, was beaming from her features. Nor was it for her picturesque appearance, although her rags were disposed as only a lazzaroni of Na- ples knows howto dispose them — colour contrast- ing colour, and patches of black, and scarlet, and yellow, and rich brown mingling together just as they would ha\^e been mingled by the cunningof a painter. Nor was it for her youth, although she was but a mere child ; children as young are, thanks be to God, no rare sight in Italy, kneeling before His altar. The eye was fixed upon her, in wonder how the human form could remain so still — the mind was engaged in speculation and in question, as to what invisible influence it was, which could give such deep meaning to that child- like brow, such seraph beauty to those child-like features. ‘‘ How motionless she is !” thought this second watcher in the temple, “ and how veiy fain I BLIND AGNESEw XI wonder how long she will remain in that attitude of prayer. Oh ! that I were a painter, that 1 might give her to the world as my vision of an angel. Surely, she must weary soon. I will wait and speak to her as she is leaving the church.” But minute after minute passed away, and she did not seem to weary. The rays of the setting sun streamed full upon her kneeling form, gave a new richness to her many-colored costume, and fell with an almost unearthly radiance upon her brow ; and no trace of weariness was to be found upon it — no change of attitudewhich might convey the idea of bodily or mental fatigue. It was all repose — thought in repose, repose in thought — as if body and soul were both reclining in the arms of one invisibly beside her. And now the watcher herself began to grow impatient — twice she arose, as if to rouse the child from her devotions, and twice she desisted from her pur- pose, for each time she approached that kneeling figure, a kind of awe, for which she could not account, came over her own spirit — it seemed so like an irreverent intrusion upon the communica- tions of the invisible Creator with the visible creature. Half in wonder, half in vexation, she retired to her ov/n seat, and as she did so for the second time, she discovered that she was not the only one engaged in a similar scrutiny. A door, (vhich she had not perceived before, was open, and an old man was standing near it. not merely 12 BLIND AGNESE. watching the child, but making signal after signal that she should approach him. They were all un- heeded, for they were all unseen ; and then he advanced into the church, his foot falling without sound among the flowers that carpeted the pave- ment ; but when he reached her side he also paused, as if in doubt whether to disturb or to leave her with her God. It was, however, only the hesitation of a moment ; directly afterwards he touched her on the shoulder, whispering some- thing at the same time in her ear ; and apparently in obedience to his summons, the child arose and followed him to the open door, which closed im- mediately upon them, greatly, it must be owned, to the disappointment of the old lady, who had been an interested witness of the scene. ‘‘ My poor Agnese,'* said the old man, with a compassionate smile, ‘‘for a moment I forgot your misfortune, and beckoned as though you could see me,” “I knew you would have work for me this evening,” said the young girl, in a voice which fell like soft music on the ear, it was so plaintive and so sweet, “ and so I thought I would wait until you came to call me.” “ And then forgot the old man, in thought ot Him to whose service the old man would call you,” returned her companion with a smile. “Yes, Francesco.” “ I .should like to know those thoughts, my BLIND AGNESE. «3 child. Strange it is that one so young should find within herself the source of such deep and holy meditation.” “ Not so strange, Francesco ; remember I am blind.” ‘‘ You are right, my child ; the good JesuS never withholds a gift without replacing it by another tenfold its value ; and so, perhaps. He has but blinded you to the things of this earth, in order to give you a fa.cility for discerning the glories of His invisible kingdom, in a manner not often granted to His poor creatures while yet in the body.” How do you see Jesus, Francesco.?” said Agnes, abruptly. I know that, God and man. He is on our altars, but then I know not well what an altar is like, and I have never seen a man.” " When I kneel before the altar,” said the old man, in the tone and manner of one describing what he sees, what he is seeing at that moment, “ I first say to myself, Jesus is in the tabernacle, I know that he is there: I believe it as if my very eyes beheld him. He is there in His divinity — m His humanity He is there. Methinks, there- fore, that I look upon Him in the human form which he took from Mary, but which is now all light and radiance — radiant in its own glorified nature — but yet more radiant in the glory of the divinity, by which it is imbued, and penetrated, and filled to overflowing. I behold Him a God, and yet a man — a man, and still a God ; and if 14 BLIND AGNESE, the awed majesty of his heavenly Fathet be throned upon His brow, yet is it mingled with that sweet and gentle look, which made Him on earth so like His mother.” “ Go on, dear Francesco,” said Agnes, sitting down at his feet, and covering her face with her hands : “ go on ; I love to hear you.” “ Yet doth He wear the garment of His shame, but now woven of the light which the Lamb sheds over His loved in heaven, flows it in robes of brightness to His feet. Yet doth He bear the crown with which our sins have diademed His brow, but now the lustre of millions of millions of diamonds seems concentrated in every thorn. Yet doth He show those wounds which, in His hands, and feet, and side. He refused not for our love ; but for the blood once shed therefrom, streams of glory and of sweetness are pouring from them now. And beneath this glorious veil of His humanity methinks I discern the light inaccessible of His divinity, dwelling within the sacred heart, as in its temple, and from thence pouring itself forth in floods of grace, and gladness, and mercy on His creatures. Within that sacred heart is love, and peace, and holy calm, a silence inex- pressible— around it are spirits bowed, cherubim and seraphim, in reverent adoration. 15 He is inviting me, even me, the most sinful of His creatures, to the embraces of that most sacred heart — that He holds out to me His wounded hands — that, out of the very depths of His tender- ness, He is speaking to my soul, and fixing on me those eyes which once were fixed in dying sweetness on His Mother ; and so, in awful and yet most calm affection, I kneel before Him, and press to my lips that robe which once imparted of His virtue to the sick woman of the Gospel ; and kiss those feet which were not refused to the embraces of Magdalen ; and inhale the fragrance of those wounds, once terrible in their gore, but now so beautiful and sweet — sweet with the * smell of Lebanon,’ the odour of His ointments. And then at last,” continued the old man, and his voice grew tremulous and full of tears,” it seems to me that He permits me to a yet closer union with Himself, that He even says : ‘ friend come up higher,’ that He folds his arms around me, that He lays my head upon His sacred bosom, breathing of paradise, that He draws me even to the centre of His sacred heart, and in its holy stillness imparts to me those lessons of heavenly love and wisdom, which once by His living lips, He gave to His disciples. And what are those lessons, dear child, if they are not contained in such words as these ? — ‘ Blessed are the poor in spirit ; blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted ; blessed are the merciful, for they i6 BLIND AGNESE. shall find mercy.’ Or again — * Learn of me, for l am meek and humble of heart, and you shall find peace in your souls. My yoke is sweet, and my burden light.’ And I listen, dear Agnese, until my very heart and soul seem steeped in the sweetness of these words as in the dew of heaven ; and then I say, not indeed by lips, but by the internal language of the spirit : ‘ Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth ; thou hast the words of eternal life ; say to my soul, I am thy salvation.’ ” ‘‘ That is very beautiful, and of great devotion,” said Agnese, and for an instant there was some- thing of sadness in her sweet, low voice ; ‘‘ but then, you know, I cannot think or feel that way, because I cannot see ; therefore, I cannot image to myself what Christ is like in His glorified humanity.” Then tell me, Agnese, what it is that draws you to His altar ?” ‘‘ I can hardly tell you, it is so much easier to feel than to describe. I am drawn to Jesus, I know not how — embraced by Him, I cannot tell you in what manner. It is as if a spirit of awe, and power, and majesty, and greatness, was over- shadowing the sanctuary, awing and hushing every creature into silence ; around that holy spot do angels and faints keep sleepless watch, and the inother of God is ever there. I do not see them, but I feel them at my side ; sometimes in silence they adore ; sometimes in stra ins of sweetest music BLIND AGNESE, 17 they sing His praises ; and ever and always they cast their crowns before Him, and send up incense from their golden horns, and scatter the flowers of Paradise at His feet ; and so it seems to me, that all the perfumes of the earth are not so sweet — all the music of the earth is not so full of harmony and love — all the brightness and glory of the earth are not and cannot be so glorious and so bright, as is the Holy of Holies where Jesus evel dwelleth in the tabernacle of the altar. For a moment Agnes was not a child ; she looked i8 BLIND AGNESE, and felt like a seraph at the altar. So Francesco fancied, as he looked upon her, but he did not tell his thought. He remembered that His angel, who saw the face of the Father in Heaven, would have reason to complain if he injured the humility of His little one by words of praise ; so after a moment’s reverent pause, he only said : " Agnes your words remind me of a story which I read many and many a long year ago, about a child, not older, if indeed as old, as you are.” “ Tell it to me, if it be about Him, Francesco,* said the child, “ particularly if it be true. There now I have settled myself nicely at your feet, and I shall listen quite at my ease.” I cannot answer for its being entirely true, and it is so long since I read it, that I almost forget it. She was an orphan, brought up from her earliest infancy in a convent of which her aunt was abbess. I think her Heavenly Father must Him- sels have chosen out this sanctuary of peace for His little one, in order that no obstacle might be opposed to the graces whieh He had reserved for her innocent soul, and by means of which He so drew her to Himself, that, from the earliest dawn of reason, her thoughts seemed to turn as natu- rally to Him as the thoughts of her other children do to the toys and ornaments of her age. From the moment she could speak, her words were of Jesus ; from the moment she could walk, her feet ever turned towards the altar of Jesus ; spiritually BLIND AGNESE. 19 every day, and every hour of the day, she united herself to Him by her fervent desires ; although far too young to be received into sacramental communion with Him, yet was this the object of her most earnest aspirations, of her unceasing petitions. Day after day she used to accompany the nuns to the chureh, and to watch them witii eyes of envy, as two by two they approached the altar, and two by two returned to their places ; and when she saw them depart in peace, because their God was with them, she would prostrate herself at the feet of the abbess, and implore her with many tears to give to her this Jesus, in whose embraces she herself was so happily folded.” “ And they would not ?” said Agnese, in a tone of deep sympathy. “ She was so young, my child. But, young as »nc was, God had given to her a faith, a percep- tion of the real presence of Jesus in the sacrament, which saints deem themselves happy to attain after years of penance, solitude, and prayer, and often she has been heard to say in her sorrow, ‘ He is near, and I cannot approach Him ; He is here, and I cannot possess Him ; He is with all the others, and I alone am deprived of His embraces.’ Of her it might be truly said, that she mourned like the dove, whose sweet name she bore, for she did languish and pine until her bodily health sank beneath the vehement desires 20 BLIND AGNESE. of her soul. Her step grew languid, and her cheek grew pale, and her soft eye softer and softer still, and yet, within its depth of softness (so the old legend tells us) a light, as if of Heaven, did dwell ; and still the languid step led her to the altar, and the weary head was bowed before it, and the eye was turned in patient sorrow towards the dove that watched above it, floating calm, and silvery, and pale, beneath the lighted lamp of the holy place, and seeming to tell, even in its outward form, of Him, the peaceful and the pure, who night and day reposed within its bosom.” “ Him, Francesco ! do you mean Him ? Was Jesus really dwelling within the dove “ In those days, Agnese, the blessed sacrament was not kept upon the altar ; it was placed in a silver vessel, suspended from above, and most often, I believe, fashioned in the likness of a dove — a dove, chosen, perhaps, because of the sweet and loving qualities with which our fancy has invested her. Yes, and I may also say, within which God Himself has chosen to surround her, making her ever, as it were, His messenger of peace to man- kind. And so it may have seemed right and fitting to the early Christians, that she, who brought the olive branch to Noah, should likewise bear Him above that altar, to which never would He descend except in thoughts of loving-kindness to His creatures.” “ A dove,” said Agnese, thoughtfully ; ” that is for meditation : is it not ?” BLIND AGNESK 21 ^*True,” said the old man ; so she would also remind them how they were to meditate like doves before Him, and how they were to put off their rough, ungainly notions, and to put on his meek and dove-like spirit, for he was a very dove in heart, and he came to us through the dove-like Mary." “ Tell me now about the child, Francesco, and vhat was her name. a long and loving silence, she would say, in a voice so sweet and sad, it might have been the vety mourning of the quiet bird she looked on — ‘ Oh, that the dove would descend and give Him to my prayers.’ “ One day she seemed so feeble, they almost feared to move her, but she prayed so earnestly to be carried to the church for the last, last time to visit Jesus, that the nuns had it not in their hearts to refuse her petition. So they bore her to his altar, and then, yet more earnestlj^han she had ever done before, she besought them to leave her to herself. It always appeared strange to them afterwards that they should have done so ; they did not understand their feelings at the moment ; but later they confessed to one another that a kind of awful love had crept over their spirits, she looked and spoke so like a creature acting and speaking under the direct influence of the Spirit of God, her very words penetrating their hearts with a kind of celestial sweetness, such as they had never felt or known before. It seemed almost, to them, as if some hidden influence had left them no choice but to obey her. “ One there was, however, not quite so submis- sive to the wishes of Colomba ; this was her little sister, who was passionately attached to her, and to whom sli3 herself was fondly devoted. The child, it appeans, could not bear to leave her, ill and alone, in that gloomy church, so she hid her- BLIND AGNESE. 23 self behind one of the pillars, and watched her from a distance. ‘‘ Then, as ever, Colomba folded her hands up6n her bosom, and lifted her eyes to her silver dove, and said so softly and beseechingly — ‘ Oh, that thou wouldst descend and give Him to my prayers.' And then — scarcely could the child believe her eyes — slowly and steadily, through the dim shadows of the evening, the dove descended — the light of the lamp abo\e gleaming brightly on its silver wings — and, as if some secret spirit gave her power, Columba rose to meet it And her folded arms were folded still, and her head was bowed in lowliest prayer, and she knelt, yet scarcely did she seem to touch the pavement, and a soft and silvery mist seemed floating around her, as if to fold her from all mortal vision. And then, in fear and wonder, the child ran to summon her companions ; but when the nuns returned with her to the church, the dove had re-ascended to its former position, and the child lay once more stretched upon the pavement — ^peace on her brow, an unutterable expression (it could not be called a smile) yet resting on her lips. The nuns were frightened at her stillness. They drew near, but she did not move ; they spoke, but she did not answer. They kissed her, but no look of gratitude was returned for their embraces. Still seemed the bird of the sanctuary to brood over the fair child, but Colomba no longer has need of its assistance — closed were the eyes which had been fixed upon 24 BLIND AGNESE. it SO often and so long, hushed was the voice which had called it from on high. The dove’s celestial habitant had taken her to Himself, and the child was dead.*^ Francesco ! But he had come to her in her dying hour “Who can tell; replied Francesco. “This much, indeed, is certain, that when the dove was lowered, one was missing of the sacred Hosts which had been confided to its keeping ; and so the nuns were left uncertainly to coiuecture, that Jesus, whose delight it is to be with tire children of men, would not refuse Himself to the embraces of this child, nor suffer her soul to go forth from her body until He had blessed it by His sacramental presence. And but you can guess the rest, Ag- nese. The joy was too much for her wasted frame — she died in that moment of unutterable bliss.” There was a long pause, and when Francesco looked again upon his young companion, he saw that she could not speak, so fast were the tears streaming from her blind eyes. “To die of love ! it was indeed a death to die, more blessed than any life could be,” he added. There was another pause, and then Agnese whis- pered, in a voice which seemed, to the old man’s fancy, as the very echo of Colomba’s — “ Oh that the dove would descend once more, and give Him to my prayers.’' “ We must have patience a little longer — fan* BLIND AGNESE. oiullina mia. You are older than the little saint of whom we have been speaking, and soon Padre Gio« vanni will begin to talk of our first communion.’^ " Soon ! Do you think he will talk about it soon, Francesco V* said Agnese, her whole face lighting up with a look of joyful surprise.” ‘‘ I must not reveal the Padre’s secrets,” said • the old man, smilingly ; only wait a very little longer, and then we shall see ; but in the mean- time, dear Agnese, we will work for Jesus with Martha, that we may have the happiness of rest- ing afterwards at His feet with Mary. See, here are the little corporals for the wash ; and remem- ber, dear child, we are rather in want of them just now.” '‘You shall have them by to-morrow morning, Francesco” " Nay, my child, you must not sit up all night to do it The sweet Jesus would never demand such a hard task of His little one. Time enough, if you bring them to me in the evening.” " You shall have them in the morning, Fran- cesco,” replied the child, in a tone of quiet reso- tion. " Adieu, Francesco.” " Adieu, my child. What have you done with Perletta ?” " I left her at the porch.” “ Well, you have kept her a long time waiting. You had better make haste and seek her, e-lse, if you leave her alone much longer^ perhaps she will 26 BLIND AGNESE. take it into her head to go home without you, as she did once before, Agnese.” ‘‘ She has never played me such a trick, but once, Francesco. No, no ; there is no fear of Per- letta ; she is grown very patient.” “ Well, I am glad of that, Agnese. Adieu, my child.” Francesco left the vestry through another door, just as Agnese opened the one by which she had entered it with him, stumbling as she did so over the old lady whom she had so long and unwit- tingly left waiting on the outside.^ Determined not to leave the church without speaking to the child, and yet feeling too weary and tantalized to remain patient any longer, she had just ipade up her mind to break in upon her conversation, when, as we have seen, Agnese opened the door, and in her blindness stepped directly upon her feet. The sufferer uttered an involuntary scream, and then, as sufferers will upon such occasions, she could not resist saying in a petulant tone — You have hurt me, child ; if you had not left your eyes before the altar, you might have seen that you were walking quite over my feet ; one would fancy you were blind.” “ Pardon me. Madam,” said the child, in a voice of distress, but which had not even the shadow of imphtienee in it — “ pardon me, for I am blind.” “ Blind ! Good God !” cried the old lady, “how cruel I must have appeared !” BLIND AGNESE. 27 And then she looked more steadily at the child> and she saw that although the young face was turned towards her with an expression of sympa- thy in her suffering, the eyes were not lifted to hers as they would so naturally have been. The lids were closed, the long lashes swept over her cheeks — there was no temptation to raise them, for sight there was none beneath. Alas, poor child !” said she again, struck by the meek and holy expression of that face ; “ how long have you been thus ? or were you, indeed, as I should think, born blind V I know not ; but I do not remember ever to have seen the light, Signora.** And are you here alone ? have you no one to lead you home, my child .^** asked her companion, now in a tone of tenderest compassion. Si, Signora ; Perletta is waiting for me at the porch, and I can always go as far by myself.** Without saying another word the old lady led her down the aisle, as far as the open gate of the church ; there the child paused, and thanked her gently for her kindness. 1 will trouble the Signora no further,** she said ; the dog will see me home. Perletta, Per- letta !** but no Perletta answered. ‘‘ My child, no dog is here,** said the old lady anxiously. “ I fear it has forsaken you.** ‘‘ What shall I do ?*' said the poor child, sadly, My God ! what has become of Perletta ? Never but once before did she desert me in this manner. 28 BLIND AGNESE. Whither do you want to go, my child asked the old lady, more touched than ever by her forlorn look and evident distress. Tell me where you wish to go, and I will gladly lead you thither.” “ The Signora is very good ; I thank her with all my heart,” said the child, submissively. “ It is only to my grandmother ; she sells lemonade in yonder grove ; perhaps the Signora knows her already, for she often deals out iced waters to the fine ladies who leave their carriages to rest beneath the shadow of the orange frees.” ** The old woman who serves out water from the fountain, is she your grandmother ? I know her well ; many a time have tasted her delicious lemonade. Come, my child, we shall soon be there, and your grandmother shall give me a glass of iced water for my reward.” “ He will give the Signora a better one, some day, I hope, for her kindness to His poor blind lamb.” Tell me, what is your name, my child ?” the old lady asked again, as they took their way to the orange grove. “ I have said it. Signora — it is Agnese ; that is for lamb, you know. So they call me Blind Agnese ; and sometimes, in their sport, the children name me, also, the Little Spouse of the Blessed Sacra- ment.” ‘‘Little Spouse of the Blessed Sacrament!” said the lady in an under-tone ; " what a strange BLIND AGNESE. 29 name, and what a strange child. And does not this blindness grieve you V' she said aloud. The question sounded cruel, and the lady felt It did ; yet she could not resist the temptation of trying to penetrate the secret feelings of this child, who had interested her so strangely. There was no trace, however, of pain or of regret upon Agnese's face as she answered — It would grieve me sadly, Signora, were it not for Him.” For whom, my child f — the old man I saw speaking to you just now ?” ‘‘ No, Signora, not Francesco, though he is a kindness and a comfort also. I spoke of Fran- cesco’s Master and mine — of Jesus— of Him who made us both — of Him who dwelleth ever with us on our altars.” ** You speak of God, my child,” said the lady, reverently. *'He, in truth, is everywhere; but you cannot see Him on the altar.” “ No, Signora ; but I know Him to be there. I feel that He is with me, and I with Him, and so I do not want for sight to see Him.” " And is there nothing, then, you want to see ?” The old lady went on, as it were in her own des- pite, forshe felt all the danger of awakening regret in so thoughtful a mind. ‘‘The light, for instance — the glorious light of Heaven — the sun, the moon, the million of millions of stars that tell us of the glory of their Maker ?” 30 BLIND AGNESE. No/’ said the child, for I have Him who made them, and He Himself is the ‘ light of the world/" "Or the beautiful face of nature — the deep valley, the mighty mountain, or mountain of mountains — ^your own Vesuvius ?" "I have Him,” said the child in an untroubled voice, " and He is mightier than all His works.” " Or the buildings of your city — the stately palaces, the sainted temples? Yonder little church, for instance, which we have just quitted, and which might have been the work of angels or of fairies, it is so spirit-like and full of grace[7” " These are but the creations of man, Signora and there was a shade of grave rebuke in Agnese’s voice ; " and if I long not to behold His works, shall I sigh to look upon His creatures.” " Well, Agnese, the flowers, at least, are His own lovely work of love ; tell me, do you not sometimes sigh to gaze upon the flowers, which He has scattered so profusely over this soft southern land ? Never have I walked before among such flowers, with their velvet-like rich- ness of touch and hue, and their perfume, which comes over one’s senses like a dream of beauty.” " They are soft to the touch, and sweet to the senses,” Agnese answered, after a moment’s pause. And He was called the ‘ flower of the root of Jesse.* So they must be precious things, those flowers ! But yet,” she added, in an assured and BLIND AGNESEj. 31 earnest tone, I do not regard them, for I have and He made them, and beautiful as they are. He must be a thousand million of times more beautiful than they are.” ‘‘Happy child,” said the lady, sadly, “ He hath, indeed, robbed you of your sorrow ; would that I knew where you had found Him, that I might go and seek Him also.” “ Do you not know where to find Him ?” said Agnese, in great surprise. “He is ever on the altar, if you are in sorrow, go and seek Him there and He will speak sweet comfort to your soul.” “Tell me, fair child, who has taught you to think and speak in this manner.” “Francesco, Signora; he has taught me to know and love Jesus on the altar.” The lady did not answer. Something in the child’s voice and manner had recalled sad memo- ries to her mind, and her tears were falling fast, nor did she seek to check them until they had nearly gained the fountain, and the grove to which their footsteps were directed. There they found Agnese’s grandmother plying her usual trade be- fore a table, made very gay to look at, by the four painted stakes, placed one at every corner, and decorated with images of saints, coloured flags, and bunches of lemons, and bouquets of flowers, to say nothing of the ten little already lamps gleaming like fire-flies among the shadows of the trees. A cask, in the form of a drum, filled with BLIND AGNESE. clear ice, and water from the fountain, was placed on this table, which likewise displayed an abun- dance of clean glasses and lemons for the prepa- ration of iced lemonade. Many and grateful were the thanks of the old dame to the good Samaritan who had brought her back her blind one ; and having accepted a glass of iced water, and pressed an alms into the unwilling hand of Agnese, Lady Oranmore stepped into her carriage, which had followed her from the church, promising herself, however, to return the very next day, and renew her acquaint- ance with the fair child of the fountain. How often, during her drive back to Naples, did the words of Agnese recur to her memory — “ If you are in sorrow, go and seek Him on the altar, and He will speak sweet comfort to your soul.” She was not a Catholic, that old lady, or she would have better understood the deep mean- ing of these simple words — the holy truth, that He, whose dwelling was in the bosom of His Father, could yet find no peace for His loving heart, until He had made himself a home among the children of men, until he had imparted unto them the sweet- ness of that humanity, all the bitterness of which he had reserved for Himself. And so He came to us, the Virgin's child, the meek and holy Jesus, to dwell for ever with us in the Sacrament of His love, never again to be absent, even for an hour, BUND AGNESE. 33 from the world of His redemption and especial predilection — ever living for us,withus,and among us. In the noontide glare, in the midnight gloom, in the crowded city, and in the lonely country's most lonely places, still and for ever to be found upon our altars, from thence giving rest to the weary, comfort to the afflicted, calmer and holier joy to the glad of heart ; leaving it to no creature of earth to say that he had sought his Lord, and had not found him, or that he had been near Him, and had not been invited to the embraces of His love. Happy they who seek the invitation, and happier they who hear it, and obey it, by dwelling, if not always in the body, at least always in spirit and desire, beneath the shadow of His altar. These are they of whom it has been truly said, “ They shall eat the honey with the honey- comb," for they shall taste and see that the Lord is sweet ; they shall find the tears wiped away from off their faces ; they shall draw water in joy from the fountains of the Saviour; and they shall testify to the truth of the promise made to us by His own living and most sacred lips, a promise only not oftener fulfilled in ourselves, because we seek not its proper fulfilment in Him — “ Come to Me, all you that labour and are burdened, and I will refresh you." 34. D AGNESE. CHAPTER IL Sign the cross, and strike the breast ? Banish looks of lightsome cheer — Heaven’s monarch, mortal’s guest — Lo I our Jesus draweth near. One thou lovest, Lord, is ill, cJ As of old, is now the tiding, And, as then, it finds Him ^till In his love that call abiding. “ Sign the cross, and strike the breast,” et':. Quicker even than He went To the loved of Bethany, Now with thoughts as fondly bent On this loved one, cometh He. ‘‘Sign the cross, and strike the breast,” etc. if His own no longer flow. Still he dries the sinner’s tears ; If no grief is on the brow, Still, its look of love it wears. “ Sign the cross, and strike the breast,” etct If no more from out the grave He doth bid the dead arise. Still, the sinful soul to save. On the sinners heart he lies. “Sign the cross, and strike the breast.” etc. BLIND AGNESE. 35 Bids him pub aside his fear, Bids his trembling all to cease, Whispers in his dying ear Words of pardon, hope, and peace. ** Sign the cross, and strike the breast,” etc. Jesu, when my hoar is nigh. Let me rest thy arms within | Thus to die is not to die, ’Tis but to quit a world of sin. Sign the cross, and strike the breast ; Banish looks of lightsome cheer — Heaven’s monarch, mortaPs guest, Lo I our Jesus draweth near. Seated in her balcony, amid orange trees and myrtles, and all the sweet growth of that southern clime, Lady Oranmore listened to the soft voices of the singers as they slowly approached the palazzo where she dwelt. It was midnight, but she had not been able to repose as yet ; her thoughts were running on the Blind Agnese ; and the look of inexpressible peace, which could give such beauty to those pallid features haunted her still ; and the inexpressible devotion of that voice, as once, and once only, it had reverently pro- nounced the name of Jesus, stiU seemed to ring in her ears. Over and over again she asked herself, why it was that she ever knelt with an unratisfied heart 36 BLIND AGNESE. and a cold and hungry spirit before the self-same altar, where this poor child had but to come to be replenished with delight Y es, and LadyOranmore could not deny it to herself, with heavenly wisdom also — thewisdomso often withheld from the proud, to be lavishly bestowed upon the humble and the poor. Alas ! — ^like Pilate, Lady Oranmore asked : What is truth ? and, like him, she waited not the answer, but, impatient of her own feverish fancies and sleepless couch, she rose, dressed herself hastily, as I have already said, andJ stepped out upon the balcony. It was a lovely night — ^such a night as that on which the prophet looked, when he declared that “the heavens showforth the glory of God, and the firmament declareth the work of His hands.” The deep blue sky of Italy seemed to growdeeper and deeper still, as Lady Oranmore gazed upon it, until she felt as if she were looking into it, and through it, and beyond it ; and from out of this azure setting the stars met her glances with looks so conscious and so calm, that shecould almost have persuaded herself theirs was the light of angel eyes, not merely watching over a sleeping world, but engaged in penetrating into the hidden depths of her soul, and reading all its secrets. The calm night air soonsoothed the perturbation of her spirits, and she was fast sinking into a sort of dreamy calm, when the first notes of the Hymn of the Bles^d Sacrament fell on her ears ; and here a door and there a window opening, told how all BLIND AGNESE. 