THE INTERVIEW
The dreams of Agnes, on the night after her conversation with the monk
and her singular momentary interview with the cavalier, were a strange
mixture of images, indicating the peculiarities of her education and
habits of daily thought.
She dreamed that she was sitting alone in the moonlight, and heard some
one rustling in the distant foliage of the orange groves, and from
them came a young man dressed in white of a dazzling clearness like
sunlight; large pearly wings fell from his shoulders and seemed to
shimmer with a phosphoric radiance; his forehead was broad and grave,
and above it floated a thin, tremulous tongue of flame; his eyes had
that deep, mysterious gravity which is so well expressed in all the
Florentine paintings of celestial beings; and yet, singularly enough,
this white-robed, glorified form seemed to have the features and
lineaments of the mysterious cavalier of the evening before,--the same
deep, mournful dark eyes, only that in them the light of earthly pride
had given place to the calm, strong gravity of an assured peace,--the
same broad forehead,--the same delicately chiseled features, but
elevated and etherealized, glowing with a kind of interior ecstasy.
He seemed to move from the shadow of the orange trees with a backward
floating of his lustrous garments, as if borne on a cloud just along
the surface of the ground; and in his hand he held the lily spray, all
radiant with a silvery, living light, just as the monk had suggested
to her a divine flower might be. Agnes seemed to herself to hold her
breath and marvel with a secret awe, and as often happens in dreams,
she wondered to herself, "Was this stranger, then, indeed, not even
mortal, not even a king's brother, but an angel? How strange," she said
to herself, "that I should never have seen it in his eyes!" Nearer
and nearer the vision drew, and touched her forehead with the lily,
which seemed dewy and icy cool; and with the contact it seemed to her
that a delicious tranquillity, a calm ecstasy, possessed her soul, and
the words were impressed in her mind, as if spoken in her ear, "The
Lord hath sealed thee for his own!"--and then, with the wild fantasy
of dreams, she saw the cavalier in his wonted form and garments, just
as he had kneeled to her the night before, and he said, "Oh, Agnes!
Agnes! little lamb of Christ, love me and lead me!"--and in her sleep
it seemed to her that her heart stirred and throbbed with a strange,
new movement in answer to those sad, pleading eyes, and thereafter her
dream became more troubled.
The sea was beginning now to brighten with the reflection of the coming
dawn in the sky, and the flickering fire of Vesuvius was waxing sickly
and pale; and while all the high points of rocks were turning of a rosy
purple, in the weird depths of the gorge were yet the unbroken shadows
and stillness of night. But at the earliest peep of dawn the monk had
risen, and now, as he paced up and down the little garden, his morning
hymn mingled with Agnes's dreams,--words strong with all the nerve of
the old Latin, which, when they were written, had scarcely ceased to be
the spoken tongue of Italy.
"Splendor paternæ gloriæ,
De luce lucem proferens,
Lux lucis et fons luminis,
Dies diem illuminans!
"Votis vocemus et Patrem,
Patrem potentis gratiæ,
Patrem perennis gloriæ:
Culpam releget lubricam!
"Confirmet actus strenuos,
Dentes retundat invidi,
Casus secundet asperos,
Donet gerendi gratiam!
"Christus nobis sit cibus,
Potusque noster sit fides:
Læti bibamus sobriam
Ebrietatem spiritus!
"Lætus dies hic transeat,
Pudor sit ut diluculum,
Fides velut meridies.
Crepusculum mens nesciat!"[3]
[3] Splendor of the Father's glory,
Bringing light with cheering ray,
Light of light and fount of brightness,
Day, illuminating day!
In our prayers we call thee Father,
Father of eternal glory,
Father of a mighty grace:
Heal our errors, we implore thee!
Form our struggling, vague desires;
Power of spiteful spirits break;
Help us in life's straits, and give us
Grace to suffer for thy sake!
Christ for us shall be our food;
Faith in him our drink shall be;
Hopeful, joyful, let us drink
Soberness of ecstasy!
Joyful shall our day go by,
Purity its dawning light,
Faith its fervid noontide glow,
And for us shall be no night!
The hymn in every word well expressed the character and habitual pose
of mind of the singer, whose views of earthly matters were as different
from the views of ordinary working mortals as those of a bird, as he
flits and perches and sings, must be from those of the four-footed
ox who plods. The "_sobriam ebrietatem spiritus_" was with him first
constitutional, as a child of sunny skies, and then cultivated by every
employment and duty of the religious and artistic career to which from
childhood he had devoted himself. If perfect, unalloyed happiness has
ever existed in this weary, work-day world of ours, it has been in
the bosoms of some of those old religious artists of the Middle Ages,
whose thoughts grew and flowered in prayerful shadows, bursting into
thousands of quaint and fanciful blossoms on the pages of missal and
breviary. In them the fine life of color, form, and symmetry, which is
the gift of the Italian, formed a rich stock on which to graft the true
vine of religious faith, and rare and fervid were the blossoms.
For it must be remarked in justice of the Christian religion, that the
Italian people never rose to the honors of originality in the beautiful
arts till inspired by Christianity. The Art of ancient Rome was a
second-hand copy of the original and airy Greek,--often clever, but
never vivid and self-originating. It is to the religious Art of the
Middle Ages, to the Umbrian and Florentine schools particularly, that
we look for the peculiar and characteristic flowering of the Italian
mind. When the old Greek Art revived again in modern Europe, though at
first it seemed to add richness and grace to this peculiar development,
it smothered and killed it at last, as some brilliant tropical parasite
exhausts the life of the tree it seems at first to adorn. Raphael
and Michel Angelo mark both the perfected splendor and the commenced
decline of original Italian Art; and just in proportion as their ideas
grew less Christian and more Greek did the peculiar vividness and
intense flavor of Italian nationality pass away from them. They became
again like the ancient Romans, gigantic imitators and clever copyists,
instead of inspired kings and priests of a national development.
The tones of the monk's morning hymn awakened both Agnes and Elsie, and
the latter was on the alert instantly.
"Bless my soul!" she said, "brother Antonio has a marvelous power of
lungs; he is at it the first thing in the morning. It always used to be
so; when he was a boy, he would wake me up before daylight singing."
"He is happy, like the birds," said Agnes, "because he flies near
heaven."
"Like enough: he was always a pious boy; his prayers and his pencil
were ever uppermost: but he was a poor hand at work: he could draw you
an olive-tree on paper; but set him to dress it, and any fool would
have done better."
The morning rites of devotion and the simple repast being over, Elsie
prepared to go to her business. It had occurred to her that the visit
of her brother was an admirable pretext for withdrawing Agnes from the
scene of her daily traffic, and of course, as she fondly supposed,
keeping her from the sight of the suspected admirer.
Neither Agnes nor the monk had disturbed her serenity by recounting
the adventure of the evening before. Agnes had been silent from the
habitual reserve which a difference of nature ever placed between her
and her grandmother,--a difference which made confidence on her side
an utter impossibility. There are natures which ever must be silent to
other natures, because there is no common language between them. In the
same house, at the same board, sharing the same pillow even, are those
forever strangers and foreigners, whose whole stock of intercourse is
limited to a few brief phrases on the commonest material wants of life,
and who, as soon as they try to go farther, have no words that are
mutually understood.
"Agnes," said her grandmother, "I shall not need you at the stand
to-day. There is that new flax to be spun, and you may keep company
with your uncle. I'll warrant me, you'll be glad enough of that!"
"Certainly I shall," said Agnes, cheerfully. "Uncle's comings are my
holidays."
"I will show you somewhat further on my Breviary," said the monk.
"Praised be God, many new ideas sprang up in my mind last night, and
seemed to shoot forth in blossoms. Even my dreams have often been made
fruitful in this divine work."
"Many a good thought comes in dreams," said Elsie; "but, for my part, I
work too hard and sleep too sound to get much that way."
"Well, brother," said Elsie, after breakfast, "you must look well after
Agnes to-day; for there be plenty of wolves go round, hunting these
little lambs."
"Have no fear, sister," said the monk, tranquilly; "the angels have
her in charge. If our eyes were only clear-sighted, we should see that
Christ's little ones are never alone."
"All that is fine talk, brother; but I never found that the angels
attended to any of my affairs, unless I looked after them pretty sharp
myself; and as for girls, the dear Lord knows they need a legion apiece
to look after them. What with roystering fellows and smooth-tongued
gallants, and with silly, empty-headed hussies like that Giulietta, one
has much ado to keep the best of them straight. Agnes is one of the
best, too,--a well-brought up, pious, obedient girl, and industrious
as a bee. Happy is the husband who gets her. I would I knew a man good
enough for her."
This conversation took place while Agnes was in the garden picking
oranges and lemons, and filling the basket which her grandmother was to
take to the town. The silver ripple of a hymn that she was singing came
through the open door; it was part of a sacred ballad in honor of Saint
Agnes:--
"Bring me no pearls to bind my hair,
No sparkling jewels bring to me!
Dearer by far the blood-red rose
That speaks of Him who died for me.
"Ah! vanish every earthly love,
All earthly dreams forgotten be!
My heart is gone beyond the stars,
To live with Him who died for me."
"Hear you now, sister," said the monk, "how the Lord keeps the door of
this maiden's heart? There is no fear of her; and I much doubt, sister,
whether you would do well to interfere with the evident call this child
hath to devote herself wholly to the Lord."
"Oh, you talk, brother Antonio, who never had a child in your life,
and don't know how a mother's heart warms towards her children and her
children's children! The saints, as I said, must be reasonable, and
oughtn't to be putting vocations into the head of an old woman's only
staff and stay; and if they oughtn't to, why, then, they won't. Agnes
is a pious child, and loves her prayers and hymns; and so she will love
her husband, one of these days, as an honest woman should."
"But you know, sister, that the highest seats in Paradise are reserved
for the virgins who follow the Lamb."
"Maybe so," said Elsie, stiffly; "but the lower seats are good enough
for Agnes and me. For my part, I would rather have a little comfort as
I go along, and put up with less in Paradise (may our dear Lady bring
us safely there!) say I."
So saying, Elsie raised the large, square basket of golden fruit to
her head, and turned her stately figure towards the scene of her daily
labors.
The monk seated himself on the garden wall, with his portfolio by his
side, and seemed busily sketching and retouching some of his ideas.
Agnes wound some silvery-white flax round her distaff, and seated
herself near him under an orange tree; and while her small fingers
were twisting the flax, her large, thoughtful eyes were wandering off
on the deep blue sea, pondering over and over the strange events of the
day before, and the dreams of the night.
"Dear child," said the monk, "have you thought more of what I said to
you?"
A deep blush suffused her cheek as she answered,--
"Yes, uncle; and I had a strange dream last night."
"A dream, my little heart? Come, then, and tell it to its uncle. Dreams
are the hushing of the bodily senses, that the eyes of the Spirit may
open."
"Well, then," said Agnes, "I dreamed that I sat pondering as I did last
evening in the moonlight, and that an angel came forth from the trees"--
"Indeed!" said the monk, looking up with interest; "what form had he?"
"He was a young man, in dazzling white raiment, and his eyes were deep
as eternity; and over his forehead was a silver flame, and he bore a
lily-stalk in his hand, which was like what you told of, with light in
itself."
"That must have been the holy Gabriel," said the monk, "the angel that
came to our blessed Mother. Did he say aught?"
"Yes, he touched my forehead with the lily, and a sort of cool rest and
peace went all through me, and he said, 'The Lord hath sealed thee for
his own!'"
"Even so," said the monk, looking up, and crossing himself devoutly,
"by this token I know that my prayers are answered."
"But, dear uncle," said Agnes, hesitating and blushing painfully,
"there was one singular thing about my dream,--this holy angel had yet
a strange likeness to the young man that came here last night, so that
I could not but marvel at it."
"It may be that the holy angel took on him in part this likeness
to show how glorious a redeemed soul might become, that you might
be encouraged to pray. The holy Saint Monica thus saw the blessed
Augustine standing clothed in white among the angels while he was yet
a worldling and unbeliever, and thereby received the grace to continue
her prayers for thirty years, till she saw him a holy bishop. This is a
sure sign that this young man, whoever he may be, shall attain Paradise
through your prayers. Tell me, dear little heart, is this the first
angel thou hast seen?"
"I never dreamed of them before. I have dreamed of our Lady, and Saint
Agnes, and Saint Catharine of Siena, and sometimes it seemed that they
sat a long time by my bed, and sometimes it seemed that they took me
with them away to some beautiful place where the air was full of music,
and sometimes they filled my hands with such lovely flowers that when I
waked I was ready to weep that they could no more be found. Why, dear
uncle, do _you_ see angels often?"
"Not often, dear child, but sometimes a little glimpse. But you should
see the pictures of our holy Father Angelico, to whom the angels
appeared constantly; for so blessed was the life he lived, that it was
more in heaven than on earth. He would never cumber his mind with the
things of this world, and would not paint for money, nor for princes'
favor; nor would he take places of power and trust in the Church, or
else, so great was his piety, they had made a bishop of him; but he
kept ever aloof and walked in the shade. He used to say, 'They that
would do Christ's work must walk with Christ.' His pictures of angels
are indeed wonderful, and their robes are of all dazzling colors, like
the rainbow. It is most surely believed among us that he painted to
show forth what he saw in heavenly visions."
"Ah!" said Agnes, "how I wish I could see some of these things!"
"You may well say so, dear child. There is one picture of Paradise
painted on gold, and there you may see our Lord in the midst of the
heavens crowning his blessed Mother, and all the saints and angels
surrounding; and the colors are so bright that they seem like the
sunset clouds,--golden, and rosy, and purple, and amethystine, and
green like the new, tender leaves of spring: for, you see, the angels
are the Lord's flowers and birds that shine and sing to gladden his
Paradise, and there is nothing bright on earth that is comparable to
them,--so said the blessed Angelico, who saw them. And what seems
worthy of note about them is their marvelous lightness, that they
seem to float as naturally as the clouds do, and their garments have
a divine grace of motion like vapor that curls and wavers in the sun.
Their faces, too, are most wonderful; for they seem so full of purity
and majesty, and withal humble, with an inexpressible sweetness; for,
beyond all others it was given to the holy Angelico to paint the
immortal beauty of the soul."
"It must be a great blessing and favor for you, dear uncle, to see all
these things," said Agnes; "I am never tired of hearing you tell of
them."
"There is one little picture," said the monk, "wherein he hath painted
the death of our dear Lady; and surely no mortal could ever conceive
anything like her sweet dying face, so faint and weak and tender that
each man sees his own mother dying there, yet so holy that one feels
that it can be no other than the mother of our Lord; and around her
stand the disciples mourning; but above is our blessed Lord himself,
who receives the parting spirit, as a tender new-born babe, into his
bosom: for so the holy painters represented the death of saints, as of
a birth in which each soul became a little child of heaven."
"How great grace must come from such pictures!" said Agnes. "It seems
to me that the making of such holy things is one of the most blessed of
good works. Dear uncle," she said, after a pause, "they say that this
deep gorge is haunted by evil spirits, who often waylay and bewilder
the unwary, especially in the hours of darkness."
"I should not wonder in the least," said the monk; "for you must know,
child, that our beautiful Italy was of old so completely given up
and gone over to idolatry that even her very soil casts up fragments
of temples and stones that have been polluted. Especially around
these shores there is scarcely a spot that hath not been violated in
all times by vilenesses and impurities such as the Apostle saith it
is a shame even to speak of. These very waters cast up marbles and
fragments of colored mosaics from the halls which were polluted with
devil-worship and abominable revelings; so that, as the Gospel saith
that the evil spirits cast out by Christ walk through waste places, so
do they cling to these fragments of their old estate."
"Well, uncle, I have longed to consecrate the gorge to Christ by having
a shrine there, where I might keep a lamp burning."
"It is a most pious thought, child."
"And so, dear uncle, I thought that you would undertake the work. There
is one Pietro hereabout who is a skillful worker in stone, and was a
playfellow of mine,--though of late grandmamma has forbidden me to talk
with him,--and I think he would execute it under your direction."
"Indeed, my little heart, it shall be done," said the monk, cheerfully;
"and I will engage to paint a fair picture of our Lady to be within;
and I think it would be a good thought to have a pinnacle on the
outside, where should stand a statue of Saint Michael with his sword.
Saint Michael is a brave and wonderful angel, and all the devils and
vile spirits are afraid of him. I will set about the devices to-day."
And cheerily the good monk began to intone a verse of an old hymn,--
"Sub tutela Michaelis,
Pax in terra, pax in cœlis."[4]
[4] "'Neath Saint Michael's watch is given
Peace on earth and peace in heaven."
In such talk and work the day passed to Agnes; but we will not say that
she did not often fall into deep musings on the mysterious visitor of
the night before. Often while the good monk was busy at his drawing,
the distaff would droop over her knee and her large dark eyes become
intently fixed on the ground, as if she were pondering some absorbing
subject.
Little could her literal, hard-working grandmother, or her artistic,
simple-minded uncle, or the dreamy Mother Theresa, or her austere
confessor, know of the strange forcing process which they were all
together uniting to carry on in the mind of this sensitive young girl.
Absolutely secluded by her grandmother's watchful care from any actual
knowledge and experience of real life, she had no practical tests by
which to correct the dreams of that inner world in which she delighted
to live and move, and which was peopled with martyrs, saints, and
angels, whose deeds were possible or probable only in the most exalted
regions of devout poetry.
So she gave her heart at once and without reserve to an enthusiastic
desire for the salvation of the stranger, whom Heaven, she believed,
had directed to seek her intercessions; and when the spindle drooped
from her hand, and her eyes became fixed on vacancy, she found herself
wondering who he might really be, and longing to know yet a little more
of him.
Towards the latter part of the afternoon, a hasty messenger came to
summon her uncle to administer the last rites to a man who had just
fallen from a building, and who, it was feared, might breathe his last
unshriven.
"Dear daughter, I must hasten and carry Christ to this poor sinner,"
said the monk, hastily putting all his sketches and pencils into her
lap. "Have a care of these till I return,--that is my good little one!"
Agnes carefully arranged the sketches and put them into the book, and
then, kneeling before the shrine, began prayers for the soul of the
dying man.
She prayed long and fervently, and so absorbed did she become, that she
neither saw nor heard anything that passed around her.
It was therefore with a start of surprise, as she rose from prayer,
that she saw the cavalier sitting on one end of the marble sarcophagus,
with an air so composed and melancholy that he might have been taken
for one of the marble knights that sometimes are found on tombs.
"You are surprised to see me, dear Agnes," he said, with a calm, slow
utterance, like a man who has assumed a position he means fully to
justify; "but I have watched day and night, ever since I saw you, to
find one moment to speak with you alone."
"My Lord," said Agnes, "I humbly wait your pleasure. Anything that a
poor maiden may rightly do, I will endeavor, in all loving duty."
"Whom do you take me for, Agnes, that you speak thus?" said the
cavalier, smiling sadly.
"Are you not the brother of our gracious King?" said Agnes.
"No, dear maiden; and if the kind promise you lately made me is founded
on this mistake, it may be retracted."
"No, my Lord," said Agnes, "though I now know not who you are, yet if
in any strait or need you seek such poor prayers as mine, God forbid I
should refuse them!"
"I am, indeed, in strait and need, Agnes; the sun does not shine
on a more desolate man than I am,--one more utterly alone in the
world; there is no one left to love me. Agnes, can you not love me a
little?--let it be ever so little, it shall content me."
It was the first time that words of this purport had ever been
addressed to Agnes; but they were said so simply, so sadly, so
tenderly, that they somehow seemed to her the most natural and proper
things in the world to be said; and this poor handsome knight, who
looked so earnest and sorrowful,--how could she help answering, "Yes"?
From her cradle she had always loved everybody and everything, and why
should an exception be made in behalf of a very handsome, very strong,
yet very gentle and submissive human being, who came and knocked so
humbly at the door of her heart? Neither Mary nor the saints had taught
her to be hard-hearted.
"Yes, my Lord," she said, "you may believe that I will love and pray
for you; but now, you must leave me, and not come here any more,
because grandmamma would not be willing that I should talk with you,
and it would be wrong to disobey her, she is so very good to me."
"But, dear Agnes," began the cavalier, approaching her, "I have many
things to say to you,--I have much to tell you."
"But I know grandmamma would not be willing," said Agnes; "indeed you
must not come here any more."
"Well, then," said the stranger, "at least you will meet me at some
time,--tell me only where."
"I cannot,--indeed I cannot," said Agnes, distressed and embarrassed.
"Even now, if grandmamma knew you were here, she would be so angry."
"But how can you pray for me, when you know nothing of me?"
"The dear Lord knoweth you," said Agnes; "and when I speak of you, He
will know what you need."
"Ah, dear child, how fervent is your faith! Alas for me! I have lost
the power of prayer! I have lost the believing heart my mother gave
me,--my dear mother who is now in heaven."
"Ah, how can that be?" said Agnes. "Who could lose faith in so dear a
Lord as ours, and so loving a mother?"
"Agnes, dear little lamb, you know nothing of the world; and I should
be most wicked to disturb your lovely peace of soul with any sinful
doubts. Oh, Agnes, Agnes, I am most miserable, most unworthy!"
"Dear sir, should you not cleanse your soul by the holy sacrament of
confession, and receive the living Christ within you? For he says,
'Without me ye can do nothing.'"
"Oh, Agnes, sacrament and prayer are not for such as me! It is only
through your pure prayers I can hope for grace."
"Dear sir, I have an uncle, a most holy man, and gentle as a lamb. He
is of the convent San Marco in Florence, where there is a most holy
prophet risen up."
"Savonarola?" said the cavalier, with flashing eyes.
"Yes, that is he. You should hear my uncle talk of him, and how blessed
his preaching has been to many souls. Dear sir, come sometime to my
uncle."
At this moment the sound of Elsie's voice was heard ascending the path
to the gorge outside, talking with Father Antonio, who was returning.
Both started, and Agnes looked alarmed.
"Fear nothing, sweet lamb," said the cavalier; "I am gone."
He kneeled and kissed the hand of Agnes, and disappeared at one bound
over the parapet on the side opposite that which they were approaching.
Agnes hastily composed herself, struggling with that half-guilty
feeling which is apt to weigh on a conscientious nature that has
been unwittingly drawn to act a part which would be disapproved by
those whose good opinion it habitually seeks. The interview had but
the more increased her curiosity to know the history of this handsome
stranger. Who, then, could he be? What were his troubles? She wished
the interview could have been long enough to satisfy her mind on these
points. From the richness of his dress, from his air and manner, from
the poetry and the jewel that accompanied it, she felt satisfied that,
if not what she supposed, he was at least nobly born, and had shone in
some splendid sphere whose habits and ways were far beyond her simple
experiences. She felt towards him somewhat of the awe which a person of
her condition in life naturally felt toward that brilliant aristocracy
which in those days assumed the state of princes, and the members of
which were supposed to look down on common mortals from as great a
height as the stars regard the humblest flowers of the field.
"How strange," she thought, "that he should think so much of me! What
can he see in me? And how can it be that a great lord, who speaks
so gently and is so reverential to a poor girl, and asks prayers so
humbly, can be so wicked and unbelieving as he says he is? Dear God, it
cannot be that he is an unbeliever; the great Enemy has been permitted
to try him, to suggest doubts to him, as he has to holy saints before
now. How beautifully he spoke about his mother!--tears glittered in his
eyes then,--ah, there must be grace there after all!"
"Well, my little heart," said Elsie, interrupting her reveries, "have
you had a pleasant day?"
"Delightful, grandmamma," said Agnes, blushing deeply with
consciousness.
"Well," said Elsie, with satisfaction, "one thing I know,--I've
frightened off that old hawk of a cavalier with his hooked nose. I
haven't seen so much as the tip of his shoe-tie to-day. Yesterday he
made himself very busy around our stall; but I made him understand that
you never would come there again till the coast was clear."
The monk was busily retouching the sketch of the Virgin of the
Annunciation. He looked up, and saw Agnes standing gazing towards the
setting sun, the pale olive of her cheek deepening into a crimson
flush. His head was too full of his own work to give much heed to the
conversation that had passed, but, looking at the glowing face, he said
to himself,--
"Truly, sometimes she might pass for the rose of Sharon as well as the
lily of the valley!"
The moon that evening rose an hour later than the night before, yet
found Agnes still on her knees before the sacred shrine, while Elsie,
tired, grumbled at the draft on her sleeping-time.
"Enough is as good as a feast," she remarked between her teeth; still
she had, after all, too much secret reverence for her grandchild's
piety openly to interrupt her. But in those days, as now, there were
the material and the spiritual, the souls who looked only on things
that could be seen, touched, and tasted, and souls who looked on the
things that were invisible.
Agnes was pouring out her soul in that kind of yearning, passionate
prayer possible to intensely sympathetic people, in which the
interests and wants of another seem to annihilate for a time personal
consciousness, and make the whole of one's being seem to dissolve
in an intense solicitude for something beyond one's self. In such
hours prayer ceases to be an act of the will, and resembles more some
overpowering influence which floods the soul from without, bearing all
its faculties away on its resistless tide.
Brought up from infancy to feel herself in a constant circle of
invisible spiritual agencies, Agnes received this wave of intense
feeling as an impulse inspired and breathed into her by some celestial
spirit, that thus she should be made an interceding medium for a soul
in some unknown strait or peril. For her faith taught her to believe in
an infinite struggle of intercession in which all the Church Visible
and Invisible were together engaged, and which bound them in living
bonds of sympathy to an interceding Redeemer, so that there was no want
or woe of human life that had not somewhere its sympathetic heart, and
its never-ceasing prayer before the throne of Eternal Love. Whatever
may be thought of the actual truth of this belief, it certainly was far
more consoling than that intense individualism of modern philosophy,
which places every soul alone in its life-battle, scarce even giving it
a God to lean upon.