Were this a romande, the story of Blessed Lucy might well end here. But

her life was yet scarcely begun. Shortly after the interview with her

husband just spoken of, Duke Hercules obtained the Pope's orders for her

removal to Ferrara. This was only done by stealth; for the people of

Viterbo having got intelligence of the design, guarded the city night

and day; so that, in order to gain possession of the Saint, the duke was

reduced to the expedient of loading several mules with large baskets,

as if full of goods; and in one of these Blessed Lucy was concealed and

carried off, under the guardianship of a strong body of armed men. Being

arrived at Ferrara, the duke received her with extraordinary honours,

and built a magnificent convent for her reception, to which Pope

Alexander VI. granted singular privileges, by a brief wherein he

declared her to have "followed the footsteps of St. Catherine of Sienna

in all things." In this convent she gave the habit to her own mother, as

well as to many noble ladies of Ferrara.

It were too long to tell of all the signs of Divine favour which were

granted to her during the first years of her new government; of the

miracles wrought by her hands, the visions of marvellous beauty that

were given to her gaze; and the familiarity with which she seemed

to live among the saints and angels. Thus one day, passing into the

dormitory, she was met by the figure of a religious, whom she knew to be

St. Catherine of Sienna. Prostrating herself at her feet, she prayed her

to bless the new monastery, which was dedicated in her name. The saint

willingly complied, and they went through the house together; Blessed

Lucy carrying the holy water, whilst St. Catherine sprinkled the cells,

as the manner is in blessing a house. Whilst they went along, they sang

together the hymn _Ace Maris Stella_; and having finished, St. Catherine

left her staff with Blessed Lucy, and took her leave. And another time

they saw in the same dormitory a great company of angels, and the form

of one of surpassing beauty, and clad in an azure robe in the midst of

them, standing among them as their queen. Then she sent them hither and

thither, like soldiers to their posts, and bid them guard the various

offices of the monastery; "for," she said, "we must take possession of

this house."

One lingers over this period of her story, unwilling to pass on to the

sorrowful conclusion. God, who had elevated her so highly in the sight

of the world, was about to set upon her life the seal of a profound

humiliation. Hitherto she had been placed before the eyes of man as an

object of enthusiastic veneration: her convent gates were crowded by

peisons of all ranks, who thronged only to see her for a moment. Duke

Hercules of Este applied to her for counsel in all difficulties of

state. The Pope had issued extraordinary briefs to enable the religious

of other convents and orders to pass under her government, and even to

leave the second order to join her community, which belonged to the

third,--a privilege we shall scarcely find granted in any other case.

But now these triumphs and distinctions were about to have an end.

Blessed Lucy was about twenty-nine years of age. The honour in which she

was held, and the public celebrity she enjoyed, were a continual source

of sorrow and humiliation to her; and with the desire to escape from

something of the popular applause which followed her, she ceased not

earnestly to implore her Divine Spouse to remove from her the visible

marks of the sacred stigmata, which were the chief cause of the

veneration which was paid her by the world. Her request was in part

granted, the wounds in her hands and feet closed; but that of the side,

which was concealed from the eyes of others, remained open to the hour

of her death. Whether the withdrawal of these visible tokens of the

Divine favour was the cause of the change in the sentiments of her

subjects, we are not told; but we find shortly after, that some among

them, disgusted at her refusal to allow the community to become

incorporated with the second order, rose in rebellion, and even

attempted her life. The scandal of this crime was concealed through the

exertions of Lucy herself; but on the death of her great protector, Duke

Hercules, in 1505, the discontented members of the community recommenced

their plots against her authority and reputation. Then--designs were

laid with consummate art; and at length they publicly accused her of

having been seen in her cell endeavouring to re-open the wounds of her

hands and feet with a knife, in order to impose on the public. Their

evidence was so ably concocted, that they succeeded in gaining over the

heads of the order to their side. Hasty and violent measures were at

once adopted; every apostolic privilege granted by Pope Alexander was

revoked; she was degraded from her office of prioress, deprived of every

right and voice in the community, and placed below the youngest novice

in the house. She was, moreover, forbidden to speak to any one except

the confessor, kept in a strict imprisonment, and treated in every way

as if proved guilty of an infamous imposture. Nor was this disgrace

confined within the enclosure of her own monastery; it spread as far as

her reputation had extended. All Italy was moved with a transport of

indignation against her; the storm of invective which was raised reached

her even in her prison; her name became a proverb of reproach through

Europe; and the nuns whonad been professed at her hands made their

professions over again to the new prioress, as if their vows formerly

made to her had been invalid.

One can hardly picture a state of desolation equal to that in which

Blessed Lucy now found herself. It was as if this token of deep

abjection and humiliation were required as a confirmation of her

saintliness. If any such proof were indeed needed, it was furnished by

the conduct which she exhibited under this extraordinary trial. During

the whole remaining period of her life, a space of eight-and-thirty

years, she bore her heavy cross without a murmur. Perhaps its hardest

suffering was, to live thus among those whom she had gathered, together

with her own hands, and had sought to lead to the highest paths of

religion, compelled now to be a silent witness of their wickedness. Her

life was a long prayer for her persecutors, and we are assured that no

sorrow or regret ever seemed to shadow the deep tranquillity of her

soul. So far as it touched herself, she took it as a more precious token

of her Spouse's love than all the graces and favours He had ever heaped

on her before. But it is no part of saintliness to be indifferent to the

sins of others; and we can scarcely fathom the anguish which must hourly

have pierced her heart, at the ingratitude and malignity of her unworthy

children.

And so closed the life which had opened in such a joyous and beautiful

childhood. God indeed knew how to comfort one whom the world had utterly

cast out; and though cut off from the least communication with any human

being, she could scarcely be pitied whilst her neglected and solitary

cell was the resort of celestial visitants and friends. The reader is

possibly a little tired of such tales; yet we ask his indulgence whilst

referring to one of these last incidents in the life of Blessed Lucy,

which we can scarcely omit. There lived at the same time, at Caramagna

in Savoy, another beatified saint of the same illustrious order, Blessed

Catherine of Raconigi. She had never seen Blessed Lucy; but had heard of

her saintly fame, and the lustre of her life and miracles, and then also

of her sufferings and disgrace. But the saints of God judge not as the

world judges; and Catherine knew by the light of divine illumination the

falsehood of the charges brought against her sister. She had ever longed

to see and speak with her; and now more than ever, when the glitter of

the world's applause was exchanged for its contumely and persecution.

The thought of her sister, never seen with mortal eye, yet so dearly

loved in God, never left her mind; and she prayed earnestly to their

common Lord and Spouse, that He would comfort and support her, and, if

such were His blessed will, satisfy in some way her own intense desire

to hold some kind of intercourse with her even in this life. One night,

as she was thus praying in her cell at Caramagna, her desires were heard

and granted. The same evening Lucy was also alone and in prayer; and to

her in like manner God had revealed the sanctity of Catherine, kindling

in her heart a loving sympathy with one who, though a stranger in

the world's language, had been brought very near to her heart in the

mysteries of the Heart of Jesus. We cannot say how and in what way it

was, but they spent that night together; but when morning came, and

found her again alone as before, Lucy had received such strength and

consolation from her sister's visit, that, as her biographer says, "she

desired new affronts and persecutions for the glory of that Lord who

knew so well how to comfort and suppoit her in them."

Her last illness came on her in her sixty-eighth year: for

eight-and-thirty years she had lived stripped of all human consolation;

and the malice of her enemies continued unabated to the last. None came

near her, as she lay weak and dying on her miserable bed. Like her Lord

and Master, they hid their faces from her, counting her as a leper. The

ordinary offices of charity, which they would have done to the poorest

beggar in the streets, they denied to her; she was left to die as she

had lived, alone. But if the world abandoned her, God did not. Her

pillow was smoothed and tended by more than a mother's care. Saint

Catherine did not neglect her charge. It is said she was more than once

seen by the sick-bed, having in her company one of the sisters of the

community, who had departed a short time before, with the reputation of

sanctity; and together they did the office of infirmarians to the dying

Saint. When the last hour drew nigh, she called the sisters around her

bed, and humbly asked their pardon for any scandal she had given them in

life. We do not find one word of justification, or remonstrance, or even

of regret; only some broken words of exhortation, not to be offended at

her imperfection, but to love God and be detached from creatures, and

abide steadfastly by their rule. At midnight, on the 15th of November,

1544, she felt the moment of release was at hand; and without any

death-struggle or sign of suffering, she raised her hands and cried, "Up

to heaven, up to heaven!" and so expired, with a smile that remained on

the dead face with so extraordinary a beauty, that none could look on it

without a sentiment of awe, for they knew it was the beauty of one of

God's Saints.

The truth could not longer be concealed; one supernatural token after

another was given to declare the blessedness of the departed soul.

Angelic voices were heard singing above the cell by all the sisters;

an extraordinary perfume filled the cell and the whole house; and the

community, who had probably for the most part been deceived by one or

two in authority, without any malice on their own part, now loudly

insisted on justice being done to the deceased. It was done, so far as

funeral honours can make amends for a life of cruelty and calumniation.

The body was exposed in the church; and the fickle crowds who had called

her an impostor while living, crowded now to see and touch the sacred

remains. The wound in her side was examined, and found dripping with

fresh wet blood; the sick were cured, and evil spirits cast out, by

cloths which had been placed on the relics.

Four years after the body was taken from its grave, and found fresh and

beautiful as in life. Then it was again exposed in the church to the

veneration of the faithful, who crowded once more to pay it honour, and

were wonder-struck at the perfume, as of sweet violets, which issued

from it, and attached to every thing which it touched. And it was again

disinterred, little more than a century ago, in 1710, when it presented

the same appearance as before, and the sacred stigmata were observed

distinct and visible to all. On this occasion a part of the body was

translated to Narni, where it now reposes in a magnificent shrine, and

receives extraordinary honours, amid the scene of her childish devotion

to the Christarello. Perhaps, as we read of these honours to the dead,

we may feel they were but poor reparation for the calumnies and injuries

heaped on her while living: or, if we seek to measure these things in

the balance of the sanctuary, we can believe that to her blessed spirit

now, those long years of abandonment and desolation, which cut her off

from all communion with this earth for more than half her mortal life,

were a far more precious gift than all the shrines, and funeral honours,

and popular veneration, which the world in its tardy repentance was

moved to give her.

She was finally beatified by Benedict XIII. towards the middle of the

last century.

DOMINICA OF PARADISO DOMINICA OF PARADISO.

About four hundred years ago there lived at a small country village near

Florence, called Paradiso, a poor gardener and his wife, whose names

were Francis and Costanza. They had several children, of whom the

youngest was named Dominica, who was brought up to the life of labour

and hardship ordinary among the poorer peasantry of Italy, and whose

daily task it was to help in the cultivation of the garden on which the

whole family depended for support. Beyond the first rudiments of the

Christian faith, Dominica received no education; for her parents were

in no way superior in intelligence to others of their class in life.

Nevertheless, from her very infancy she showed signs that the few

instructions which they were able to give her had made a wonderful

impression on her heart; and as her soul received each new religious

idea, it was cherished and meditated on; so that she gathered materials

enough out of these simple elements to build up a life of the highest

contemplative prayer. Among all the biographies of the saints which have

been preserved to us, there are few which so vividly illustrate the

growth of a profound and supernatural devotion in the heart of an

uneducated child as that before us. Nor will it be thought that the

extreme simplicity which mingles with some of the passages of her

life which are here selected, lessens the beauty of a narrative whose

incidents charm us like a poem.

Dominica was marked in a special way as the child of Mary, even from her

cradle. The first occasion when we read of the Blessed Virgin appearing

to her was one day when she was lying on her poor little bed, being then

only four years old. The presence of the Divine Mother with a train of

shining angels then first awoke in her little heart a longing after God

and heaven; and she began to pray-though scarcely knowing the meaning of

the words she uttered-that she might be taught the way to reach that

glory, the vision of which had captivated her imagination. Then she came

to understand that fidelity to God's precepts, and contrition for sin,

was the path of saintliness; and so were traced out on her soul the

first lineaments of perfection. Now she had learnt that contrition was

a sorrow for sin; and the simple sort of catechism which her mother was

accustomed to teach her spoke also of the heart being full of sin,

and how tears of penitence were necessary to wash it from its corrupt

steins. A metaphor of any kind was far beyond the reach of Dominica's

comprehension; she therefore took these expressions in a very

straightforward way, and wept heartily to think her heart should be so

defiled and dangerous a thing. And the handkerchief which was wet with

her childish tears she laid over her breast, thinking that this must be

the way to wash away the stains they talked of.

All day long she revolved in her mind the one idea which had been

revealed to her soul,--perfection, as the road to God's presence; and

thinking incessantly of these things amid the various occupations in

which she was engaged, she came to make every part of her day's work

associated with the subjects of her meditation. To her eye, all untaught

by man, but enlightened by the Divine light, the invisible things of God

were clearly seen by the things that were visible. Once she was

helping an elder sister to make some cakes mixed with poppy-seeds, to

give to her brother who was ill and suffering from want of sleep. As she

baked the cakes, her thoughts were, as usual, busy finding divine

meanings in the things before her. The interior voice, whose whispers

she as yet scarcely understood, seemed to speak to her of another kind

of food which should satisfy the soul, so that it should slumber and

repose in the sleep of Divine love. Then she prayed very earnestly to be

given this wonderful food; and the voice spoke in answer, and said,

"Daughter, the food of which I spake is none other than My love, with

which when the saints in heaven are filled and satisfied, they sleep so

sweetly, that they forget all created things, and watch only unto Me."

And Dominica wondered how the saints took this marvellous slumber, and

whether it were on beds made like her own straw mattress, or in the

bosom of God, even as her mother was wont to rock the little baby to

sleep. When she was at work, in the garden, she would raise her eyes to

heaven, and think how she could make her heart a garden of flowers for

the delight of God. And once, as she so mused, He who had undertaken the

office of teacher and director to her soul appeared to her, and taught

her that prayer would keep that soul ever fresh and green before Him;

and that He would open in that garden five limpid and crystal fountains

to refresh it, even the five wounds of His Sacred Passion; and that she,

on her part, must keep it free from weeds, daily plucking up evil

passions, and the idle thoughts of vanity and the world; that so it

might be beautiful to the eye, and abundant in all-pleasant fruits. If

she ran upstairs, her thoughts ascended to heaven; if she came down, she

abased herself in the depths of lowliness and humility. The oxen

ploughing in the field reminded her to bear meekly the yoke of

obedience; and as she stood in her father's wine-press she taught

herself to tread under her own will and nature, if she would taste of

the sweetness of divine consolations. Once the sight of a hen with her

brood of chickens so vividly brought before her the mystery of the

Incarnation, and that wonderful love which gave its life to cover our

sins and shield us from the wrath of God, that she was rapt in a state

of ecstasy, and so remained in the garden all that day and the following

night. And again, as she gathered the ripe apples which her mother was

hoarding for the winter, she became absorbed in contemplating the beauty

of that soul wherein the fruits of virtue are brought forth, making it

pleasant in the eye of God. And she sighed deeply, and said, "Oh, that I

knew how to store my soul with these precious fruits! how happy should I

then be!" And the Spouse of her heart came swiftly to her, and showed

her how for every apple she gathered for the love of Him, there was

brought forth a glorious fruit within her soul, more gracious and

beautiful in His sight than the fairest apples of her garden. All this

was going on in her mind whilst yet not six years old; and so her life

divided itself between the homely exterior labour and rough discipline

of a peasant life, and an interior of spiritual contemplation, wherein

were revealed to her many of the profoundest secrets of mystic theology.

The world became to her a book written within and without with the name

of God; all creatures talked to her of Him. And this was sometimes

permitted to be manifested in extraordinary ways; as once, when walking

by the side of a lake near their cottage, the thought suggested itself

that the fish, being creatures of God, must be obedient to Him, and

ready to do Him service. Therefore she stood by the water-side, and

called them to come and help her whilst she sang His praises; and the

fish, swimming to the shore, did so after their kind, leaping and

jumping about out of the water; while she sat on the grass, and sang a

little song which she had learnt, and was fond of repeating to herself

over her work in the garden.

One day she was ill, and her mother desired her to eat some meat, which

she did, although it was Friday; and afterwards felt great scruples,

fearing she had committed a great sin. She had never yet been to

confession, being under the age when it is usual for children to

confess. But she now felt very anxious to relieve her conscience of

this weight; only, being confined to her bed, she could not get to the

church; nor did she dare to ask her mother to send for the priest.

She therefore considered within herself what she should do; and she

remembered to have seen the people in the church not only kneeling in

the confessionals, but also before the crucifixes and devout images on

the altars; and in her simplicity, she thought that they were likewise

confessing their sins to them. Now there was a little picture of the

Madonna holding the Holy Child in her arms, which hung in her room, and

Dominica thought she could confess to this; therefore, getting out of

bed, she knelt down devoutly before it, and confessed her fault in

eating the meat with many tears, praying the little Jesus to give her

absolution for her fault, which she thought He would do by placing

His hand on her head, as she had seen the old priest do to the little

children of the village. But when she had knelt a long time, and saw

that the image did not move, she became very unhappy, and prayed all the

harder that He would not deny her absolution, but would give her the

sign she asked for. Then it pleased our Lord to grant her the answer

which her simple confidence extorted from Him; and the figures of the

Mother and the Son raised their hands, and placed them on the child's

head, who remained filled with delight at the thought that her sins were

now forgiven her, and her conscience at rest.

After this her mother took her once a year to confession in the church.

It grieved her much not to be able to go oftener; but her angel-guardian

taught her to submit in this matter to her mother's pleasure, and to

supply the place of more frequent confession by every evening examining

her conscience, and confessing her daily faults before the same picture

as before. Nor was this the only teaching which she received from him;

he taught her that the path to Paradise was a way of suffering; and that

they who aspired to the mystic nuptials of Christ were careful to clothe

themselves with the livery of the cross. And Dominica, in obedience

to these instructions, began to afflict her body with fasts and other

austerities, and gave the food which she saved from her own dinner

to the poor. She ever showed great devotion to the Blessed Virgin,

especially after the circumstances narrated above; and made it her

particular duty to light the lamp before her picture every Saturday, and

to garland it with flowers on that day, as being specially dedicated to

her. On one of these occasions, Mary appeared to her with her Divine

Child in her arms, and promised her that in reward for her devotion she

should one day become His spouse, but not until she had grown further

in perfection and in His love. This promise became thenceforth the

absorbing subject of her thoughts; and at seven years of age she

consecrated herself to Him, whom from that hour she considered her

Spouse, by a solemn vow, cutting off her beautiful golden hair, as she

understood the custom was, and offering it to her Lord. When her mother

saw her hair cut off, she was greatly displeased, and commanded her to

suffer it to grow again, and not to attempt to cut it a second time.

Dominica obeyed; but she secretly prayed that God would send her some

infirmity of the head, which might prevent the growth of the hair. And

this indeed happened; so that the head remained closely cut until her

fifteenth year, when it was cured, and miraculously crowned, as we shall

see, by God.

Our Blessed Lady very often favoured her with her visible presence; but

on these occasions she appeared alone, and without her Son. Dominica

was greatly grieved at the absence of her Lord, and at length one day

resolved to ask the Blessed Virgin the reason why He never came. "O

Divine Lady," she said, "you come very often to see me and talk to me;

but you never bring Him who is to be my Spouse; why is this, for it

grieves me that I never see Him?" Then our Lady, smiling on her, showed

her the Holy Infant sleeping in her bosom. Dominica was delighted at the

sight. "But how very small He is!" she exclaimed "He will grow," replied

Mary, "when you will, and as much as you will; and as she spoke, Dominica

perceived that He was already much larger. "Ah! He is already

growing," she exclaimed; "now He is twice the size He was!--how is

that?" "He grows with your growth," again replied Mary; "and your growth

must be not in the flesh, but in the spirit: when you have attained to

your full growth in holiness, He will come and celebrate those espousals

which you desire so much." Then the Child extended His hand to Dominica

as a token of His renewed promise; and the vision disappeared. She

remained very sad and disconsolate; and her grief, when she thought of

the loveliness of Jesus, and the long time that was yet to elapse before

His promise could be fulfilled, became so poignant, that she fell ill,

and spent eight days in continual tears and sorrow of heart. This

abandonment of her soul to grief was by no means pleasing to the Blessed

Virgin, who appeared again at the end of the eight days, and gave her a

sharp reproof for her want of resignation. "Daughter," she said, "you

grieve for the loss of sensible consolations; but know this, that to

those who attach themselves to such things, visions, and revelations,

and the sensible presence of the Beloved, are not blessings but evils:

wherefore put away your sorrow, and serve God with a joyful and

contented heart." "But how can I be joyful," said the weeping child,

"whilst I am so far from my Spouse and His palace, and still kept a

prisoner in this vale of tears?" Then the merciful heart of Mary was

moved with pity, and she said, "Follow me with your eyes, and you shall

see a glimpse of the country where He dwells;" and so saying, she rose

towards heaven before her eyes. Dominica watched her as she had said,

and she saw how the heavens opened to receive their queen; and caught

through the parted doors of those celestial regions something of the

glory of the New Jerusalem. She saw her pass on through the countless

choirs of the angels, till she came close to the throne of God; and in

the midst of the unapproachable light she saw the Child Jesus, more

beautiful and glorious than she had ever seen Him before; and then, even

as she gazed on Him, forgetting all beside, the golden gates closed on

the scene, and shut it from her eyes. Now when Dominica looked round,

and saw that it had all passed away, she remained full of an unspeakable

longing to reach that glorious country, or at least to see it once

again. She kept her eyes constantly fixed on the sky, for she thought

perhaps it might once more open; and in her simplicity she thought she

should be nearer to her Lord, and to the beauty amid which He dwelt, on

high places: therefore, at night, when all the family were asleep, she

rose softly, and taking a ladder, mounted to the roof, where she spent

the night in prayer, looking wistfully at the stars, which she thought

were at least little sparks of that great glory which had been revealed

to her. And having repeated this several times, it pleased God more than

once to open the vision of heaven to her again; so that she came to have

a familiarity with that blessed place, and to know the choirs of angels

one from another, and to tell the different degrees of the blessed by

the crowns they wore, and many ether mysteries which, whilst she beheld,

she as yet did not fully comprehend.

When Easter came, her mother took her to church, and she saw all the

people going to Communion, and grieved much to think she was too young

to be suffered to approach with them. It seemed also very strange to her

that they should come to so wonderful a banquet, and go away again, just

as if nothing had happened to them; and she thought it would not be so

with her: for, indeed, whenever she was present at Mass, and the priest

elevated the Sacred Host before her eyes, she saw the visible person of

her divine Spouse, adorned with so wonderful a beauty that it seemed

marvellous to her that no one else seemed moved by the sight; and she

thought that all saw what she saw, and never dreamt that it was a

revelation granted to her eyes alone. And once, as she thus reasoned

within herself, and looked sorrowfully on the crowds who were going

to receive a happiness which was denied to her, the Lord of her soul

Himself drew near to comfort her with a foretaste of His presence, and

Dominica felt on her tongue a drop of His precious Blood.

Autumn brought the harvest, and with it hard work in the fields for

Dominica, whose prayers and visions never interrupted her life of daily

labour. She was one day in the fields watching them burn the stubble,

and helping to heap the loads of straw and rubbish on to the fire. With

childlike glee, she danced and clapped her hands to see the flames

leaping high into the air; and she thought to herself that the fire was

like Divine love, and longed that her own heart could be consumed in

its flames like the worthless straw. Then the voice of her Spouse spoke

within her and said, "What would you do, Dominica, if you saw your

Spouse in the midst of those flames?" And she answered, "I would run to

Him and embrace Him." "But," replied the voice, "would you not fear the

fire? do you not remember how terrible was the pain when your sister

burnt her hand?" And even at that moment Dominica saw through the

flames, how a beautiful lady entered the field on the other side of

the fire, leading a child of surpassing loveliness by the hand. As she

looked at them the lady spoke to her: "Dominica," she said, "why are you

here, and what do you seek?" And Dominica replied, "I am looking at the

flames, and I am seeking for God in them!" "God." answered the lady, "is

very near you, and yet you do not know Him." Then her eyes opened, and

she knew that she had been speaking to no other than Jesus and Mary; and

forgetting the fire and her own danger, and all but the presence of her

Beloved, she ran through the flames to the other side, and cast herself

at His feet. In doing this she was severely burnt, for her legs and arms

were bare like other peasant children; but Dominica did not feel the

pain, for she was gazing on her Lord. And the glorious Child took her

lovingly by the hand, and said, "O Dominica, thou has conquered

flames for the love of Me; therefore shall thou ever abide in My grace,

and shalt dwell with Me for ever." Then he blessed her; and disappearing

from sight, Dominica was again alone. On looking round her, she found

that it was quite dark, and the stars were shining brightly; for the

moments that had seemed to her to fly so quickly had indeed been hours,

and it was now night. She began to be very frightened; knowing that her

absence would cause great alarm; but we are assured that, on returning

in the morning, she found she had not been missed, her angel-guardian

having taken her form, and discharged all the household offices which it

was her duty to perform.

On another occasion, she was as usual at work in the garden, whilst her

brothers were bringing in a load of manure which smelt very offensive.

The habit of drawing spiritual meanings from all external objects had

become so completely second nature to Dominica, that her thoughts seem

to have shaped themselves into these analogies on all occasions. The bad

smell therefore suggested to her mind an image of mortal sin, and she

prayed that she might be taught in some way how it appeared in the

eyes-of God. At that moment a soldier entered the garden for the purpose

of purchasing some vegetables, and Dominica perceived that his soul

was very offensive in the sight of God. She looked in his face, and it

seemed to her so disfigured by foul and monstrous deformity, that she

was moved with a deep compassion for him; she prayed therefore very

earnestly, that God would give him the grace of conversion, and save him

from his miserable state. She longed to say something to him; but not

daring to address him, she remained before him, still looking up in his

face, and weeping bitterly. Her manner at length drew his attention, and

he asked her what was the matter, and why she kept thus looking at him

and weeping. "I weep," she answered, "because your soul is so ugly;

you must certainly be very unhappy. How is it you do not remember the

Precious Blood which redeemed you from the power of the devil? Do you

not see the bow bent, and the arrow ready to fly?" "What bow, and what

arrow, are you talking of?" said the astonished man. "The bow," replied

the child, "is divine justice, and the arrow is death and the judgment,

which will certainly overtake you if you do not change your wicked life

and become a good man." As she spoke, the simplicity of her words fairly

conquered the obdurate heart to which they were addressed. With tears

rolling down his cheeks, he knelt before her, and confessed he was

indeed an enormous sinner, who deserved nothing but hell; but that

if she would help him with her prayers, he would go that very day to

confession, and begin a new life; and with this promise he left her. For

eight days Dominica continued in very earnest prayer for him, in spite

of unheard-of troubles and persecutions of the devils; but on the eighth

she knew that her prayers had been heard, for she saw his soul white and

clean like that of a newly-baptised child; and he himself came to thank

her for the grace she had obtained for him, and by means of which he

had been enabled to make a good and contrite confession. He told her,

moreover, that he was resolved to leave the world and retire to a

hermitage, to spend the remainder of his life in penance; but prayed

her, before he went, at least to give him her blessing. This request

puzzled Dominica; and she replied she would readily oblige him, but she

did not know how. Then her angel raised her little hand, and guided it

to sign the sign of the Cross above his head; and a voice which was not

hers said for her, "May God bless thee in this world and in the world to

come." Fourteen years after, this man died in his hermitage, with the

reputation of sanctity.

This first conversion awoke in her soul an ardent thirst for the

salvation of sinners. It was a new feeling, and to her quick and

sensitive soul one which soon became wholly absorbing. Happening about

this time to see a little picture representing the sufferings of the

souls in hell, she was greatly touched with compassion, and innocently

prayed God to relieve them and set them free. Then her faithful guardian

instructed her on this matter, and taught her that the only way to save

souls from hell was, to prevent sin and convert sinners by her prayers.

And to increase her zeal he showed her, not a picture, but the real

sufferings of the lost souls; and the sentiments of pity which these

excited were so lively, that a desire awoke within her to suffer

something in her own body, in order to save other souls from these

terrible flames. And with the idea of experiencing something of a like

kind of suffering, she took a lighted torch, and courageously held it to

her shoulder till the flesh was burnt, which caused her agonies of pain

for many days. These, however, she had self-command enough to conceal,

in spite of some emotions of very natural alarm, which determined her to

find out if possible some other less dangerous method of afflicting her

body. She even prayed God to teach her in what way she should do this;

and one day seeing a picture in the church of St. John Baptist clothed

in his garment of camel's hair, the thought was suggested to her mind

of forming some such garment for herself out of horsehair; which she

accordingly did, and wore it for nine years. And here one can hardly

fail to admire the means by which, step by step, she was led on in the

path of a saintly life. Human teaching she had none; she had probably

never seen a book: but yet we see how the commonest incidents and

accidents, being accompanied by God's grace, were enough to reveal the

secrets of His counsels to her soul. A picture, or a chance word, or the

thought which rose spontaneously out of some image of the visible

things around her, were food enough for a soul which literally "waited

continually upon God;" it drew sustenance and life out of what seemed

the very barrenest desert.

From this time commenced a new life of austerity, so rigorous and

continual, that extraordinary strength must have been supplied to have

enabled her to live under the perpetual tortures she inflicted on her

innocent flesh. And though in the details of these austerities we find

many things precisely similar to those related of other saints, yet it

is certain that their lives and examples were wholly unknown to her, and

therefore that in this matter she must have followed the instinct of her

own devotion, guided by the Spirit of God. But, again, we observe how

she was directed by that quick and watchful eye of the soul which

let nothing escape its vigilance;--a coarse and common print of the

Scourging of our Divine Lord, once seen, was enough to teach Dominica

those sharp disciplines to blood in which she persevered during the

remainder of her life.

We pass over the account of many temptations and apparitions of evil

spirits, to give the story of one vision with which she was favoured,

whose beauty can perhaps scarcely be equalled by any similar incident to

be met with in the Lives of the Saints. It has been said that she was

accustomed to observe Saturday as a day of special devotion in honour of

the Madonna, whose image on that day had its garland of fresh flowers

hung up, and its little lamp brightly burning in the midst. Now it

happened that one Saturday Dominica had taken unusual care in the

decoration of her little image; she had picked her choicest flowers,

and hung them in wreaths and bunches which took her some little time

to arrange. But her trouble was well rewarded; for the Blessed Virgin

reached out her hand and took some of the flowers, and smelt them, and

then gave them to her Son, that He might smell them likewise. Dominica,

full of delight, besought them ever thus to smell her flowers, and to

forget the unworthiness of her who offered them. And then she remembered

that she could not stand there looking at her beloved Madonna any

longer; for it was the hour when she was accustomed to go to the

cottage-door with the scraps she had saved from her dinner, that

she might give alms to any poor beggar who should be passing by.

Accordingly, she ran to the door with her basket of broken bread, and

waited patiently till some object of charity should pass that way. At

length she perceived a woman approaching, leading a child by the hand.

By their dress she saw that they were very poor; yet there was an air of

dignity, almost of majesty, in the manner and appearance of both. They

came up to the spot where she stood; and the child, addressing himself

to her with a certain gracious sweetness, held out his hands, as if

begging, and said, "You will certainly give me something, my good little

peasant girl?" And as he did so, she perceived that in either hand there

was a large open wound; and that his dress was likewise covered with

blood, as from a fresh wound in his side. Touched with compassion, she

bade them wait whilst she entered the house for something to give them;

but she had scarcely done so, when she perceived that they were by her

side. "Ah!" said Dominica, "what have you done! if my mother knows I

have let any one in, she will never forgive me." "Fear nothing," said

the woman; "we shall do no harm, and no one will see us." Then Dominica

saw that the child's feet were likewise bleeding; and pitying him very

much, she said, "How can your son walk on the rough roads with those

wounded feet of his?" And his mother replied, "The child's love is so

great, he never complains of himself." Now as they were thus talking,

the child was looking at the image garlanded with the lovely fresh

roses; and with a winning and innocent grace he held up his little hands

and asked for some of the flowers: and Dominica could not refuse to give

them to him; for spite of their poor rags, there was something about her

strange visitors which captivated her heart. And the mother took

the roses, and smelt them, and gave them to her son; and turning to

Dominica, she said, "Why do you garland that image with flowers? it

would seem as if you cared for it very much." "It is the Madonna and

the Holy Child Jesus," answered Dominica; "and I give them my flowers

because I love them dearly." "And how much do you love them?" continued

the woman. "As much as I can," said Dominica. "And how much is that?"

said the woman again. "Ah!" replied Dominica, "it is as much as they

help me too." But still as she spoke she could not take her eyes off the

child; for his extraordinary grace and beauty filled her with an emotion

she could not comprehend. "Why do you stand thus gazing at my son?" said

the woman; "what do you see in him?" "He is such a beautiful child,"

said Dominica; and she leant over him to caress him. But she started

back with surprise, for those wounds gave forth a wonderful odour, as of

Paradise; and turning, to the woman, she exclaimed, "Mother of God! what

is this? with what do you anoint your son's wounds, for the odour of

them is sweeter than my sweetest flowers?" "It is the ointment of

charity," said the mother; but Dominica scarcely heard the reply: she

was still gazing at the child, and trying to attract his notice, as the

manner is with children. "Come to me, my child," she said, "and I will

give you this piece of bread." "It is of no use," said the mother; "tell

him of Jesus, and how you love Him, and the child will come readily

enough." And at the words he did indeed come; and looking up sweetly

into Dominica's face, he asked, "And do you really love Jesus?" And

that sweet odour became so marvellously powerful, that she was yet more

filled with surprise; and she said, "O beautiful child, what wonder is

this? if your wounds give forth this delicious perfume, what will the

perfume of Paradise be like?" "Do not wonder," said the mother, "that

the perfume of Paradise should be where God is;" and then the blindness

fell from her eyes, and she knew that she was talking to none other than

to Jesus and Mary. And even at that moment the poor rags fell off them,

and she saw them dressed in royal robes of surpassing splendour; and the

Child Jesus grew to the stature of a man, whilst over the wound of His

side there gleamed the radiance of a brilliant star. Dominica fell

prostrate at their feet as they rose into the air; and taking the roses

from His mother's bosom, the Divine Spouse scattered them over the head

and garments of His beloved, and said, "O My spouse! thou hast adorned

My image with garlands and roses, and therefore do I sprinkle thee with

these flowers, as an earnest of the everlasting garland with which I

will crown these in Paradise;" and so saying, they both disappeared.

Dominica strove in vain to follow them with her eyes; but for eight days

after there remained the perfume of the wounds, and her head and dress

were seen covered with flowers.

At length she arrived at the age when it is customary for children to

make their first Communion; and her mother, therefore, took her during

Lent to the priest, that he might examine and prepare her for that

purpose. A very few words satisfied him that she was full of Divine

grace, and he accordingly desired her to go to communion at the

approaching Easter, which was considerably sooner than her mother had

intended. "How can I do so?" said Dominica; "I am only eleven years old,

and my mother is used to say, 'Children should not go to Communion till

they are twelve.' Moreover, there are but three weeks to Easter, and in

that short time I can never prepare fitly to receive our Lord;" and

so saying, she began to weep. Nevertheless, the priest laid her under

obedience to do as he had said, and sent her away; and Dominica returned

home with her thoughts full of this weighty matter of the three weeks of

preparation. Now the dignity of the Holy Sacrament appeared to her so

very great, that she thought a year would be too little to make ready

the chamber of her heart; and thinking how she could make the most of

the short time allowed her, she determined not to go to bed for that

time but to remain in prayer and meditation all night, that she might

make the weeks longer; for indeed, she was so simply impressed with the

conviction of her own vileness, that she dreaded lest the Sacred Host

should disappear, or some other token of Divine displeasure should be

evinced, if she approached without much preparation and examination of

heart. So, as we have said, she never went to bed; but remained kneeling

and praying all night, examining her innocent conscience, and going over

a world of resolutions and forms of preparation, which she believed

were necessary to be got through in the time. It was a child's simple

thought;--we love Dominica all the better for the childishness that

forgot that its excellent resolve was an impossible one for flesh and

blood to keep;--for very often the poor little girl was conquered by

weariness, and fell asleep in the midst of her long prayers, and in

spite of her manful efforts to keep awake; and then she would try to

rouse herself with the thought of her preparation for Communion, and

begin all over again, with a kind of nervous terror that the time would

be too short after all.

At length Holy Week came, and her mother took her to Florence to hear

the preaching of the Passion at the great church of St. Reparata. It was

a new life to Dominica: seated by her mother's side, she drank in every

word of the impassioned eloquence of the preacher; and with her usual

innocence, believed that Christ would really visibly appear, and suffer

before the eyes of the people as He did on Calvary. And when the

preacher said, "yesterday He was betrayed," and "to-day He is led to

death," she believed he spoke literally; for she had not learnt to

understand metaphors better than when, a child of four years old, she

had desired to know the kind of bed that the angels slept on. And,

indeed, the spectacle was given to her eyes, and she saw the scene of

the Crucifixion, and how Mary stood beneath the Cross, and how Nicodemus

took down the Sacred Body and laid it in her arms. She saw it, as it

were, in the midst of the crowd of people who stood round her, and

wondered how they looked so unconcerned; and she herself longed to push

her way through them to get nearer to her dying Lord; but the crowd kept

her back. Then, when she got back to her own room at home, she knelt

down to think of what she had witnessed; and the Blessed Virgin appeared

to her, and taught her that it had been but a vision, and one revealed

to her alone, and not to the people. Dominica then told her all her

fears that her preparation had been too short; that our Lord would

certainly never allow her to come to Him; and that she was so unworthy

and unfit to communicate, she should drive Him out of the church. But

Mary comforted her, and assured her that the tears of contrition she had

shed were all the preparation He required.

When Dominica heard this she was a little consoled; yet her fear lest

the Sacred Host should indeed fly from her as unworthy was so great,

that she spent Holy Saturday in incessant prayer, promising pilgrimages,

fasts on bread and water, and every devotion she could remember, if only

our Lord would deign to remain with her on the following day. Thus the

whole night passed, and in the morning she went, pale and trembling to

the church to receive Holy Communion with her mother.

Her agitation increased every moment; but at length it was her turn to

go up to the alter steps. She did so, and the priest came to her and

pronounced the customary words; but she did not seem to hear him: he

bent down over her to rouse her from her stupor; and it was not till

he had shaken her by her dress that she was sufficiently recovered to

receive. Yet this was not an emotion of terror, but an ecstasy of joy;

for at that moment her fears and scruples had been removed by the sight

of the Sacred Host, not flying from her as she had feared, but shining

like a glorious sun, whose brilliant rays overpowered her by their

excessive lustre.

It would be tedious to give in detail any thing like a faithful

narration of the ecstasies with which from this time she was favoured

every time she communicated. They were so wonderful and so numerous,

that we are assured she made a vow by which she obliged herself never to

move from the spot where she knelt; and that she did this in order to

control the impulse which urged her to cast herself at the feet of her

Lord, whom she saw in so glorious a shape whenever the Sacred Host was

elevated before her eyes.

Time went on, and Dominica was no longer a child. With womanhood came

the cares and charge of the entire family; for her mother, seeing

her grave, diligent, and prudent, left every thing in her hands, and

troubled herself with none of the household duties. With unmurmuring

obedience Dominica accepted every thing that was laid on her; she swept

and washed the house, cooked the food, washed the clothes, looked after

the garden and the horses, and saw to every thing which was sent to the

market. Long before break of day she had to be up to load the mules, and

give them in charge to her brother Leonard. When they came home late in

the evening, it was she, tired with her innumerable labours, who had to

take them to the stable and make up their stalls. Not a moment of her

time but was filled up with hard bodily work and fatigue; yet, thanks to

the habits of her childhood, she knew how to infuse into all these the

spirit of prayer; and her incessant occupations never put a stop to the

devotions and austerities which she had accustomed herself to practise;

nay, she found means to make them assist her in her mortification. She

contrived two crosses of wood garnished with sharp nails, which she

constantly wore in such a way, that at every movement of the body, in

washing, sweeping, and working in the garden, the nails pressed into the

flesh; and so constantly reminded her of the sufferings of her Lord,

even when externally engaged in the commonest employments of her peasant

life.

But in spite of the way in which she strove to do all in and for God,

she secretly sighed after the retirement of the desert or the cloister,

and for space and time to pour out her soul in that fulness of

contemplation and love which swelled like a deep ocean within it. When

she was fifteen, she accidentally heard the history of St. Mary Magdalen

for the first time; and the account of her retirement and long penance

in the desert of Marseilles made an impression on her mind which was

never effaced. She longed to imitate her, and to find some secret place

where she might commence a similar life. Believing this desire to be

the vocation of God, she accordingly determined on the experiment; and

secretly leaving her mother's house one night, she went on foot to a

neighbouring mountain, and entered a thick wood, where she hoped to find

some cavern where she might take up her abode. Her first adventure was

the meeting with a wolf; but Dominica knelt down on the earth, not

without some secret emotions of terror, and recommended herself to God;

after which she rose, and commanded the animal in God's name to depart

without hurting her, which he did, and she pursued her wav without

further alarm. At length, near the Valle del Monte, she found such a

spot as she was in search of. There was a grotto sunk in the rocky side

of the mountain, and near its mouth ran a stream of crystal water.

It was the very picture of a hermitage; and Dominica's happiness was

complete. She immediately prepared to take up her night's lodging in her

grotto. But alas! picturesque and inviting as it seemed, it was very

small; so small, that when the fervent little devotee had crawled into

it, and knelt down to give vent to her joy and thankfulness, she found

it impossible to get her whole body into its shelter; but her feet

remained outside, and what was worse, dipping into the cold water of the

stream. These inconveniences, however, were neither cared for nor even

noticed by Dominica. She was alone with God, and that was enough for

her. Three days and nights she spent in her little cavern, absorbed in

ecstatic contemplation, and without food of any kind; but on the third

day a voice spoke to her, and roused her from her long trance of silent

happiness. "Dominica," it said, "rise and come forth; I have already

forgiven thee thy sins." At these words she rose and left her cavern,

and beheld a beautiful sight. The Valle del Monte was before her, at she

had seen it the evening of her arrival; there was not a human habitation

to be seen, nothing but the green woods which clothed the mountain side,

and the clear waters of the little stream, and the rocky summits of the

hills which rose above the trees. But all these objects were now lit up

by a wonderful light, brighter than that of the sun which fell on them

from heaven. It grew every moment more and more dazzling, and then she

saw in the midst the form of her Divine Lord, attended by his Blessed

Mother and a vast company of angels. He spoke again, "Dominica, what

seekest thou here, amid these rocks and woods?" "I have been seeking

Thee, O Lord," she replied, "and it seems to me that I have found Thee."

"But," returned her Spouse, "when I chose thee for my divine espousal,

it was not to do thine own will, nor to enjoy aught else than My good

pleasure, in doing which thou shalt alone find peace. I have not called

thee to the quietude of the desert, but that thou shouldst help me to

bear My cross in the great city yonder,--the heavy cross which sinners

make for Me by their sins. Hereafter shalt thou see My face in heaven

and contemplate Me there for ever; but for the present moment, return to

thy mother's house, and wait for the manifestation of My will." "I go,"

said Dominica; "yet I know not what I can do for Thee in the world; I am

nothing but a poor peasant girl, who have been brought up among beasts

and oxen. Moreover, if I go back, my mother will certainly beat me, for

I have been away three days." "Fear nothing," was the answer; "for an

angel has taken thy form, and they do not know of thine absence."

Then Dominica found herself transported, she knew not how, back to her

own little room in her mother's house; and whilst she still wondered,

she heard her brother's voice calling hastily to her from below to come

and help unload the mules. Dominica obeyed; but she was not a little

confused, when on coming down he began to ask her about some money

which he had given her the evening before. She knew of no money,--for,

indeed, it had been given not to her, but to the angel in her likeness;

and she would have been sorely puzzled how to satisfy his demands,

if the angel had not discovered to her the place where the money was

placed. And so her absence remained a secret to the family; nor were the

circumstances ever revealed, until many years after, when, a short time

before her death, her confessor obliged her under obedience to reveal

all the graces with which God had favoured her.

At length, in her twentieth year, Dominica resolved to leave the world

altogether and enter religion. Her wish was not opposed by her mother,

and she entered as lay-sister in the Augustinian convent at Florence.

The sisters received her very warmly, for her character for holiness

and her discretion and industry were well known to them; and they

immediately employed her, much to their own satisfaction, in the garden

and kitchen; and kept her so constantly and laboriously occupied, that

poor Dominica found that she had even less time for her exercises of

prayer than when at home. She endeavoured to make up for the loss by

secretly rising at night; but when this was discovered, the Superior,

with a mistaken charity, would send her to bed again, saying that after

all her hard day's work she needed rest; not perceiving that the real

rest she required was time for her soul to commune with God. Dominica,

therefore, became very unhappy; and one day as she was digging in the

garden she heard a mournful voice speak plainly and articulately by her

side, saying, "Ah, My spouse! why hast thou left Me thus?" And it seemed

to her that it was the voice of her Lord, who tenderly expostulated

with her for suffering the intercourse which had so closely bound them

together to be broken and interrupted by so many occupations. She threw

the spade on the ground, and sitting down, covered her face with her

hands and wept bitterly. Was it never to end, this life of many cares?

It seemed as though her soul, which was struggling to rise into the

serene and quiet atmosphere of contemplation, was ever destined to be

kept down amid cares and labours from which she could not escape, and

which yet seemed, as it were, to separate her from her Lord. So long as

it had been His will, she had never resisted nor complained; but now it

was not His will. He had said so; and the sweet sorrowful tone pierced

her very heart, as she dwelt on the words, and the accent in which they

were uttered,--"Ah! why hast thou left Me thus?" And as she wept and

prayed and sorrowed, yet saw no way of escape, the same voice spoke

again; but now they were words of comfort and encouragement: "Be

at peace, Dominica; God will follow His own will, and you shall be

comforted." And, indeed, a short time after she was attacked by a

sickness, which compelled the sisters to send her back to her mother's

house; and though on recovering she returned to them, yet she was again

taken ill, and again forced to leave. A third time her mother took her

back to the convent; but Dominica knew that it was not God's wish that

she should receive the Augustinian habit: and the nuns themselves seemed

to feel that this was the case; though, as they well knew her worth and

sanctity, it cost them many regrets before they could consent to her

finally leaving their community. She returned home, therefore; and now,

with the advice of her confessor, entered on a life of strict religious

retirement in her mother's house, until the designs of God regarding her

should be more plainly manifested.

The manner of this new life was not a little remarkable. Next to the

room where her mother slept was a little rubbish-closet, scarcely large

enough to stand in; this she cleared from its rubbish, and chose for her

cell. The constant sickness and infirmities which she suffered after

her illnesses at the convent prevented her from going out at night and

contemplating the heavens, as had been her custom when a child. But she

retained her old love for them, and contrived to make a little heaven of

blue paper on the roof of her closet, and to cover it with gold stars;

which, though but a poor substitute for an Italian sky--that sea of deep

liquid sapphire, wherein float the bright stars, looking down like the

eyes of the seraphim,--yet doubtless had its charm to the simple taste

of its designer; and at any rate it reminded her, during the hours of

her prayer, of the beautiful days of her childhood, when the heavens

opened to her wondering eyes, and she became familiar with its

inhabitants, and thought to get nearer to them and to her Lord by

climbing on the roof of the house. Then at one end of the closet was a

small altar, and on it a crib, and a representation of Mary, and the

Divine Child lying on the straw,--much after the fashion of those still

in common use among the peasants of Italy; for she always bore a special

devotion to the mystery of the Infancy. A stool before the altar, a

wooden bench, and two boxes, completed the furniture of her cell.

There was no bed: she allowed herself but two hours' sleep; and this

refreshment, such as it was, was taken on the floor, with her head

leaning on the stool,--when she lay down in this way, the straightness

of the closet preventing her from taking any position that was not

painful or constrained.

Yet this strange prison, which she never left save to go to the

neighbouring Church of the Bridgetines to hear Mass, was a paradise in

Dominica's eyes; for here, at least, she was left at peace and with God.

She kept a continual silence, and divided her time between prayer and

work with her needle; and so perfect a mistress was she in all kinds of

embroidery, that she obtained large sums of money by her labour. This

she left in her mother's hands, who was thus well satisfied to leave her

undisturbed in the possession of her little closet, whilst the profits

of her daily labours kept the house. The austerity she practised

extended to every kind of bodily denial. Her food was bread and water,

taken so sparingly, that we are assured she sometimes spent a week

without drinking at all: when she ate any thing, it was on her knees, as

she bound herself ever to accompany the necessary refreshment of the

body with interior meditation on the Passion. After some little time,

she was moved to give the proceeds of her labour no longer to her

mother, but to distribute them in alms to the poor; and feeling this

inspiration to be the will of God, she immediately executed it, greatly

to her mother's dissatisfaction and her own discomfort; for all the

indulgence and toleration she had received at her hands so long as the

profits of her work were at the disposal of the family, were now turned

into sharp reproaches. Dominica, however, cared very little for the

sufferings which her resolution brought on her; for God did not fail to

evince His pleasure in many ways.

She was accustomed to wear the Bridgetine habit, with the consent of the

nuns; not as belonging to their community, but because it was deemed

advisable that she should have the protection and sanction of some

outward religious habit in her present mode of life. As she returned one

morning from church, a miserable beggar met her and asked an alms She

had nothing to give him; yet, rather than send him away without any

relief, she took the veil from her head, and giving it to him, continued

her way. But presently she felt a great scruple at what she had done;

the veil was part of her religious habit; and she accused herself of a

great fault in appearing in the public roads without it, so as possibly

to scandalise the passers by, and be taken for one who mocked the holy

garb of religion. But as these thoughts passed in her mind, there met

her a man, the surpassing beauty and nobleness of whose countenance

revealed him to be her Lord. He carried in his hand the veil she had

just given away; and throwing it over her head,--" Henceforth," He said,

"My spouse, shalt thou have the poverty thou desirest, and shalt live

for ever on alms, and as a pilgrim in the world, as I did." From this

time she redoubled her labours in order to obtain large means for the

purpose of charity, and besides this, spent much of her time in nursing

and tending the sick, as well as relieving them by her alms; and

whenever she did this, her own sicknesses and pains were for a time

suspended, and she found herself endowed with strength sufficient for

the most extraordinary fatigues and exertions.

It was during her residence at home, in her twenty-fourth year, that

she received the sacred stigmata. These were not bloody, as in so many

cases; but the exact form of the nails appeared in the flesh of the

hands and feet; the head protruding on the upper part, and the point

coming out in the palms and soles. The crown of thorns was not

visible in like manner, though the pain of her head in the part which

corresponded to its position was excessive; but very often, in after

years, her spiritual children in the monastery of her foundation saw, as

she prayed, how the crown appeared round her head in light, and bright

rays came out from it and formed its points. Dominica strove to conceal

the favour she had received, by wearing long sleeves to hide her hands;

but the nails were so large and distinct, that it was impossible to

prevent the fact from being known and observed by many. After a while,

in answer to her earnest prayer, this extraordinary formation of the

nails in the flesh disappeared, and the scars of the wounds alone

remained, causing her excessive agony, which redoubled every Friday and

during Passion-tide. At length, in her forty-fourth year, the wounds

became invisible; but the pain of them continued during her whole life.

She remained at home for three years after the reception of the sacred

stigmata. They were years of continual suffering and persecution. The

violence and coarse selfishness of her mother's nature was vented on her

in every way and on all occasions. She was made the object of the most

bitter reviling, and had to listen to a torrent of abuse, and what was

worse, of blasphemous cursing, whenever she appeared in her presence.

Once her mother threw her so violently against the wall as to cause her

to rupture a blood vessel; yet she bore all meekly and uncomplaining,

until at length some friends who lived at Florence, having asked her

to take up her abode with them, it was revealed to her that she should

remove thither, which she accordingly did. The change of residence,

however, brought her little or no relief from persecution; for after a

few months, the women with whom she was staying, moved by some jealousy,

or disgusted at the retired manner in which she lived, and refused to go

about with them or join in their way of life, accused her of every

crime they could imagine, and even attempted to poison her. Her mother,

hearing of the sufferings to which she was exposed, was moved with a

very natural contrition for her own cruelty to her, and set out for

Florence to see her, and if possible remove her from the house.

Unable to obtain admission, she had recourse to one of the canons of the

city, and implored him to take her daughter under his protection, and

defend her against the cruel restraint and persecution to which she was

exposed in her present residence. By his interference she was allowed to

leave; and a charitable gentleman of Florence, named Giovanni, to whom

the circumstances of the case were known, received her into his own

home, where she--lived very peaceably for some time. In all these most

painful and disturbing changes in her life, Dominica's tranquillity and

resignation remained unmoved. She knew that the will of God had its own

designs regarding her, and that these were not yet manifested; but until

they were, she was content with whatever was assigned her, and received

ill treatment, abandonment, and the desolate destiny of passing from one

strange home to another, with an astonishing calmness and indifference.

Her position in Giovanni's house was a very singular one. His wife was a

weak and indolent woman, and with little religious character about her;

she was the first of the family, however, over whom Dominica's influence

was felt. In a short time her habits of vanity and self-indulgence were

laid aside; and she began to pray night and morning, and to attend Mass,

which till then she had neglected. Then one of the sons, who was to all

outward seeming given up to the thoughtless dissipation of his age, and

had always neglected his religious duties, was won over by her, and

began a new life. Giovanni himself soon saw what sort of a person he had

brought into his house, and that he was in fact entertaining an angel

unawares. He therefore insisted on her taking the entire government of

the family; and Dominica consented, with the characteristic simplicity

which would have made her undertake the government of a kingdom, if her

guardian-angel had assured her it was the wish of God. Whilst she ruled

and directed them, however, in things spiritual, she herself did the

servile work of the house, and waited on them in the humblest and most

submissive manner. She never affected any other position than that o£ a

simple peasant girl; but every one who came within her influence felt

its power over them, and owned her as their mistress and mother.

It was whilst living in this way that God revealed to her that she was

no longer to remain concealed and retired from the world; but that He

was about to make her the spiritual mother of many daughters, and to

do great things for His own glory through her means. Now Dominica was

naturally of a very timid and bashful disposition; and when she heard of

being brought before the eyes of the world, and called on to teach and

guide others, she knew not what to think. Her diffidence, and what we

should call shyness, was naturally so great, that she would turn pale if

she had to speak to any one she did not know familiarly, and always at

such times suffered from violent beatings of the heart. Therefore, when

she considered the great things laid before her, she felt sad and a

little frightened, and spoke to God with her usual simple frankness,

saying, "O my Lord, how can this be? I am nothing but a vile peasant;

the heart in my breast is a poor contemptible thing, that has no courage

in it; my blood is peasant's blood; I am not fit for these great things

unless you change it." Then God answered, saying, "And I will change it,

and will give you a noble and magnanimous heart; wherefore prepare for

keen and terrible sufferings; for it is by them that your heart and

blood is to be purged and renovated, and fitted for My service in the

eyes of men."

Scarcely had the vision ended, when Dominica felt the approach of the

sufferings which had been promised; pain in every part of her body, a

continual hemorrhage of blood, which seemed to drain every vein, and

deadly faintings and weakness, reduced her almost to extremity. Then,

after she had languished in this state for many weeks, a vision appeared

to her of the same mysterious and significant kind as that related in

the life of St. Catherine of Sienna. Our Lord took her heart from her

breast, and supplied its place with one of burning fire. She rose

from her sick-bed, and felt her whole nature renewed; every sense was

quickened, and the powers of her mind enlarged and ennobled;--nay, her

very body seemed already to share in the glory of the resurrection. It

gave out a wonderful odour, which communicated itself to every thing

which it touched. Her sight was so miraculously keen that she could see

to embroider in the darkest night, and many _new_ senses seemed given

her; whilst those of smell and touch and hearing were also renewed in an

equally extraordinary degree. But, at the same time, she lost the bodily

vigour which had before enabled her to go through so many hard days'

labour; and with her new heart she seemed also to have acquired a new

and delicate bodily temperament which utterly incapacitated her for

work, whilst she seemed to be wholly immersed in divine and interior

contemplation. A strange eloquence was now heard to flow from her lips,

the infused wisdom and science of the saints was in her words; nay, she

would often quote and explain sentences of the holy Fathers, or of the

Scriptures, which it is certain she had never read or heard read. In

short, God had bestowed on her the gift which He deemed necessary to

fit her for the design He had regarding her; and still, with all the

marvellous spiritual riches which she had acquired, she retained in her

ways and thoughts and habits the old simplicity of the peasant child.

The first of the spiritual daughters given her by God was Giovanni's

eldest child, who at her persuasion embraced the life of religion,

and placed herself under her obedience. The second soon followed her

example; and soon after a third. Another daughter, Catherine, still

remained; like her mother, she was of a thoughtless and indolent

character, much given to the vanities of her age, and the foolish

pleasures of the world about her. She was accustomed to ridicule and

mock at the conversion of her three sisters, and to hinder and disturb

them in their religious practices; in short, she was about as hopeless

a subject for Dominica to exercise her influence upon as might well be

imagined. But one Christmas-day Dominica called her into her little

oratory, and first turning to the crucifix, and spending a moment in

silent prayer, she laid her hand on her breast, and said, "O hard and

evil heart, be softened and yield to thy God; and bend to my will, which

is, that thou be the heart of a saint!" Three days after this Catherine

presented herself with her sisters, and implored Dominica to take her

also under her teaching to convert the brothers; but by degrees she

succeeded in persuading all to devote themselves to a holy and religious

life; and the eldest, taking the habit of St. Dominic, lived and died in

the order with the reputation of sanctity.

Her confessor about this time counselled her herself to take the habit

of the third order; and the matter having been agreed upon, he provided

a tunic and mantle of the usual kind for her clothing, and appointed a

certain day for her to come to the Convent of St. Mark and receive it

with the customary ceremonies. The circumstances which followed have

a very marvellous character, yet there seems no reason to doubt the

accuracy and reality of what is narrated. We are told that, on the

morning of the day appointed, she being in prayer, was rapt in ecstasy;

and in this state she saw St. Catherine and St. Dominic enter her room

with the white tunic in their hands. St. Dominic himself gave it to

her, pronouncing the words and prayer according to the rite of his

order,--the responses being given by St. Catherine and the angels; and

her guardian- angel gave the aspersion of holy water, first to the

habit, and then to her; and St. Catherine received her as her daughter,

and gave her the kiss of welcome. When she recovered from her ecstasy,

she found herself really clothed in the sacred habit which had been thus

wonderfully given her; and, full of joy, she appeared with it in public

in the afternoon of the same day. This was a cause of great displeasure

to the authorities of the order, who complained that she had assumed

their habit without being regularly admitted into their society. The

affair was brought before the Master-General, at that time Vio di

Cajetan; and the complaint appearing just, he called on her either to

lay it aside, or to explain the authority by which she wore it. The

account she gave of the whole matter so satisfied the Archbishop of

Florence of her sincerity and holiness, that he undertook to mediate in

her behalf; and it was at length agreed that she should keep the habit,

provided that she and her companions wore a red cross on the left

shoulder, to denote that she had been clothed without the sanction

of the ordinary authorities of the order, and was not subject to its

jurisdiction; and, in fact, they did so wear it for six years, when, the

Convent of the Holy Cross being established, they were afterwards fully

admitted to the rights and privileges of the order.

After this point was settled, Dominica's next step was to retire with

her little band of followers (which now included several others besides

the daughters of Giovanni) to a small house, where they lived a regular

life, supporting themselves by the labour of their hands. In time their

gains increased to so wonderful a degree, that they found themselves

enabled to purchase a more convenient residence, and then to enlarge

it, and finally to rebuild it in the form of a cross. In short, in the

course of a few years she saw herself at the head of a large community,

possessed of a regular and extensive house, with a church attached to

it, without any other means having been employed in its erection than

the money which she and her sisters had earned by their own needlework.

The Archbishop of Florence (the celebrated Julius de Medici, afterwards

Pope) was so struck with the manifest expression of God's will in the

whole matter, that he obtained permission from Leo X. for the regular

foundation of the convent under the rule of St. Dominic. They were all

solemnly clothed on the 18th of November, 1515, and proceeded to the

election of their prioress. Their choice of course fell on Dominica, but

she absolutely refused to accept the office; and used a power given her

by the papal brief to nominate another sister in her place, whilst she

determined to retain for herself the rank and duties of a lay-sister.

The ceremony of the clothing and election being therefore over, she made

a solemn renunciation of the house and all it contained into the hands

of the Archbishop-Vicar. Then she left the sisters, and went to the

kitchen; and coming there, she sent all the other lay-sisters away,

saying, it belonged to her to do what had to be done for the community

for the first week of their settlement. She cooked the dinner, and sent

it to the refectory; and whilst the sisters were sitting at table, she

entered the room with a number of broken pieces of earthenware tied

round her neck, and knelt humbly in the middle of them all, as one doing

penance. The feelings of her children at this sight may be imagined;

there was a universal stir; three or four rose from table, and would

have placed themselves by her side. The prioress endeavoured to restore

order; but the meal was broken by the sobs and sighs of the whole

community. When dinner was over, she tried to return to her work in the

kitchen; but the feelings of the sisters could no longer be restrained;

they ran after her, and threw themselves at her feet. "Mother, mother,"

they cried, "it is a mother we want, not a saint; a guide, and not a

servant,--this cannot be suffered." But Dominica tried to quell them,

and to persuade them to let it be even as she desired; her entreaties,

however, were in vain. They left her, and with the Prioress met together

to consider what should be done; and it was determined that the Vicar

should be called on to use his authority with Dominica, and bring her

under obedience to take the office of Superior,--which, in short, she

was compelled to do, with the title of _Vicaress_; for she persevered in

refusing to be instituted Prioress.

When the time came for the profession of the new community, Dominica

obtained permission from the Pope to defer her own profession; only to

bind herself by a simple vow to wear the habit of the third order, and

keep the rule of St. Dominic. Does the reader wish to know the motive

she had for soliciting this singular privilege? He must go back some

twenty years, and recall the time when the story of St. Mary Magdalen's

retirement to the deserts of Marseilles had sent the little peasant

child into the woods, to spend three happy days and nights in a hermit's

cave too small to contain her, but which she considered as a Paradise;

and where she would have been well content to have remained all her

life, if such had been the wish of God. At thirty years of age, Dominica

was still the same. Her simplicity had a touch of what one might call

romance about it, and she had never forgotten her great project of a

hermitage. She would not be bound to the Convent of the Holy Cross

therefore, because she still hoped the time might come when she might

find out the desert of Marseilles, and realise the life of penance and

retirement, the account of which had made so deep an impression on

her imagination. When she saw herself threatened with a perpetual

appointment as Vicaress, she accordingly resolved to fly at once,

and did actually escape by one of the windows, and set out towards

Marseilles in the habit of a pilgrim. The community again had

recourse to the Vicar, who sent a peremptory order for her return under

pain of excommunication; and the messenger who carried it found her laid

up in a little village with a swelling of both feet, which had put a

speedy stop to her pilgrimage, and which she herself acknowledged to be

the declaration that it was not God's will she should proceed in

her design. She was therefore compelled to return and reassume the

government of her convent, in which office she continued until she died

in 1553.

With the circumstances which attended her death we must conclude. For

months she had lain on a miserable pallet, unable to move or rise, and

with the appearance of a living skeleton. But when Easter Day came, she

felt it was the last she should spend with her Sisters, and determined

to keep the festival with them all in community. She therefore caused

herself to be carried to the chair, where she communicated with them.

She took her dinner in the refectory, and afterwards held a chapter,

where, after briefly and touchingly exhorting them to fidelity to their

Spouse, she gave them her last blessing. Then, in order to assure them

in the peaceable possession of their convent, she determined to make her

solemn profession, which had never yet been done,--in conformity, we

are assured, to the express revealed permission of God. She lingered on

until the following August, and on the 5th of that month fell into her

agony. When the last moment came, she raised herself on the pallet, and

extended her arms in the form of the cross. Her face shone with a bright

and ruddy colour, and her eyes were dazzling with a supernatural light;

and so, without any other death-struggle than a gentle sigh, she

expired, at the age of eighty years. Her life has been written at length

by F. Ignatius Nente; but the principal facts were drawn up by the

Abbess of Florence very shortly after her decease, at the instance

of the Grand Duchess of Lorraine, and forwarded to Rome, to form the

process for her beatification.

ANNE DE MONTMORENCY.

ANNE DE MONTMORENCY, THE SOLITARY OF THE PYRENEES.

ABOUT the year 1666, a young lady of the family of Montmorency, one of

the most ancient and illustrious in France, disappeared at the age of

fifteen from her father's house, because projects were being formed for

her establishment, and she believed herself called to a different state

of life. After having in vain endeavoured to alter the views of her

family respecting her, she entreated permission one day to make a

pilgrimage to Mount Valerian, near Paris, where were the stations of our

Lord's Passion. When she reached that which represents our Lord on the

cross, she implored Him whom she had chosen for her spouse, with many

tears, to save her from the danger of being ever unfaithful to Him, and

to teach her how to live from thenceforth as His own bride, unknown,

and crucified with Him, with her body and soul given up entirely to His

charge, and her whole being abandoned to the care of Providence.

With her mind full of these holy thoughts, she came down from the

mountain, and without well knowing what she was going to do, she turned

her steps towards the Bois de Boulogne; and when she reached the

Abbey of Longchamp, feeling a strong impulse to enter the church, she

dismissed for some hours the confidential attendants by whom she was

accompanied, saying that she had still many prayers to recite; and

accordingly they left her without suspicion to finish her devotions. No

sooner were they out of sight than she left the church; and committing

herself to our Blessed Lord and His Holy Mother, plunged into the

recesses of the wood. She was following by mere chance an unfrequented

path, when she met a poor woman, who asked alms of her. This encounter

appeared to her an indication of the will of Heaven: she formed her plan

in an instant, and began to put it into execution, by taking the clothes

of the poor beggar, and giving her own in exchange; and to complete

the disguise, she stained her hands and face with clay, and tried to

disfigure herself as much as possible. She then turned in the direction

contrary to that in which she thought pursuit would first be made;

walked all the rest of the day, and found herself in the evening in a

village situate on the Seine, some leagues from Paris. There she was met

by some charitable ecclesiastics, who, touched by her youth, and the

dangers to which it exposed her, took an interest in her situation, and

found her first a temporary asylum, and afterwards a situation with a

lady in the neighbourhood, who was very rich, and whose service was safe

and respectable, as she was devout and regular in her conduct; but she

was a difficult person to live with, being of a sharp and worrying

temper, so that she had never been able to keep long either a man or

maid-servant. Into this house, however, Jane Margaret, by which name

only she was known, entered as lady's-maid; but as no servant but

herself could remain, she found herself at the age of sixteen obliged to

be cook and housemaid and porteress all at once. What consoled and even

rejoiced her in this situation was the opportunity it afforded her of

satisfying her thirst for crosses and humiliations, and also her freedom

from all intrusion of idle curiosity, so that she felt her secret safe.

She endured all the fatigues of so laborious a situation, and all

the caprices of a harshness in temper, with unalterable patience and

sweetness until her mistress's death; that is to say, for the space of

ten years. And so faultless was her, conduct during all this time, that

her mistress, on her death bed, publicly begged her pardon for all

she had made her suffer, and insisted on leaving her the sum of four

thousand francs in addition to her wages, of which she had as yet

scarcely received any thing. Jane Margaret was with difficulty persuaded

to accept this present, and when it was forced upon her, she distributed

it among the poor, with the exception of a very small sum which she

kept for her immediate wants. Feeling, however, that such extraordinary

liberality on the part of a mere maid-servant would excite suspicion

and endanger her secret, she resolved to escape the peril as soon as

possible.

Accordingly, on her return from the funeral of her mistress, seeing the

boat for Auxerre, she threw herself into it, without a moment's delay;

and soon after her arrival in that town succeeded in finding another

situation which she considered suitable. It was in the house of a master

joiner, who was greatly esteemed both for skill in his profession and

for general probity, and who was also clever in carving.

The early education of Jane Margaret made her very useful to her new

master, who, in return, taught her how to handle the chisel, and she

very soon became sufficiently expert to make wooden clocks. In this

town, too, she was happy enough to find a director experienced in the

ways of God, who confirmed her in the resolution she had taken. In about

a year's time, however, she lost him; and despairing of finding another

to whom she could give her entire confidence, she determined to return

to Paris, in the hope of finding there a guide such as she required,

believing herself sufficiently forgotten at this distance of time to run

no risk of being recognised. She set forth, therefore, on the road to

the capital on foot, and asking alms; for she had taken care before

leaving Auxerre to give to the poor all that she had earned.

On her arrival in Paris she placed herself among the poor who ask the

charity of the faithful at the church-doors; and begged every morning

enough to maintain her for the day, for which purpose very little

sufficed. All the rest of her time she passed in prayer in the churches,

which she never left except at the approach of night. One day as she

was asking alms, according to her custom, at the door of a church, it

pleased Providence that she should address herself to a very pious and

charitable lady, who kept a school at Château-Fort, and who was under

the direction of a holy religious named the Father de Bray. At the first

sight of the young and modest beggar, the virtuous schoolmistress felt

moved, and discerning in her something which did not accord with her

apparent state of life, ventured to ask her whether it was from sickness

that she was reduced to that condition. Jane Margaret only replied that

she believed herself to be fulfilling the will of God; which answer

increased the interest she had already excited in the mind of the pious

lady, who told her that in her state of weakness the air of the country

would do her good, and offered to take her to Château-Fort. At the same

time she spoke to her of Father de Bray, whose name and merit were well

known in Paris. This last consideration was sufficient to determine Jane

Margaret to follow a person whose sentiments were so congenial with her

own.

As soon as Father de Bray became acquainted with her, he discovered in

her one of those wonders which are wrought from time to time by grace

for the confusion of the world, and set himself to second the designs of

Heaven concerning this privileged soul. She too, on her side, convinced

that she had at last found a guide such as she had been long seeking,

bestowed on him her confidence without reserve, and continued to

correspond with him as long as he lived.

In process of time, drawn more than ever by the Spirit of God, she left

Château-Fort to go and seek a solitude hidden from all men; but it was

almost two years before she could find what she desired. She traversed

several provinces seeking for an asylum out of the reach of every

human eye, until at last she arrived at the Pyrenees, where she

established herself in a wild recess, which she names in her letters

"the solitude of the rocks." It was a little space of a pentagonal

shape, shut in by five rocks, which formed a kind of cross, and rendered

the little spot of ground which they enclosed not quite inaccessible,

but altogether invisible from without. From the foot of the highest of

these rocks there gushed a spring of excellent water, and its summit

was a kind of observatory, from whence she could espy any intruders who

might venture to approach her abode. There were three grottoes at the

base of the rocks, one of which was a deep and winding cavern; this she

made her cell, and the two others her oratories. This solitude was at

least half a league from any road, and surrounded by a thick forest, or

rather by a brake, so tangled that, to get through it, the traveller

must force his way among thistles and briers, by a path which seemed

impracticable to any but wild beasts. Our solitary, however, met with

none of these, except a bear, who was more afraid than she, and ran

away. She found in her retreat shrubs which bore a fruit much like

damsons; and the rocks were covered with medlar-trees, the fruit of

which was excellent. The cold was not intense even in the heart of

winter, while the heat of summer was tempered by the shade of the rocks,

and of the woods which surrounded it. All these details are given in the

letters of the solitary herself to her director, Father de Bray.

In this retirement she began to lead a life angelic rather than human;

looking upon this earth as the blessed do from the heights of heaven,

and consecrating every pulsation of her heart to God. For some time she

used to go twice a week to the village to ask alms; but by degrees she

weaned herself from the use of bread, and at last lived entirely on the

vegetables and wild fruits which grew in the neighbourhood of her abode.

Her spiritual necessities were more difficult to supply. Not wishing to

risk being recognised, she was obliged to use many precautions whenever

she allowed herself the consolation of participating in the divine

mysteries; but Providence had prepared for her a resource. At a little

distance from the forest were two religious houses, one of men, the

other of women. There she went to hear Mass and receive holy communion;

and, in order to escape remark, she went sometimes to the church of the

convent, sometimes to that of the monastery; and for her confessor she

selected a good curate of the neighbourhood, who simply heard what she

had to say, and asked her no questions. She had fixed for herself a rule

of life, which she followed exactly: at five in the morning she rose,

winter and summer; continued in prayer till six, when she recited prime,

and either went to Mass or heard it in spirit; and then read some

chapters of Holy Scripture. These exercises lasted till eight; after

which she devoted two hours to manual labour, either mending her

clothes, or practising sculpture, or cultivating a little garden which

she had made round her habitation. At ten she recited tierce, sext, and

none; and then, prostrate at the foot of her crucifix, she examined her

conscience, and imposed on herself penances in proportion to the number

and grievousness of her faults. All this lasted till about noon, when

she took the only meal of the day, and after it her recreation, which

consisted, in fine weather, of a walk to the summit of the rocks, where

she contemplated the greatness of God in His works, and praised and

blessed His infinite perfections in pious songs which she knew by heart,

or with which Divine love inspired her at the moment.

On her return home she made her spiritual reading, usually from the

Imitation, followed by an affectionate prayer, in which she poured out

before God all the necessities of her soul; but asked of Him nothing but

the accomplishment of His own good pleasure. Then she resumed her manual

labour until four in the afternoon, after which she recited Vespers and

the entire Rosary, accompanied or followed by pious considerations. This

exercise brought her on to eight o'clock, when she went through the

devotion of the Stations in a Calvary which she had built herself, and

performed the penances and mortifications which she had imposed upon

herself. At nine she retired to her cell, and, after a short examination

of conscience, and some vocal prayers, slept till eleven, when she rose

to recite matins, which she knew by heart, and to pray till two,

when she retired again to rest till five. In order to regulate this

distribution of her time, she had made herself a wooden clock. She

made also several other pieces of workmanship, which were admired by

connoisseurs, more especially a Crucifix made out of a single piece

of corneil wood, which she presented to Father de Bray, and which

afterwards fell into the hands of Madaine de Maintenon, who valued it

as a precious relic. She wrought also three other crucifixes, one very

small, which she wore round her neck; another, three feet high, which,

she placed in her cell; and a third, six feet high, which she carved out

of the wood of a fir-tree, which had been struck down by lightning in

the forest, and which she placed in the Calvary she had arranged on the

summit of one of the highest of the rocks which enclosed her habitation.

For her communications with Father de Bray she made use of a wagoner,

who, from time to time, journeyed to and from Paris, and who faithfully

carried her letters, and brought back to her the answers to them,

together with the small sums of money which her director sent her

from time to time, and which she used to procure such things as were

indispensably necessary to her, such as tools for her carving, needles,

thread, worsted, and some pieces of calico and stuff to repair her

garments, which were very simple, but always neat, especially when she

appeared at church.

It may not be uninteresting to see an inventory of her few possessions

which she sent to her spiritual director. A Roman Breviary, which she

recited daily, and which she understood, having learnt Latin in her

childhood; an Imitation; an abridgment of the Saints' Lives; a little

book culled Horloge du Coeur, and another of Devotions to the Blessed

Sacrament. Such was her library. Her workshop contained a supply of

ordinary carpenters' tools, and a few more delicate implements for

carving; while for her personal use she had a few hundreds of pins, some

needles, some grey and white thread, a pair of scissors, and a copper

thimble; two bowls and a cup, all in wood; a hair shirt, and a

discipline. Her wardrobe, as may be supposed, was of the most simple

description, but sufficient for decency and neatness.

Our solitary had but one fear in this peaceful retirement, that of

being discovered; and it was long before her evident sanctity drew the

attention of the people of the village, and excited the curiosity of so

many people, that, in spite of all her precautions, they succeeded, by

dint of constant watching, in finding out, if not absolutely her abode,

at least the rocks which surrounded it. This was quite enough to force

her to seek a more distant solitude.

Impelled, as she said in one of her letters, by an irresistible force,

she transported herself to a distance of twenty leagues, still further

among the Pyrenees, in the direction of Spain. She had dwelt for four

years in the solitude of the rocks, and for three years more she abode

in that which she called the Grot of the Rivulets. It was a place full

of rocks and caverns, the retreat of wild beasts, enormous serpents, and

monstrous lizards, which were the terror of the neighbourhood, so that

none dared approach the spot. But when this barrier of rocks was once

passed, which required good climbing, there was a little smiling valley

enamelled with flowers, and intersected with rivulets from several

springs of living water gushing out from the mountains; there, too, were

several sorts of fruit of very good taste, and a quantity of wild honey,

which the solitary pronounced to be excellent; so that altogether this

abode would have been preferable to her former one of the rocks, if it

had not been for the presence of the wild beasts. But of these Jane

Margaret had no fear, depending on the help of the Lord, who has

promised to give His servants the power of treading on serpents and

scorpions, and of chaining the mouths of lions; and in truth these

animals never disturbed her, though she passed their dens again and

again; it seemed as though they respected her and all that belonged to

her, for they never approached her dwelling, and even spared a little

squirrel which she had found in this wilderness, and taken home with her

for company.

Here, too, as in the neighbourhood of her first solitude, she found a

convent of monks; but this was at a more considerable distance, for she

had three leagues and a half to walk before she could reach it, and that

through tangled thickets; but in this convent she sought a confessor;

the Superior received her with great kindness, believing her to be a

poor country girl, and asking her no questions but such as were suitable

to the rural life he supposed her to be leading. For the holy sacrifice

she went to the hermitage of St. Antony, a league and a half on the

other side of the forest.

When once fixed in this new abode, our solitary peaceably resumed the

course of her accustomed exercises. She arranged for herself two cells

in the hollow of two rocks very near to each other, and in the space

between the two she formed a little chapel, which she delighted in

adorning with verdure and wild flowers. She divided her time, as before,

between labour and prayer, and her trances and ecstasies became more

frequent and more sublime than ever; but her great humility made her

distrust these extraordinary favours of Heaven, and she required to be

set at rest concerning them by her director, with whom she continued to

correspond, and to whom she continued, even to the end, to pour forth

all the secrets of her soul with the simplicity of a child. Her last

letter is dated the 17th of Sept. 1699, and in it she expresses a great

desire to go to Rome in the course of the following year, in order to

gain the indulgence of the jubilee, but at the same time submits her own

judgment entirely to that of him whom she regarded as the interpreter

of the will of Heaven in her regard. Receiving no answer, she suspected

that Father de Bray was no more; and in fact he had died that very year.

She thought herself free to move, and set off for the Holy City, since

which period it has been impossible to gather any trace of her. Whether

she accomplished her pilgrimage, whether she died in Rome or in some

solitude, has never been discovered; as though it pleased Providence to

second, even after her death, the earnest desire of His servant to be

hidden from the sight and knowledge of men; for the tomb, which often

becomes the glory of the friends of God, only set the seal to her

obscurity. At the last day, when the secrets of all hearts shall be made

known, this treasure will stand revealed in the face of the universe.