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pieces of embroidery in the form of sacred vestments.

I cannot speak of altar societies without mentioning Kreuser, of Cologne. Kreuser, with his hoary hair and his mighty snuff-box-a man full of sparkling wit and endless humor-is known to all of us, for up to 1861 we never missed him at the general conventions. Since the Munich convention, however, we have not seen him; he was absent at Aix-la-Chapelle, at Frankfort, and at Würzburg, and we know not the reason of his absence. To speak concisely is very difficult, and few speakers from the Rhenish provinces can boast of this virtue; still, most Germans, and especially the German ladies, listened with pleasure to old Kreuser; and no wonder, for Kreuser never failed to do justice to the ladies of Germany. When Kreuser spoke in a city, his speech was followed immediately by the establishment of an altar society. He carried everything by storm, and the impression made by his speeches was not merely transient, but produced lasting fruits. Kreuser is a poet, also, a happy improvisatore, able to cope with the most daring rhymster. He is one of the best read men in Germany, and deserves our gratitude for his exertions in the cause of Christian art. Twenty years have rolled by since he published his "Letters on the Cologne Cathedral," and during the last twelve years his work on architecture has been studied again and again. That Kreuser's style is deficient in grace and harmony we will not dispute, still much benefit may be derived from the perusal of his works.

Francis von Bock, also, deserves our notice. He is the author of a "History of the Liturgic Vestments," in two vols., illustrated with two hundred colored engravings. Boldly he demands the use of appropriate workmanship; fearlessly measures swords with every opponent, and often his impetuosity is crowned with success. To him Casaretto, of Crefeld, is indebted for valuable suggestions. He was also

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one of the founders of the scnool of art under the direction of the Sisters of the Infant Jesus, at Aix-la-Chapelle. Dr. von Bock has visited every country in Europe, Turkey excepted, which he intends shortly to visit for the purpose of continuing his researchWhere can be found an ancient vestment whose texture he did not scrutinize, and a piece of which he has not begged for still closer examination? At Gran, at Malines, in Bohemia, in Sicily, at Rome, at Paris, at Vienna-everywhere Dr. von Bock has left traces of his unwearying activity. The Rhenish goldsmiths owe him a debt of gratitude. He has written papers on the church at Kaiserswerth, on the Benedictine church at Munchen-Gladbach, on Cologne, and on the relics at Gran and Aix-laChapelle. His principal work is on the "Insignia of the Holy Roman Empire." It is a magnificently illustrated specimen of typography, equal in every respect to any similar work published in England or France. At Malines every one spoke loudly in its praise, and in 1864 the author received from the Emperor Francis Joseph the Cross of the Iron Crown. Von Bock's style reminds me of the chimes I have heard in Holland; it consists in a constant repetition of the same pleasing melody.

Von Bock stands in odd contrast to Dean Schwarz, of Böhmenkirch, the able editor of the "Kirchenschmuck." He is the personification of repose and dignity, a deep thinker, and a firstclass archeologist. For many years he has wielded great influence with the clergy.

Whilst the altar societies are displaying greater activity every day, the Christian art unions, it is said, are daily becoming less zealous. In some places, no doubt, this is true; but in many dioceses they have been changing into associations for furthering the completion of the diocesan cathedral. To mention but a few instances, this was the case in Regensburg. Since his accession to the episcopal see

Bishop Ignatius von Senestrey applied himself with energy to the completion of his cathedral. King Louis I. having furnished the means, we have no doubt that in a few years architect Denzinger will finish the two towers. At Mayence, likewise, everything is being done for the completion and decoration of the cathedral. The work has been intrusted to the skill of Metternich, and Director Veit, assisted by Lasinsky Settegast and Hermann, is frescoing the walls and the vaults. Since the fall of the partition between the sanctuary and the nave in the Cologne cathedral, and since the great festival of October 15th, 1863, the building has been steadily progressing, and the cathedral lottery promises to furnish the means for completing the towers within seven years. Schmidt has added a new pyramid to St. Stephen's cathedral in Vienna, which has now the highest spire in the world. After rivalling the English architect Welby Pugin by planning almost two hundred churches and chapels, Statz is now building a cathedral at Linz. Archbishop Gregory von Scheer has given a new appearance to the metropolitan Church of Our Lady at Munich, whilst the bishop of Passau, Henry von Hofstätter, has proved his devotion to the interests of art by renovating many churches in his diocese. Among all the German prelates none have built more churches than Cardinal Geissel, of

Cologne, and Bishop Müller, of Münster.

Is it not an encouraging sign that we are completing the immense edifices of the middle ages? Is it not a proof of vital energy that the Catholics of all countries are building the grandest churches in the most correct style? As architectural science progresses, a like advance must take place in mechanics, and, notwithstanding many blunders, every branch of art is daily more and more perfected. Not many years hence all our temples will be completed and adorned with the splendor becoming the divine service. Let every one do his duty, fulfilling the task allotted him by divine Providence.

Let us conclude our rapid survey by calling to mind the men who have begun and directed this movement. Among the Germans, Joseph von Görres, F. von Schlegel, and Sulpitius Boisserée will head our list. France justly boasts of de Caumont, Didron, Montalembert, Viollet le Duc, Cahier, and the Abbé Martin. Oudin must not be forgotten, nor Rossi, the historian of the catacombs. The merits of Seroux d'Agincourt, Waagen, Guilhabaud, Schnaase, Kugler, Passavant, Stieglitz, Geyer, Kallenbach, Forster, Moller, Heideloff, Otte, Springer, Hefner-Alteneck, Krieg von Hochfelden, von Quast, Jacob Schmitt, and many others known to every votary of art. To us is assigned the task of reaping the fruits of their labors.

From The St. James' Magazine.

PROPERZIA ROSSI.

Properzia Rossi, a female artist, celebrated for her misfortunes, though more for her proficiency in sculpture, painting, and music, died of a broken heart, just as Pope Clement VII. had invited her to Rome, to show his admiration for her masterpiece in the church of San Petronio at Bologna,

Too late-oh, far too late! Praise comes in vain
To lull the fever'd agonies of pain.

I am no more the artist idly proud,

But the gaunt mortal waiting for a shroud.
No more the songstress, whose impassioned lay
O'er taste and feeling held unrivall'd sway;
But a weak woman, desolate and worn,

Her pulses throbbing, and ber heart-strings torn,
Looking above-sad, humbled, and alone—
Where mercy dwells with Jesus on his throne—
Ay, fondly hoping for one smile of light
From the meek Man of sorrows and of might,
Who from sin's thrall is powerful to save,
Died on the cross, and triumph'd o'er the grave!

What though the light of genius fired mine eye,
That radiant meteor leaves us when we die,
And conscience whispers that the gifts of heaven
Were oft misused. I thirst to be forgiven,
Panting I turn from streams once deeply quaff'd,
And crave the Rock's sole vivifying draught!
Ay, as I kneel and supplicate for grace,
I veil in lowliness my tear-bathed face;
Implore for pardon with intense distress,
And spurn the gauds of earthly happiness!
Oh, what avails it that aerial forms,
And colors vivid as the bow of storms,
Hang o'er my fancy with bewitching spell?
Say, have I used these varied talents well?
Oh, what avails it that my hands would mould
Beautiful models from the marble cold?
Have the rich sculptures in the hallow'd fane
Brought one soil'd spirit to her God again?—
Recall'd a virtuous feeling to the heart,
And by religion consecrated art?

Have the fair features and bright hues I wove
In one dark breast illumed the spark of love?
Or lured the soul from sin's deceptious toys
To pure devotion's memorable joys?
Oh, have the gifts of music and of song

Soothed one sad being of the human throng ?-
Angelic thoughts-submissive, hopeful, kind-
Breathed o'er a mournful or a shatter'd mind?
And has my genius, with a potent sway,

Gilded the road to heaven-that straight and narrow way

?

God has been very bounteous; he has given
Much to enhance the blessedness of heaven.
The threefold cords of talismanic power
Were meant to yield employment for the hour-
Life's potent hour of labor, want, and pain-
Brief as the April drops of sunny rain;
And yet by mercy recompensed above,
If well improved in hope, and faith, and love.
But conscience whispers, and in these dark days
That voice grows louder as my strength decays,
Of wasted talents, of forgotten crime,
And of a judgment awfully sublime!
Of duties unfulfill'd, of gifts misspent,
Of future pangs, of fitting punishment!

I muse no longer on the present-no-
My life is with the future or the past,
And both are mingling in a magic flow,

Like turbid waters in a fountain cast.
The past-oh, whether fair, or dark, or both,
Is but a picture mirror'd on the wave.
The moral sicknesses-guile, anger, sloth-
Arise as spectres from a yawning grave;
What boots it that misfortune paled my cheek,
That penury and pain obscured my way?
Sorrow is voiceless; 'tis remorse that speaks
In awful tones of merited decay,

And of the worm that dieth not-the vale
Of never-ending, still-beginning death.
Methinks I hear the harsh, continuous wail,

The sobs and catchings of convulsive breath.
Guilt unatoned for-thoughts and words of sin-
How do they rise up, burning as on glass!
The evil pent the wishful heart within

Asking for vengeance! O the hideous mass
Of wickedness heap'd up, long, long conceal'd!
But now as by a lightning flash reveal'd.

Woe! woe! the Eternal Judge's fiery dart
Hath pierced the labyrinthine cells within,
Where underneath the pulses of my heart
Dwells the mysterious form of crouching sin.
Thoughts, baneful wishes,-ay, as well as deeds,
Against me in strong phalanx are array'd.
In vain these tears-in vain this bosom bleeds:
I look upon myself, and am dismay'd,
Powerless, and weak, and agonized I cry,-

And hear the words, "Lost sinner, thou must die!"

Clouds roll around me, and from an abyss,

Drear, dark, profound, behold a hideous form!

Closer and closer serpents coiling hiss,

And thunders boom along a sky of storm.

* Music, painting, and sculpture.

There is no deed to offer thee of good,

Thou mocking fiend! laugh on without restraint!
I seem as borne along a sulphurous flood,

Too meteorically wild to paint.

The couch heaves under me, my sight is gone,—

I am with the accuser, and alone!

Alone! alone! O tell me not 'tis so,
That I must grapple powerless with the foe.
Jesus, thou Lamb of God, arise! arise!
Arrest these doubts, these daring blasphemies.
It was for sinners thou didst shed thy blood,
For guilty mortals, not for angels' good.
Listen! attend! a sinner asks for aid,-

For me that blood was spilt, for me thou wast betrayed.

As when a night of storms has sped away,
And robed in florid hues appears the day,
Stealingly, gently lighting up the skies

With gleams, as from a seraph's smiling eyes,
Thus o'er my spirit breeds a gracious calm,
O'er my deep wounds is pour'd a healing balm.
Methinks the mild Redeemer stands above,
And pleads his righteousness, his cross, his love;
While angels' voices wafted straight from heaven
Proclaim, "Thy Savior calls! thou art forgiven!"

From The Hibernian Magazine.

THE CAPUCHIN OF BRUGES.

"Three monks, sat by a bogwood fire

Bare were their crowns, and their garments grey,
Close sat they by that bogwood fire,

Watching the wicket till break of day."

BALLAD POETRY.

SAVING the color of their garments, the days of Cesar, were shaded by which, instead of grey, were of a dark brown, and the omission of any allusion to their long flowing beards, the above lines convey as accurate an idea as any words could of the parties that occupied the spacious guest-chamber of the Capuchin convent of Bruges on the last night of October, 1708.

the dense forests of Flanders, three lay-brothers of the order kept watch for any wayfarer that might require hospitality or information on the evening in question. Their convent stood and a portion of it still stands

Seated round the capacious hearth, on which, without aid of grate, cheerfully blazed a pile of dark gnarled logs dug up from the fens, which, in

at the southern extremity of the town, close beside the present railway station. But Bruges was not, a century and a half ago, what it is today. War, and the recent decline of its ancient commerce, rendered it, at

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