not kept and sheltered behind the sacred forms of apostolical order. In this new life put forth by the Roman Church, it was of the highest importance that her prelates should exhibit a more than ordinary attainment in holiness, a sanctity of life which should connect them in men's minds with the Saints and ascetics of early days. It was the good fortune of the See of Milan, to have for its ruler a man, who above all others of his day should fix the eyes of Europe upon himself, and represent in his own actions that strictness of life and ardent devotion to a high cause, which was to characterise the reforming movement within the Roman Church. This was St. Charles Borromeo. It is needless to give his biography. His conduct as a bishop, in reforming and conciliating his rebellious clergy, and in reviving the purity and vigor of discipline among the religious orders, as a pastor in visiting the sick, and performing every kind of perilous office during the plague, as a churchman in resisting the wrongful doings of the Milanese magistracy, and asserting his ecclesiastical rights at the Spanish court, and finally as an episcopal missionary among the heretical cantons of Switzerland, scarcely requires detail here. It is enough to say of this worthy successor of St. Ambrose, that though a Saint of the Roman Church, canonized since the Reformation, he has united the suffrages even of the protestant world, and is quoted every where as a great example of a good shepherd.

Neither should the name of Frederick Borromeo,

cousin of St. Charles, be forgotten. He was archbishop of Milan during the pontificate of Clement VIII., and in all respects a worthy successor of St. Charles, whose conduct during the plague he was unhappily called upon to imitate in the ill-fated city, and which he did imitate and rival. His character, as well as a sketch of his life, is very beautifully given by Manzoni in his Promessi Sposi 7.

Such are some of the fortunes of the Milanese Church, which the sight of San Ambrogio recalls to mind. There is at the west end of San Ambrogio a little quadrangle with narrow cloisters, into the walls of which some monuments are built, of ancient date, though not so ancient as the tomb of Stilicho and Serena within the church. It was in these cloisters that our companion of the Middle Ages resumed the conversation which we had broken off at the Certosa of Chiaravalle. I was surprised at this, so short an interval had elapsed; but as our travels continued, this companion seemed to become more and more real, more distinct, familiar and dramatic. At first, specially while among the heathen scenes of Paris, he was almost always invisible even when he spoke, his communications were brief, and at long intervals, and often of so little importance that I have embodied them in my narrative without acknowledgment. On the beach of Marseilles he seemed to forego all his former mystery, as though our decision

to go to Italy rather than Spain had raised us in his estimation. Since then he has often been our companion for days together, and a willingness even to argue in favor of his impressions has appeared ever since he knew of our abstaining from the Papal City during the Holy Week. Our familiarity and mutual understanding has now become so complete, that in any locality of interesting ecclesiastical associations I can confidently await his coming, with an assurance that I shall not be disappointed. Although he still becomes invisible the moment a stranger draws near, I have reason to believe that his voice is no longer, as formerly, audible to myself alone. I have seen displeasure and bewilderment so strongly depicted in the faces of persons near, that I feel sure many things have been overheard which have puzzled them, and filled them with suspicion. I almost fancy that I have sometimes been shunned, especially by some of my own countrymen, as a practiser in forbidden arts, or, at the best, as, in some strange way,

"A many-sided mirror,

Which could distort to many a shape of error,
This true fair world of things."

Still, in some little matter or other, a steady, slow transmutation of the man of the Middle Ages is taking place, as though earth were making him her own again, and the more he seems to belong to earth, the sweeter and the stronger his influence

over me becomes, and my spirit is more forcibly controlled by his presence.

There was, however, something dim and indistinct yet remaining about him; and even when he had been present a long time, I was unable to scrutinize his appearance boldly. I felt a constraint upon me whenever I wished to do so. In the cloisters of San Ambrogio he appeared more openly than he had been accustomed to do, and I felt my pleasure at his coming less mingled with trouble and perplexity. I was enabled to regard him steadily as he advanced towards me. He was not an old man, scarcely above fifty. He had a small head, and his forehead was low, but full of singular and strongly marked prominences. His hair, which grew only on his temples and behind his head, was of raven black mingled with grey. His eyes were generally half closed, as if the heavy eyelid sunk unconsciously over them when he was in contemplation. When open, they were keen and piercing; though there was sometimes a look of mildness or sorrow in them, but it was unfrequent. They were of that description of eyes whose color it is scarcely possible to distinguish, from the light which is continually playing about them. His nose was aquiline. He had scarcely any upper lip, and his mouth was particularly striking. In general the lips were unclosed, so that you might discern the white line of the teeth through them; and for the most part there was a smile of kindliness and benevolence about his mouth,

but it did not appear to be natural: it was rather sustained by a self-collected restraint of other feelings within; for he had a very guarded manner, as though he were on the watch against some internal temper or characteristic current of feeling which he disliked, and thought it his duty to suppress. I often observed afterwards, that when he was in a reverie his lips gradually came together, were more and more compressed, till at last the pressure was so violent as to force the color from them; and at such times there was a look about him as if he could be capable of great cruelties. He was dark yet pale, except that in the centre of his cheek there was a small circle of very florid hue, such as is sometimes seen in healthy old age. This became of an ashy paleness whenever he was excited.

He never said anything which could lead to a detection of his country, or exact age, yet the general character of his face was Tuscan; he looked like a Florentine. And I observed, that when I spoke of men and things belonging to the eleventh century he was uneasy, and shrunk from saying much, as if he was afraid of making some betrayal. I once observed an unusual glow come into his eyes, followed by a single tear, when I spoke of Lanfranc. He did not seem partial to the name or memory of Gregory VII., and often spoke disparagingly of him, though it was rather his personal character than his line of policy which called out his cynical remarks. These were all the grounds I could ever collect for fixing