the century in which he lived. They were not enough to create conviction, but sufficiently strong to excite my suspicions even of the name of this mysterious attendant.

Who has not sometimes formed friendships whose rise and growth have afterwards seemed to him as dim and as difficult to retrace in memory as if they were the illusory shapes of some legendary history? So was it with me now. A spell seemed to lie upon my recollection. I could not recall the first appearance of this strange companion, or the gradual steps by which he had mounted to his present influence over me. When I constrained memory to be more faithful, all she gave back was a vague, pleasurable sensation, and a low voice that was like the echo of a happy past muffled by busy times and harsh distractions which had intervened.

Yet his presence was not unfrequently felt as a weight upon my spirit. His conversation gendered uneasy thoughts, and that species of profitable selfdissatisfaction which is the fruit of intercourse with men of higher religious attainments than ourselves. One peculiarity of what he said was, that it begot more after-thought than on the surface it appeared likely to do. It was pregnant with principles, and he took a sort of pleasure in inculcating those principles connected with subjects of thought or lines of action in which it was not likely I should be conversant. He preferred that I should have to transfer them to my own cases of conscience rather than that

I should receive them from him in the way of direct admonition. Perhaps he wished that I should bring such principles to bear of my own accord upon matters where he was anxious they should have influence, as thinking they would have a stronger hold upon me from being in some sort original. His bent obviously was to form my mind and habits in some particular mould, ever distinctly present to himself, but whose form and outlines he was anxious I should not accurately detect, lest I should be deterred. I more than once suspected some sinister purpose lurking in his unaccountable sympathy for me, but he had brought me very far on my new way before I saw this; and I trusted him the more, because I saw that he endeavored to keep my distrust alive, as if anxious I should never too much lose my own freedom and consciousness while I surrendered myself to his guidance. And an interview with him generally left me with so salutary and humbling an impression of my own moral littleness that I could not but deem his company a very great blessing.

Whenever he had startled me at all with anything in the moral and intellectual training to which he subjected me, a considerable interval generally elapsed before his next appearance. It was after these intellectual surprises that my spirit was languid and overweighed, and I fell back with delight upon my other companion, with whom I had left our native island, winning again light and cheerfulness, the power to think and the readiness to act, from

the inexhaustible source of his fresh feelings, healthy simplicity, sportive affection and fraternal fondness, a treasure always at my disposal, and never grudgingly bestowed. At such seasons it was a blessing no less than the grave sobriety of mind induced by the other, and it is equally pleasant in the retrospect.

In the little cloisters of San Ambrogio my mysterious companion appeared. Before he approached me, he stooped down and examined with extreme minuteness an old and roughly carved monumental slab, let into the wall on the south side of the quadrangle. When he had finished his inspection of this, he rose and turned towards the west doors of the church, fixing a gaze so melancholy and penetrative upon them, that it was easy to see that to his powerful imagination St. Ambrose in his episcopal vestments, with a crowd of timid clergy behind him, and the great Theodosius with the inward mental conflict forcing its way to his features, and the astonished retinue, were all present most vividly. "With what a silent power," said he, "the admonitus locorum sweeps over the soul in places which have such a haunting of mighty deeds as these cloisters have, spots where sublime ideas have been impersonated in great actions for the wonder and instruction of all futurity!" "Yes," replied I, "I have felt it most strongly here. Yet I can scarcely take credit for being still beneath its influence. It is not upon my spirit now. One's thoughts are often wayward in

great localities and I confess I was thinking just at present not so much of Ambrose and Theodosius as of one of those domestic, tranquil, sunshiny lawns which open out every here and there amid the gloomy avenues and tangled bye-paths of history." "Is there any such connected with this place?" he enquired. "Yes," said I, "this church recalls the best and purest part of Petrarch's life, when living at Milan under the patronage of the archbishop Giovanni Visconti. His biographer says that the house chosen for him was at the end of the town, on the west side, near the gate of Verceil, and close to the magnificent church of St. Ambrose. The air on this spot was very good. At the entrance there were two handsome towers; in front, the battlements of the church; and behind, the walls of the city, and a fine view of a rich country beyond them, extending even to the Alps. He remarked, that though it was the middle of summer, they were covered with snow. What a joy for Petrarch to live near a church dedicated to his favorite Saint, of whom St. Augustine had attested so many miracles! He never entered this temple without feeling an extraordinary fervor. There was a statue of St. Ambrose, said to resemble him perfectly, and which appeared alive. Petrarch was never weary of beholding it it was a most agreeable object,' says he. The great archbishop appeared to give me his blessing. What majesty in his countenance! What sweetness and expression in his eyes! This sight spread over my heart a lively

and inexpressible tranquillity. I rejoiced that I came to Milan.' 'Petrarch's house,' continues his biographer, was also near a little chapel where St. Ambrose and St. Augustine sung together that sacred Te Deum, from them spread through all the Italian churches; and it was also near the garden where St. Augustine was converted. These circumstances rendered Milan a delightful situation to Petrarch.' In another place the poet himself says, 'I reside in a very retired corner of the city towards the west. An ancient religious custom draws the people on Sundays to the church of St. Ambrose, who is my neighbor: the rest of the week this spot is a desert. Behold what this great Saint does for his guest. He consoles me by his presence; he gives spiritual succor to my soul, and saves it from disgust. Under the shelter of his wings, I see the tempests, and hear the noise of the waves, but they come not near to trouble me.' These," said I, addressing my companion, "are pleasing passages in the too often unpleasing life of a great man." "Yes," he replied, "the memory of Petrarch stands in need of such records. He was too mere a man of letters to interest my exclusively-directed sympathies. He was a man of sickly tastes and feeble of purpose. But your modern feelings are, I am aware, keenly open to sympathy with such men. But have you

reflected on what I said at the Certosa of Chiaravalle the other day?" "Yes," said I, "I have thought often and deeply upon it." "And has my opinion