silent changes of the popular mind.
It is clear that from thenceforth compassion goes over to Satan's
side. The Virgin herself, ideal as she is of grace, makes no answer
to such a want of the heart. Neither does the Church, who expressly
forbids the calling up of the dead. While all books delight in keeping
up either the swinish demon of earlier times, or the griffin butcher
of the second period, Satan has changed his shape for those who cannot
write. He retains somewhat of the ancient Pluto; but his pale nor
wholly ruthless majesty, that permitted the dead to come back, the
living once more to see the dead, passes ever more and more into the
nature of his father, or his grandfather, Osiris, the shepherd of
souls.

Through this one change come many others. Men with their mouths
acknowledge the hell official and the boiling caldrons; but in their
hearts do they truly believe therein? Would it be so easy to win these
infernal favours for hearts beset with hateful traditions of a hell of
torments? The one idea neutralizes without wholly effacing the other,
and between them grows up a vague mixed image, resembling more and
more nearly the hell of Virgil. A mighty solace was here offered to
the human heart. Blessed above all was the relief thus given to the
poor women, whom that dreadful dogma about the punishment of their
loved dead had kept drowned in tears and inconsolable. The whole of
their lifetime had been but one long sigh.

* * * * *

The Sibyl was musing over her master's words, when a very light step
became audible. The day has scarcely dawned: it is after Christmas,
about the first day of the new year. Over the crisp and rimy grass
approaches a small, fair woman, all a-trembling, who has no sooner
reached the spot, than she swoons and loses her breath. Her black gown
tells plainly of her widowhood. To the piercing gaze of Medea, without
moving or speaking, she reveals all: there is no mystery about her
shrinking figure. The other says to her with a loud voice: "You need
not tell me, little dumb creature, for you would never get to the end
of it. I will speak for you. Well, you are dying of love!" Recovering
a little, she clasps her hands together, and sinking almost on her
knees, tells everything, making a full confession. She had suffered,
wept, prayed, and would have silently suffered on. But these winter
feasts, these family re-unions, the ill-concealed happiness of other
wom