illiancy, though less pompous, was presented by
the grand torchlight procession which formed one evening in the square
of Lourdes, where all were provided with candles. Thirty thousand
persons were in this procession. They marched to the grotto of
Massabielle and to the church upon the rock, moving slowly and singing
hymns. As they moved they formed a great stream of glittering light,
which rolled on and on and up and up, across the meadow and up the
sinuous mountain-path. This impressive display lasted until midnight,
when the greater number of the lights had died out and their bearers
retired. But a goodly company still remained in the crypt of the
church at prayer, in some instances fighting off sleep by marching up
and down in companies, chanting night-prayers.

Thus a nation's ardent worshipers assembled in devotion at the spot
sanctified by the visions of Bernadette Soubirons. And what shall we
say of her? Her professed visions cannot be set aside as impostures
against the voice of thousands whose skepticism, as great as ours,
has been abashed. It could not have been in the nature of this artless
child, unencouraged and alone, to have been an impostor. Such would
have been a role thoroughly foreign to her character. Perhaps there
may have been illusion, a self-nourished fancy, evoked from the silent
reveries of those solitary days at Bastres, when her mind was for long
periods given up to undisturbed imaginings. Who can say?

WILLIAM D. WOOD.

BENEDICTION.

Good-bye, good-bye, my dearest!
My bravest and my fairest!
I bless thee with a blessing meet
For all thy manly worth.
Good-bye, good-bye, my treasure!
My only pride and pleasure!
I bless thee with the strength of love
Before I send thee forth.

Mine own! I fear to bless thee,
I hardly dare caress thee,
Because I love thee with a love
That overgrows my life;
And as the time gets longer
Its tender throbs grow stronger:
My maiden troth but waits to be
The fondness of the wife.

Alas! alas! my dearest,
The look of pain thou wearest!
The kisses thou dost bend to give
Are parting ones to-day!
Thy sheltering arms are round me,
But the cruel pain hath found me.
What shall I do with all this love
When thou art gone away?

Ah well! One poor endeavor
Shall nerve me while we sever:
I will not fret my hero's heart
With piteous sobs and tears.
I send thee forth, my dearest,