sible, or the world will not be fended off.
And ground down they are in body and soul. O Mother Church! as I look
upon these nuns, I do not love you. You have done many wise and right
deeds. You have been the ark of the testimony, the refuge of the
weary, the dispenser of alms, the consoler of the sorrowful, the hope
of the dying, the blessing of the dead. You are convenient now, wieldy
in an election, effective when a gold ring is missing from the toilette
cushion, admirable in your machinery, and astonishing in your
persistency and power. But what have you done with these women? In
what secret place, in what dungeon of darkness and despair, in what
chains of torpidity and oblivion, have you hidden away their souls?
They are twenty-five and thirty years old, but they are not women. They
are nothing in the world but grown-up children. Their expression,
their observation, their interests, are infantile. There is no
character in their faces. There are marks of pettishness, but not of
passion. Nothing deep, tender, beneficent, maternal, is there. Time
has done his part, but life has left no marks. Their smiles and
laughter are the merriment of children, beautiful in children, but
painful here. Mother Church, you have dwarfed these women, helplessly,
hopelessly. You accomplish results, but you deteriorate humanity.

Down the St. Lawrence, the great, melancholy river, grand only in its
grandeur, solitary, unapproachable, cut off from the companionship, the
activities, and the interests of life by its rocks and rapids; yet calm
and conscious, working its work in silent state.

The rapids are bad for traffic, but charming for travellers; and what
is a little revenue more or less, to a sensation? There is not danger
enough to awaken terror, but there is enough to require vigilance; just
enough to exhilarate, to flush the cheek, to brighten the eye, to
quicken the breath; just enough for spice and sauce and salt; just
enough for you to play at storm and shipwreck, and heroism in danger.
The rocking and splashing of the early rapids is mere fun; but when you
get on, when the steamer slackens speed, and a skiff puts off from
shore, and an Indian pilot comes on board, and mounts to the
pilot-house, you begin to feel that matters are getting serious. But
the pilot is chatting carelessly with two or three bystanders, so it
cannot be much. Ah! this sudden cessation of something! This
unnatural quiet. The machinery has