the wood
commands it on the other. It lies exposed to wind; the snow falls off
and on from October to May, and sometimes lies six weeks on end; but if
they stood in Eden with a climate like heaven's, the buildings
themselves would offer the same wintry and cheerless aspect; and for my
part, on this wild September day, before I was called to dinner, I felt
chilly in and out.

When I had eaten well and heartily, Brother Ambrose, a hearty
conversible Frenchman (for all those who wait on strangers have the
liberty to speak), led me to a little room in that part of the building
which is set apart for _MM. les retraitants_. It was clean and
whitewashed, and furnished with strict necessaries, a crucifix, a bust
of the late Pope, the "Imitation" in French, a book of religious
meditations, and the "Life of Elizabeth Seton"--evangelist, it would
appear, of North America and of New England in particular. As far as my
experience goes, there is a fair field for some more evangelisation in
these quarters; but think of Cotton Mather! I should like to give him a
reading of this little work in heaven, where I hope he dwells; but
perhaps he knows all that already, and much more; and perhaps he and
Mrs. Seton are the dearest friends, and gladly unite their voices in the
everlasting psalm. Over the table, to conclude the inventory of the
room, hung a set of regulations for _MM. les retraitants:_ what services
they should attend, when they were to tell their beads or meditate, and
when they were to rise and go to rest. At the foot was a notable N. B.:
"_Le temps libre est employe a l'examen de conscience, a la confession,
a faire de bonnes resolutions,"_ etc. To make good resolutions, indeed!
You might talk as fruitfully of making the hair grow on your head.

I had scarce explored my niche when Brother Ambrose returned. An English
boarder, it appeared, would like to speak with me. I professed my
willingness, and the friar ushered in a fresh, young, little Irishman of
fifty, a deacon of the Church, arrayed in strict canonicals, and wearing
on his head what, in default of knowledge, I can only call the
ecclesiastical shako. He had lived seven years in retreat at a convent
of nuns in Belgium, and now five at Our Lady of the Snows; he never saw
an English newspaper; he spoke French imperfectly, and had he spoken it
like a native, there was not much chance of conversation where he dwelt.
With this, he was a man eminently sociable, greedy of new