. She is humble to abjectness. Hers
is the meekness that belongs to the hopeless. Murmur she may, but it is
in her sleep. Whisper she may, but it is to herself in the twilight.
Mutter she does at times, but it is in solitary places that are desolate
as she is desolate, in ruined cities, and when the sun has gone down to
his rest. This sister is the visitor of the Pariah; of the Jew; of the
bondsman to the oar in the Mediterranean galleys; of the English
criminal in Norfolk Island, blotted out from the books of remembrance in
sweet far-off England; of the baffled penitent reverting his eyes
forever upon a solitary grave, which to him seems the altar overthrown
of some past and bloody sacrifice, on which altar no oblations can now
be availing, whether towards pardon that he might implore, or towards
reparation that he might attempt. Every slave that at noonday looks up
to the tropical sun with timid reproach, as he points with one hand to
the earth, our general mother, but for _him_ a stepmother,--as he points
with the other hand to the Bible, our general teacher, but against _him_
sealed and sequestered; every woman sitting in darkness, without love to
shelter her head or hope to illumine her solitude, because the
heaven-born instincts kindling in her nature germs of holy affections,
which God implanted in her womanly bosom, having been stifled by social
necessities, now burn sullenly to waste like sepulchral lamps among the
ancients; every nun defrauded of her unreturning May-time by wicked
kinsmen, whom God will judge; every captive in every dungeon; all that
are betrayed, and all that are rejected; outcasts by traditionary law,
and children of _hereditary_ disgrace:--all these walk with Our Lady of
Sighs. She also carries a key; but she needs it little. For her kingdom
is chiefly amongst the tents of Shem, and the houseless vagrant of every
clime. Yet in the very highest ranks of man she finds chapels of her
own; and even in glorious England there are some that, to the world,
carry their heads as proudly as the reindeer, who yet secretly have
received her mark upon their foreheads.

But the third sister, who is also the youngest--! Hush! whisper whilst
we talk of _her_! Her kingdom is not large, or else no flesh should
live; but within that kingdom all power is hers. Her head, turreted like
that of Cybele, rises almost beyond the reach of sight. She droops not;
and her eyes rising so high _might_ be hidden by distance.