the Professor, in a
singularly soft voice for him, "I will give you from him a picture of
the world in the highest mood it has ever known, or perhaps ever will
know--under the Cross. It is only the 'Epitaph in the Catacombs':

'I was born sickly, poor, and mean,
A slave; no misery could screen
The holders of the pearl of price
From Caesar's envy; therefore twice
I fought with beasts, and three times saw
My children suffer by his law;
At last my own release was earned;
I was some time in being burned,
But at the close a hand came through
The fire above my head; and drew
My soul to Christ; whom now I see.
Sergius, a brother, writes for me,
This testimony on the wall:
For me, I have forgot it all.'

Could any picture be more perfect? Christ has made of the poor sick
slave a hero; and he speaks dispassionately from the other side. At
last his release was earned. He was some time in being burned. Sergius
writes--it is not he--he has forgot it all. These words light up an
infinite picture, and surely the poet, who with one light stroke can
smite such a statute from the rock, is a Master crowned, and worthy of
our love."

Every face was illuminated, every soul expanded, and the Professor,
burning with his own enthusiasm, laid down the book. Then Miss
Alida, smiling, but yet with tears in her large gray eyes, turned
to a pretty young woman who had a roll of music in her lap. "Mrs.
Dunreath," she said, "we cannot bear any more of Mr. Browning's
strong wine; give us one of your songs of Old Ireland--some that you
found in Munster, among the good lay monks and brothers. And the
lady lifted her mandolin, and touched a few strings to her strange
musical recitative:

"A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer;
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear.
There is honey in the trees, where her misty vales expand;
And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs in the yellow sand
On the fair hills of holy Ireland!

"Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound;
The cresses on the water, and the sorrels are at hand;
And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland:
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song in the forest grand.
On the fair hills of holy Ireland!"

The song made a charming let