a translation in which
the sense is preserved, though the aroma is gone.

The flowers which thou, oh Blessed Charity,
With pious hand hast twined in funeral wreath,
Although on earthly soil they gathered be,
Will sweeten heaven with their perfumed breath.

The flowers, I suppose, were the actions of Caridad's own innocent life,
which she was offering on the cross of Christ; but one never can be sure
that one has caught the exact sentiment of emotional verse in a foreign
language. The beauty lies in an undefinable sweetness which rises from
the melody of the words, and in a translation disappears altogether. Who
or what Caridad del Monte was, whether a young girl whom somebody had
loved, or an allegoric and emblematic figure, I had no one to tell me.

I must not omit one acquaintance which I was fortunate enough to make
while staying at my seaside lodging. There appeared there one day,
driven out of Havana like myself by the noise, an American ecclesiastic
with a friend who addressed him as 'My lord.' By the ring and purple, as
well as by the title, I perceived that he was a bishop. His friend was
his chaplain, and from their voices I gathered that they were both by
extraction Irish. The bishop had what is called a 'clergy-man's throat,'
and had come from the States in search of a warmer climate. They kept
entirely to themselves, but from the laughter and good-humour they were
evidently excellent company for one another, and wanted no other. I
rather wished than hoped that accident might introduce me to them. Even
in Cuba the weather is uncertain. One day there came a high wind from
the sea; the waves roared superbly upon the rocks, flying over them in
rolling cataracts. I never saw foam so purely white or waves so
transparent. As a spectacle it was beautiful, and the shore became a
museum of coralline curiosities. Indoors the effect was less agreeable.
Windows rattled and shutters broke from their fastenings and flew to and
fro. The weathercock on the house-top creaked as he was whirled about,
and the verandahs had to be closed, and the noise was like a prolonged
thunder peal. The second day the wind became a cyclone, and chilly as if
it came from the pole. None of us could stir out. The bishop suffered
even more than I did; he walked up and down on the sheltered side of the
house wrapped in a huge episcopalian cloak. I think he saw that I was
sorry for him, as I really was. He spoke to me; he said he