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This is what the Rescript says, but Don Bartolo goes even further:

"The Madonna of Pompeii has become so universally the ruler (signora) of human hearts that she tears forth even from hell a praise song of Paradise."

"Around this Madonna, gracious and omnipotent, we would gather, as in one magnificent choir, all ages, all places, and proclaim her blessed.”

The extraordinary virtue of this individual Madonna underlies and is proclaimed in all the teaching of the Sanctuary. "In the course of fourteen years. . . the Virgin of the Valley of Vesuvius has deigned to appear in several places, but always alone, always without her Son."

Bartolo gives many instances which he regards as showing that the favours bestowed at Pompeii are distinctly obtained, not through the mere Madonna of the Rosary, but by the special grace she shows as the Madonna of the Valley of Pompeii.

In the April and May No. of the "Rosario della Nuova Pompei," Anno ix., we read how they deck the "Thaurmaturgic Image" with all sorts of ornaments:

"Almost every year we deck with brilliants the venerated image of our heavenly Lady of Pompeii. Five years ago, in 1887, we added jewels to her diadem, and also to that on the brow of the divine Child. Then we made a beautiful bracelet; and two years after an entire set, that amidst other of its ornaments, had the letters of the word 'Rosary' set in brilliants. One year we gave it earrings; another we placed on its brow, and on that of the Holy Babe, a most lovely and lustrous star. Last year, in May, we crowned her with a crown of twelve stars; and this year, in the same month, we have adorned it with that sweetest and most blessed name of Mary. All, you know, in brilliants."

We give the story of THE MIRACULOUS PICTURE in Don Bartolo's own language. We need only premise that the idea of raising a great Sanctuary had been cherished for some time. Service had been celebrated in the little old church of the district. The "Rosary" had been introduced, and the Confraternity of the Rosary instituted.

"It seemed to me," says Don Bartolo, "indispensable that there should be exposed for the veneration of the faithful, a picture round which the people might gather in the evening to recite their 'Rosary.' Picture of the 'Rosary' we had none, except an old lithograph, which had been given me by the parish priest. Some painting was necessary, not only to excite the public veneration, but also because, in order to gain the indulgences, an oil painting is absolutely required by the ccclesiastical liturgy.

"I remembered that once, when passing along the Toledo I had seen in a shop, amongst some other pictures, an oil painting which seemed to me to figure the ‘Virgin of the Rosary. Who the artist was I did not remember, not even did I remember his name, but as he came from Foggia, I knew he was called the 'Foggiano.' I would go to him; still I was afraid of being bothered when we came to treat the matter of the price, not being able to squabble over the bargaining, as is the custom in Naples.

"If I could only have had my old monk, Father Radente, with me! He, being a Neapolitan, is the man that could have done the haggling. But where to find him! I re

membered he was one of the monks driven out of his monastery, San Domenico Maggiore, when the Government took possession of all the monastic institutions in Italy, and that he was living, together with other two of the good friars, in a little house they rented together. I knew also that he was accustomed to say Mass every morning in the Church of the Rosary at Porta Medina. I determined to go along Toledo. I might thus meet my friend: if not, I must do as best I could myself.

"There, near by the study of the painter, most providentially, I met the very man, the venerable monk. 'Oh! father,' cried I, 'I am glad to meet you.' I recounted to him the visit of the Bishop of Nola, telling him of our intention to build a church, and establish a Confraternità' (Guild) of the Rosary, and I told him about the picture I wanted.

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Here is the studio of the Foggiano,' said the monk, and in we went. There, too, was the picture of the Virgin of the Rosary'; but, alas, without the 'mysteries' around, and far too small, not even a metre in size. What is the price of this picture?' 'Four hundred lire.' 'Oh! oh! That's far, far too much!' exclaimed the reverend father. I, perhaps, might have yielded and bought it; but the father, with a knowing wink, called me out and away.

"As soon as we were in the street, he said, 'A thought struck me when we were in the artist's studio-Why give four hundred for a little picture when you want all the money you can get to build the new church? Some years ago, I gave Suor Concetta De Litala, who is in the Conservatorio of the Rosary at Porta Medina, an old painting of the Rosary which I bought from an old picture dealer for eight carlini (3 lire, 40 c.). Go and see it. If you like it, and you think it will serve your purpose, worn out as it is, ask her to give it you, and I am sure she will do so. It surely will do for the clodhoppers of Pompeii.'

"Right off I go to the Conservatorio at Porta Medina. "Call Suor Concetta Maria De Litala for me!' cried I, from without the grating of the parlatory.

"In a trice the sister appears.

"Father Radente sends me to you that you may give me the picture of the Madonna of the Rosary that you have. You must know that the poor peasants at Pompeii cannot repeat the Rosary because they have no image, and I must take one for them this very evening, for the missioners to show the people.'

"Most glad am I that the old picture should be utilized for so good a purpose,' replied the holy woman, and off she went to fetch it.

"Only a few minutes passed ere I saw the kind sister coming with the painting.

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But oh, how my heart went down as I saw that picture for the first time-an old, worn-out, disfigured canvas. The countenance of the Madonna, instead of picturing a Virgin kindly-looking, all sanctity and amiability, seemed only to give the features of a big, coarse, rough woman.

"Misericordia!' I could not help exclaiming, with the air of one half-frightened and half-admiring, whoever painted that picture?' In my very heart I could only feel that the poor country folk of Pompeii would be only poorly aided in their devotions, and in their love for the Rosary, by looking at a picture as ugly as that.

"It was not only that the Virgin's face was deformed and unpleasing, but some inches of the canvas over the Virgin's head were wanting; the Virgin's robe was all cracked and moth-caten, and spoilt by time, so that patches of the colouring had peeled off and come away. It is impossible to tell you the ugliness of the other persons. St. Dominic to the right seemed rather like a silly idiot than a saint; and to the left was a S. Rosa with a face fat, uncouth, and vulgar-a country girl with a crown of roses.

THE SANCTUARY OF NEW POMPEII.

Even the historic idea was misrepresented, so much so that afterwards I had the S. Rosa changed into Catherine of Si:na. Then the Rosary Queen was represented as sitting uncrowned, no diadem upon her brow; and instead of giving the Rosary to S. Dominic (as is historical) she gives it to S. Rosa, whereas the infant-Christ is the one who ought to consign it to the Patriarch Gusman.

"Here, then, was a strait to be in. Must I take the picture or must I leave it? It grieved me to think that the mission was about to close, and that I had promised both missioners and people to bring them a picture. Everybody knew I had come to Naples on purpose to buy one, and they were expecting my return. What was I to do? "Don't bother too much about it,' said the pious sister, with a kindly accent of reproof. Take the picture with you now; it will always be good enough to have an Ave Maria recited before it.'

.

"But how was I to take it? It was a metre broad, a

metre and forty centimetres high

-too large to be taken with me in the train. Take it with you,' urged Sister Maria Concetta. To have taken it with me in the train I must have gone in the 4th class, that is standing all the time, and I did not relish that.

"Just at that moment, the Countess, my wife, came into the parlatory, and the nun, her face reddening all the time, insisted: 'You must take the picture away with you, and this very moment.' "The Countess to please her had the picture wrapped in a sheet, and off we went with it to our home. But how to get it to Pompeii that very night was the question.

"Thinking and thinking, there came to my mind a happy thought. There was the carter who came to and fro between Valle di Pompei and Naples to gather his load of refuse from the stables of the wealthier people, and cart it to Valle that he might sell it there as manure. He was to return that very evening with his load.

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that Angelo had brought the Madonna of the Rosary just lying on the top of the manure with which his cart was heaped up to the full."

Here then is the triumphant entry of the Madonna of the Rosary. An old and ugly picture, for which three lire forty centimes had been paid, and which according to the frank testimony of the founder of the holy shrine was historically inaccurate, it is brought to its new dwelling-place lying on the country-man's cart. This, according to the narrative of the founder of the Sanctuary, was the picture as he first saw it, which was afterwards looked upon by thousands as divine; and crowned, bejewelled, and bedecked, as he has himself told us.

LA VERGINE S.S. DEL ROSARIO DI POMPEI.

"Angelo was the name of the carter. His cart was already filled and he was just on the point of leaving.

"Angelo was one of the principal and better-to-do amongst the peasantry of the valley. Tall, strong, sinewy, square shouldered, with a sonorous voice, he used always to speak as though he were shouting to people that were deaf. It was he who used to go round the country begging for the contributions of maize and of the cotton plant for the expenses of the Feste of the Rosary, and for the lotteries we used to have. Mounted on a bench in the middle of the provincial highway, right opposite the parish church, he used to announce the results of the lotterics, calling out with stentorian voice one by one the names of the winners of the crucifixes and little pictures, to the rude crowd blocking up the broad public roadway.

"Here, then, was the man for me, and he did not require to be told twice. All right,' he answered, and off he went; and whilst the Madonna of the Rosary trundled along the provincial road, I hastened on to the railway station to be off and to be ready to receive it at its destination.

"What was our dismay on finding, when the cart arrived

HOW THEY MENDED THE MIRACULOUS PICTURE.

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Don Bartolo continues the story:

"When Angelo with his cart reached Pompeii, and gave up the longed-for package to one of the missioners in the decaying, tumble-down little parish church, and the painting was uncovered in the presence of the three missioners, the venerable parish priest, two other priests who were brothers, the family of the Countess Fusco and others, no one could refrain from laughing at the old daub which I had brought there for public veneration. All agreed that in the condition in which it was it could not be shown in the church. I was obliged, therefore, to resign myself to see the fruit of my care and labour put away up in a corner behind the altar of the parish church; and the people were left to pray to an uncanonical lithograph.

"On the morrow we took common counsel as to what was to be done with the ragged old thing, which did not seem worth the expenditure of even a farthing.

"I know an artist who paints views of Pompeii,' said the parish priest, he is a good fellow, and you need hardly give him anything.'

"When the painter came and saw our wonderful picture he asked time for the repairs, and said it must not only be restored but revarnished.

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"Take care,' said I, this rainting only cost eight carlini. I will give you thirty (about thirteen francs) if you can make it fit to be seen in the church.' He took it away with him.

"The mission was finished, the missioners were gone. A week passed, then another. The docile country people continued their devotions to the little lithograph as they had been required to do. In the meantime I established a Confraternity of the Rosary, so that the people might obtain all the indulgences conceded by the popes to the order of St. Dominic. It was only at the end of January, 1876, after two months had passed, that the artist came to give back the picture. Poor fellow! He could not have done

better.... I gave him the thirty carlini I had promised him, and he, retaining twenty, gave me back the other ten for the new church, according to agreement.”

This was the picture used at the inauguration of the Confraternity of the Most Holy Rosary at Pompeii. Bartolo tells, however, of another

METAMORPHOSIS OF THE MIRACULOUS PICTURE.

For three years and a half the picture, touched up and varnished, had served all the purposes, ecclesiastical and religious, of the guild, and of public worship too. It had proved to be as powerful a miracle-working picture as any that had winked or shed forth tears or drops of blood, still it was not satisfactory.

S. Rosa must give place to S. Catherine of Siena. S. Catherine would do much better than S. Rosa, for S. Rosa was American, while S. Catherine was Italian, and the glory not only of Italy but of the whole Christian world. As both belonged to the Third Order of the Rosary, either one or other would do so far as that was concerned.

To change one painting into another here in Italy, to change one saint into another-is not uncommon. A dealer in saints and angels, in statues and pictures, said of S. Agatha, to a friend of mine: "You see this is S. Agatha; there in the plate she holds you see her breasts, that is S. Agatha. We often change them. S. Lucia holds a plate in her hands in which are her eyes. To change S. Agatha into S. Lucia, all we have to do is to take out the breasts and put in the eyes."

Don Bartolo describes the metamorphosis in the case of the Pompeian picture :

"I asked the pious Maldarelli to do me the favour of changing the crown of roses on S. Rosa's head into a crown of thorns, the distinctive emblem of our Italian Virgin, and of putting in the palms of her hands the 'stimmate' (the marks of the Saviour's passion miraculously transmitted to the hands, feet, and side of S. Catherina).

"But there still remained a more arduous task: that great, round face, like a full moon, which, if unpleasing in a S. Rosa, was altogether unbearable in a S. Catherine, whose style must be gentle and worn with penance, like that still seen in the Church of S. Dominic at Sienahere there must be a metamorphosis, notwithstanding the Queen of Heaven had approved for all those three years, bestowing blessing and working prodigies. For the same price the same as the original picture, so miraculous, eight carlini 3 f. 40.-Father Radente had bought a 'Sposalizio di S. Caterina'; it was in the hands of the same nun, Suor Maria Concetta De Litala. This would supply the place of the other. This would do, for there is the Virgin of the Rosary, with the infant Christ in arms, who gives the ring of the heavenly marriage to St. Catherine."

At length the miraculous picture was perfected. The head of the Madonna had been thinned and the fat face of S. Rosa too. The painter had done what was possible to make the coarse broad features of S. Dominic more graceful, and had made the infant Christ more full of life. He had woven in a new piece of canvas over the Madonna's head so as to give the picture its proper position, or rather had substituted new

canvas for the old. Here then was the picture, but was it the old one or a new one? New canvas, new colouring. The Virgin's face transformed. S. Rosa changed into S. Catherine. The Virgin crowned. The Infant Christ, with a diadem of brilliants, and around His neck a necklace of precious stones. Thus the metamorphosis is complete, not a trace remains of the original.

THE MIRACLE OF THE MIRACULOUS PICTURE.

Framed in a magnificent bronze cornice, which cost ten thousand lire (400l.), and what is more, circled by fifteen medallions, representing the fifteen mysteries of the Rosary, there is the Miraculous Picture, or its other self, over the high altar of the new church-the sanctuary of "Valle di Pompei."

"The Madonna's countenance," says Don Bartolo, "inspires confidence, love, devotion; it is radiant with beauty, with the blended softness and majesty which stream from the eye, so that the knee bends, and the heart beats high, of every one who approaches with faith that piece of ancient canvas.

But even the second restoration of the picture had not wrought that marvellous change. Can we attribute to the painter that heavenly expression all now can see and feel?

High up, not merely shown as other pictures are at Valle di Pompei, but "enthroned," as they term it, is the Rosary Queen. So high is she enthroned that I, alas! could not see the heavenly beauty, which we are told entrances and enthralls; but then perhaps my poor sight is as short as my faith is feeble in such miracles as these. Bartolo, however, avows his conviction that it was the Virgin who made this picture of herself all beautiful by a visible portent.

This is the history of the wonder-working image, which is venerated in Valle di Pompei, the centre of the worship of thousands of pilgrims, who come full of confidence from every province of Italy, from all Europe; from every part of the world.

All this with authoritative, ecclesiastical approval! all with the sanction of Leo XIII. himself! and yet people tell us Romanism is changing! and yet people dream of reform from within the Roman church!

Progress.

THE great world wins its struggling way,

But reacheth not to perfect rest;
Storm follows calm and night the day,
Yet law through all is manifest.

Each generation hath its toil
Refashioned by the fires within;
Defects of nature will assoil,

And sorrows grow by each man's sin.
The true soul seeks to conquer pain,
A life intenser, strong to bear;
Nor dreams in blissful ease to reign,

Nor knows in strenuous toil to spare.

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are eleven thousand of these days, and in the case of the white-haired patriarch there are as many as thirty thousand. It is these separate days which, added together, make up the solemn whole of life, the sum total of existence. A day, therefore, is one of the costliest jewels that can be entrusted to the care of a creature, and how to make a religious use of it is a problem on which we may well bestow our most earnest study and solicitude.

The secret of a well-spent day will be found to lie very much in the way we begin it. We need scarcely say the only right beginning is intercourse with God. Ere the dew has gone up to the sun let us send our best thoughts to the mercy-seat, that so, getting firm hold of the day at the right end of it, we may be able to rule it well. It is our delicious privilege before stepping out into this rough cold world, where there is so much to chill our piety and try our strength, that we may slip our hand into God's; and shall we not avail ourselves of it? If, as has been said, "the morning is the gate of the day," it is surely the height of folly and rashness to pass through that gate into the fresh fields of duty and responsibility on which it opens without a glance upwards, without an appeal to heaven for guidance and help and blessing. Thus to rush out from our beds to our business without prayer, is very much the same thing as if the soldier were to venture into the battle without his armour, or the sailor start on his voyage without first provisioning his ship. "There is one sweet dewy hour in the morning," says one well qualified to speak on this subject, "when the victory may be snatched before the battle has begun." If that vantage hour be neglected we may fight hard for victory all the rest of the day, but the battle is sure to go against us, and we shall come back at night defeated and crestfallen.

But it is not alone to devotional uses our morning hours may be put; they are the best working hours in all the day. When health and circumstances admit of early rising, some of the best work of life may be done before the aver age sleeper is awake or the world is stirring. Franklin used to say, "the morning hour has gold in its mouth," and it is not too much to say that if we were prompt to catch it and appropriate its riches, like St. Peter, we should find it would go a long way in paying the tribute-money of life. That "gold in the mouth" of the morning. has been avariciously pounced upon by many an early worker, and turned to the enrichment of the world. John Milton tells us of himself that he was often at his studies before the sound of any bell had summoned men to duty or devotion. The Commentaries of Albert Barnes are the product of early rising. The same may be said of Scott's "Waverley." Buffon, the naturalist, gratefully acknowledges that he felt himself indebted for thirteen volumes of his works to his poor servant Joseph, whose main function, and one he discharged most rigorously, was to drag his master out of bed at six, for which service, every time it was successfully accomplished, he was rewarded with a crown. This angel of the morning still comes to us, its hands laden with

immortal treasure-alas, that it should so often be entertained unawares, and allowed to rustle by us with all its treasure unappropriated.

There is something very inspiriting in the arrival of a new day. What is it but another bright chance, another gracious opportunity, a new call, a new hope, a new challenge to attempt something better for God and man? It is God saying to us: "Here is a new beginning for you who have spoiled the past. Here is a white unblotted page for you to write on. Try again." Glorious possibilities dawn with the morning. "Jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain-tops;" and what is he standing there for but as a torch-bearer to light us on our way to nobler deeds and grander achievements than any that signalised our poor and unworthy yesterdays? "For the last seventeen years,' says Elizabeth Fry, "on opening my eyes in the morning it has been my first waking question— What can I do for God to-day?"

A good waking question for any one-What can I do for God to-day? Is there any poor Mephibosheth to whom I can show a kindness for Jonathan's-for Jesus' sake? Is there any overloaded fellow-traveller trudging along the world's hot highway to whom I can give a lift? Is there any cripple lying at the temple gates to whom I can say with Peter, "Such as I have give I thee"? Is there any poor neglected one languishing in Bethesda's porches whom I can help into the water when the angel stirs it? He who in the hour of resurrection from nightly slumber shall put to his better self such tender inquiries as these shall doubtless find an answer for each one of them before sundown. We make a great mistake when we take life roughly, as it were, and let the days come and go in their flyswift fashion without filling them with the golden ore of benevolence.

The

Some time ago a little company of friends formed what they called a "Titus Society," in allusion to the Roman Emperor of that name, who was accustomed to say at evening of any day that he had suffered to pass uselessly away, "Perdidi diem,"-"I have lost a day.' condition of membership in this society was that each one should allow no day to pass without having spoken at least one kind word or done one worthy deed. All such plans are open to the objection that they throw us back on our own words and deeds, and may lead us to attach an overweening importance to them. In some natures, it may be, such methods foster a selfconsciousness destructive to the highest ideal, and as fatal to the unselfish virtues as the fault they would cure. When the best is done, so much remains undone; but the effort so to check the waste of time may remind us how much more is possible than we commonly attempt. Suppose our readers join a "Titus Society" and comply with the prescribed condition-at the end of the year they will be surprised to find that they have done 365 of "those little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love," which the poet Wordsworth as-ures us are "the best part of a good man's life," have made 365 deductions from the great heap of human misery

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