6
MILD SEPTEMBER.
At last the struggle was between pope and monk. Savonarola was overcome, cast into prison, cruelly tortured, and now dragged forth to death.
His priestly robes were torn away, and the bishop cries aloud, "I separate thee from the church militant, and from the church triumphant." With the firm, unfaltering voice of a victor, Savonarola replies: "From the church militant, but not from the church triumphant."
A moment later, and the sky above Florence is covered with a fiery crimson blush for the innocent blood of her martyred benefactor. But his spirit, now freed from its earthly fetters, soars aloft to Him who gave it, to listen to the glorious welcome words, "Well done."
But hark! from England's shore a dispairing voice calls aloud: "Mark well my fall, and that that ruined me."
The revolution of feeling is complete, and Wolsey at last is fallen. The bubble of high-flown pride and cunning which has borne him up so long breaks beneath him, and he sinks into nothingness. In a moment his riches have flown, his glittering pageant dissolves like morning dew; his ecclesiastic powers fall from him like rent garments. He stands alone, a simple, humbled man, his hopes vanished, his hopes and his glory gone forever.
And now, as the angel of death places the seal of eternal silence upon those poor lips, one despairing cry escapes him:
"Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, He would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies."
What has Wolsey left to posterity? A glittering page in history? Noble deeds and undying precepts for coming generations to follow? Not one. He lived for self alone, and was ever swayed by passion, and like the deceptive glimmer that guided him, he has faded into eternal night.
Savonarola was led by the light of a divine idea, and his life was one of enduring self-sacrifice. He toiled for the race, obeyed the dictates of conscience, and even today, tho' ages have passed away, his clear voice still rings back the encouraging words "Behold the light"—to all those who shall at any time seek unselfish ends and their undying reward.
And now, as we replace the canvas and turn from the face before us, high above his name, as guiding beacon lights for his followers, let us inscribe the undying words "reformer, martyr, benefactor of his race."
MILD SEPTEMBER.
We are in the middle of September. More dear, less beautiful than June, September has been called the heart's month. Not till the heats of summer are gone, while all its growths remain, do we know the fullness of life. Now the hands of September are stretched out and clasp the growing palm of August, and the fruit-smelling hand of October. June days are scattered all through this fruitless month. The deep blue sky and the luster of foliage are still here. They are softened by a touch of decay, whose presence is hardly yet visible, for perfection of beauty is found, not in childhood
or youth, but in the beginning of middle life; and the early autumn will bring together all that is most desirable in a climate. Whether it is the cool mornings, when it is a joy to live and breathe the delicious and invigorating air; the warm afternoon, when the gardens are all in their glow of color, and peaches, apples, pears and plums drop down from their loaded branches, or the evenings, when the ligdt wood fire dances merrily on the hearth-it is summer and winter, on their best behavior, giving friendly tokens to each other. There is a comfort old as Adam, of beginning again; a fascina-