IN the fresh morning dawn there gleams in the rosy air a great Star，the brightest Star of the morning．His rays tremble on the white wall，as if he wished to write down on it what he can tell，what he has seen there and elsewhere during thousands of years of our rolling world．Let us hear one of his stories．
"A short time ago"—the Star's"short time ago"is called among men "centuries ago"—"my rays followed a young artist．It was in the city of the Popes，in the worldcity Rome．Much has been changed there in the course of time，but the changes have not come so quickly as the change from youth to old age．Then already the palace of the Caesars was a ruin，as it is now；fig trees and laurels grew among the fallen marble columns，and in the desolate bathing-halls，where the gilding still clings to the wall；the Coliseum was a ruin；the church bells sounded，the in- cense sent up its fragrant cloud，and through the streets marched processions with flaming tapers and glowing canopies．Holy Church was there，and art was held as a high and holy thing．In Rome lived the greatest painter in the world，Raphael；there also dwelt the first of sculptors， Micheal Angelo．Even the Pope paid homage to thesetwo，and honoured them with a visit：art was recognizedand honoured，and was rewarded also．But，for all that，everything great and splendid was not seen and known．
"In a narrow lane stood an old house．Once it hadbeen a temple；a young sculptor now dwelt there．He wasyoung and quite unknown．He certainly had friends，young artists，like himself，young in spirit，young in hopes and thoughts；they told him he was rich in talent，and an artist，but that he was foolish for having no faithin his own power；for he always broke what he had fash-ioned out of clay，and never completed anything；and awork must be completed if it is to be seen and to bringmoney．
"'You are a dreamer，'they went on to say to him，'and that's your misfortune．But the reason of this is，that you have never lived，you have never tasted life，youhave never enjoyed it in great wholesome draughts，as itought to be enjoyed．In youth one must mingle one's ownpersonality with life，that they may become one．Look atthe great master Rapheal，whom the Pope honours and the world admires：he's no despiser of wine and bread．'
"'And he even appreciates the baker's daughter，the pretty Fornarina，'added Angelo，one of the merriestof the young friends．
"Yes，they said a good many things of the kind，ac-cording to their age and intelligence．They wanted to drawthe young artist out with them into the merry wild life，the mad life as it might be called；and at certain times he feltan inclination for it．He had warm blood，a strong imagi-nation，and could take part in the merry chat，and laughaloud with the rest；but what they called'Rapheal'smerry life'disappeared before him like a vapour when hesaw the divine radiance that beamed forth from the pic-tures of the great master；and when he stood in the Vati-can，before the forms of beauty which the masters hadhewn out of marble，thousands of years since，his breastswelled，and he felt within himself something high，some-thing holy，something elevating，great，and good，and hewished that he could produce similar forms from the blocksof marble．He wished to make a picture of that which waswithin him，stirring upward from his beart to the realms of the infinite；but how，and in what from？The soft clay was fashioned under his fingers into forms of beauty，but thenext day he broke what he had fashioned，according to hiswont．
"One day he walked past one of those rich palaces ofwhich Rome has many to show．He stopped before the greatopen portal，and beheld a garden surrounded by cloisteredwalks．The garden bloomed with a goodly show of the fairest roses．Great white lilies with green juicy leaves shotupward from the marble basin in which the clear water wassplashing；and a form glided past，a young girl，thedaughter of the princely house，graceful，delicate，andwonderfully fair．Such a form of female loveliness he hadnever before beheld-yet，stay：he had seen it ，painted byRaphael，painted as a Psyche，in one of the Roman palaces．Yes，there she was painted；but here walkedalive．
"The remembrance lived in his thoughts，in his heart．He went home to his humble room，and modelled a Psyche of clay．It was the rich yong Roman girl，the no-ble maiden；and for the first time he looked at his workwith satisfaction．It had a meaning for him，for it was she．And the friends who saw his work shouted sloud for joy；they declared that this word was a manifestation of hisartistic power，of which they had long been aware，and thatnow the world should be made aware of it too．
"The clay figure was lifelike and beautiful，but it hadnot the whiteness or the durability of marble．So they de-clared that the Psyche must henceforth live in marble．Healready possessed a costly block of that stone．It had beenlying for years，the property of his parents，in the court-yard．Fragments of glass，and remainsof arti-chokes had gathered about it and sullied its purity；but un-der the surface the block was as white as the mountainsnow；and from this block the Psyche was to arise．"
Now，it happened one mornig-the bright Star tellsnothing about this，but we know it occurred-that a nobleRoman company came into the narrow lane．The carriagestopped a little way off，the company came to inspect theyoung sculptor's work，for they had heard it spoken of bychance．And who were these distinguished guests？Pooryoung man！Or fortunate young man he might be called．The younp girl stood in the room and smiled radiantlywhen her father said to her，"It is your living image．"That smile could not be copied，any more that the lookcould be reproduced，the wonderful look which she castupon the young artist．It was a look that seemed at onceto elevate and to crush him．
"The Psyche must be executed in marble，"said thewealthy patrician．And those were words of life for thedead clay and the heavy block of marble，and words oflife likewise for the deeply-moved artist．"When the workis finished I will purchase it，"continued the rich noble．
A new era seemed to have arisen in the poor studio．Life and cheerfulness gleamed there，and busy industryplied its work．The beaming Morning Star beheld how thework progressd．The clay itself seemed inspired sinceshe had been there，and moulded itself，in heightenedheauty，to a likeness of the well-know features．
"Now I know what life is，"cried the artist rejoic-ingly；"it is Love！It is the lofty abandonment of self forthe dawning of the beautiful in the soul！What my friendscall life and enjoyment is a passing shadow；it is likebubbles among seething dregs，not the pure heavenly winethat consecrates us to life．"
The marble block was reared in its place．The chiselstruck great fragments from it；the measurements weretaken，points and lines were made，the mechanical partwas executed，till gradually the stone assumed a humanfemale form，a shape of beauty，and became convertedinto the Psyche，fair and glorious-a divine being in hu-man shape．The heavy stone appeared as a gliding，danc-ing，airy Psyche，with the heavenly innocent smile-thesimile that had mirrored itself in the soul of the youngartist．
The Star of the roseate dawn beheld and understoodwhat was stirring within the young man，and could read themeaning of the changing colour of his cheek，of tha lightthat flashed from his eye，as he stood busily working，re-producing what had been put into his soul from above．
"Thou are a master like those masters among the an-cient Greeks，"exclaimed his delighted friends："soon shallthe whole world admire thy Psyche．"
"My Psyche！"he repeated．"Yes，mine．She mustbe mine．I，too，am an artist，like those great men whoare gone．Providence has granted me the boon，and hasmade me the equal of that lady of noble birth．"
And he knelt down and breathed a prayer of thankful-ness to Heaven，and then he forgot Heaven for her sake-for the sake of her picture in stone-for the Psyche whichstood there as if formed of snow，blushing in the morningdawn．
He was to see her in reality，the living graceful Psy-che，whose words sounded like music in his ears．He couldnow carry the news into the rich palace that the marblePsyche was finished．He betook himself thither，strodethrough the open courtyard where the waters ran splashingfrom the dolphins jaws into the marble basin，where thesnowy lilies and the fresh roses bloomed in abundance．Hestepped into the great lofty hall，whose walls and ceilingsshone with gilding and bright colours and heraldic devices．Gaily dressed serving-men，adorned with trappings likesleigh horese， walked to and fro，and some reclined attheir ease upon the carved oak seats，as if they were themasters of the house．He told them his errand，and wasconducted up the shining marble staircase，covered withsoft carpets and adorned with many a statue． Then he wenton through richly furnished chambers，over mosaic floorsamid grogeous pictures．All this pomp and luxury seemedto weary him；but soon he felt relieved，for the princelyold master of the house received him most graciously， al-most heartily；and when he took his leave he was requestedto step into the Signora's apartment，for she，too，wishedto see him．The servants led him through more luxurioushalls and chambers into her room，where she appeared thechief and leading ornament．
She spoke to him．No hymn of supplication，no holychant could melt his soul like the sound of her voice．Hetook her hand and lifted it to his lips：no rose was softer，but a fire thrilled through him from tiis rose-a feeling ofpower came upon him，and words poured from his tongue-he knew not what he said．Does the crater of thevolcano know that glowing lava is pouring from it？Heconfessed what he felt for her．She stood before him as-tonished，offended，proud，with contempt in her face，anexpression as if she had suddenly touched a wet，clammyfrog；her cheeks reddened，her lips grew white，ana hereyes flashed fire，though they were dark as the blacknessof night．
"Madman！"she cried，"away！begone！"And she turned her back upon him．Her beautiful face wore an expression like that of the stony countenancewith the snaky ocks．
Like a stricken，fainting man，he tottered down thestair and out into the street．Like a man walking in hissleep，he found his way back to his dwelling．Then hewoke up to madness and agony，and seized his hammer，swung it high in the air，and rushed forward to shatter thebeautiful marble image．But，in his pain，he had not no-ticed that his friend Angelo stood beside him；and Angeloheld back his arm with a strong grasp，crying， "Are you mad？What are you about？"
They struggled together．Angelo was the stronger；and with a deep sigh of exhaustion，the young artist threwhimself into a chair．
"What has happened？"asked Angelo．"Command yourself．Speak！"
But what could he say？How could he explain？And as Angelo could make no sense of his friend's incoherentwords，he forbore to question him further，and merelysaid， "Your blood grows thick from your eternal dreaming．Be a man，as all others are，and don't gn on living inideals for that is what drives men crazy．A jovial feastwill make you sleep quietly and happily．Believe me，thetime will come when you will be old，and your sinews will shrink，and then，on some fine sunshiny day，when every-thing is laughing and rejoicing，you will lie there a faded plant，that will grow more．I do not live in dreams，but in reality．Come with me：be a man！"
And he drew the artist away with him．At this mo- ment he was able to do so，for a fire ran in the blood of the young sculptor；a cbange had taken place in his soul；he felt a longing to tear himself away from the old，the accus- tomed-to forget，if possible，his own individuality；and therefore it was that he followed Angelo．
In an out-of-the-way suburb of Rome lay a tavern much visited by artists．It was built on the ruins of some ancient baths．The great yellow citrons hung down among the dark shining leaves and covered a part of the old red- dish-yellow walls．The tavern consisted of a vaulted cham- ber，almost like a cavern，in the ruins．A lamp burned there before the picture of the Madonna．A great fire gleamed on the hearth，and roasting and boliing was going on there；without，under the citron trees and laurels，stood a few covered tables．
The two artists were received by their friends with shouts of welcome．Little was eaten，but much was drunk， and the spirits of the company rose Songs were sung and ditties were played on the guitar；presently the Saltarello sounded，and the merry dance began．Two young Romangirls，who sat as models to the artists，took part in thedance and in the festivity．Two charming Bacchantes werethey；certainly not Psyches-not delicate beautiful roses，but fresh，hearty，glowing carnations．
How hot it was on that day！Even after sundown itwas hot：there was fire in the blood，fire in every glance，fire everywhere．The air gleamed with gold and roses，andlife seemed like gold and roses．
"At last you have joined us，for once，"said hisfriends．"Now let yourself be carried by the awves withinand around you．
"Never yet have I felt so well，so merry！"cried theyoung artist．"You are right，you are all of you right．Iwas a fool，a dreamer-man belongs to reality，and not tofancy．
With song and with sounding guitars the young peo-ple returned that evening from the tavern，through thenarrow streets；the two glowing carnations，daughters ofthe Campagna，went with them．
In Angelo's room among a litter of coloured sketch-es，studies， and glowing plctures，the voices soundedmellower but not less merrily．On the ground lay many a sketch that resembled the daughters of the Campagna，intheir fresh comeliness，but the two originals were farhandsomer than their portraits．All the burners of the six-armed lamp flared and flamed；and the human flamed upfrom within，and appeared in the glare as if it weredivine．
"Apollo！Jupiter！I feel myself sed to your heav-en，to your glory！I feel as if the blossom of life were un-folding itself in my veins at this moment！
Yes，the blossom unfolded itself，and then burst andfell，and an evil vapour arose from it，blinding the sight，leading astray the fancy—the firework of the senses wentout，and it became dark．
He was again in his own room；there he sat down onhis bed and collected his thoughts．
"Fie on thee！"—these were the words that soundedout of his mouth from the depths of his heart．"Wretchedman，go，begone！"And a deep painful sigh burst from hisbosom．
"Away！begone！"These，her words，the words of theliving Psyche，echoed through his heart，escaped from hislips．He buried his bead in the pillows，his thoughts grewconfused，and he fell asleep．
In the morning dawn he started up，and collected histhoughts anew．What had happened？Had all the past beena dream？The visit to her，the feast at the tavern，theevening with the purple carnations of the Campagna？No，itwas all real-a reality he had never before experienced．
Ih the purple air gleamed the bright Star，and itsbeams fell upon him and upon the marble Psyche．Hetrembled as he looked at the picture of immortality，and hisglance seemed impure to him．He threw the cloth over thestatue，and then touched it once more to unveil the form-but he was not able to look again at his own work．
Gloomy，quiet，absorbed in his own thoughts，he satthere through the long day；he heard nothing of what wasgoing on around him，and no man guessed what was pass-ing in this human soul．
And days and weeks went by，but the nights passedmore slowly than the days．The flashing Star beheld himone morning as he rose，pale and trembling with fever，from his sad couch；then he stepped towards the statue，threw back the covering，took one long sorrowful gaze athis work．and then，almost sinking beneath the burden，hedragged the statue out into the garden．In that place was anold dry well，now nothing but a hole：into this he cast thePsyche，threw earth in above her，and covered up the spotwith twigs and nettles．
"Away！begone！"Such was the short epitaph hespoke．
The Star beheld all this from the pink morning sky，and its beam trembled upon two great tears on the palefeverish cheeks of the young man；and soon it was said thathe was sick unto death，and he lay stretched upon a bed ofpain．
The monk Ignatius visited him sa a physician and a friend，and brought him words of comfort，of religion，andspoke to him of the peace and happiness of the Church，of the sinfulness of man，of rest and mercy to be found inheaven．
And the words fell like warm sunbeams upon a teeming soil．The soil smoked and sent up clouds of mist，fantastic pictures，pictures in which there was reality；and from these floating islands he looked across at humanlife．He found it vanity and delusion-and vanity anddelusion it had been to him．They told him that art was asorcerer，betraying us to vanity and to earthly lusts；thatwe are false to ourselves，unfaithful to our friends，un-faithful towards Heaven；and that the serpent was alwaysrepeating within us，"Eat，and thou shalt become as God．"
And it appeared to him as if now，for the first time，he knew himself，and had found the way that leads to truth and to peace．In the Church was the light and thebrightness of God-in the monk's cell he should find therest through which the tree of human life might grow oninto eternity．
Brother Ignatius strengthened his longings，and thedetermination became firm within him．A child of theworld became a servant of the Church-the young artist renounced the world，and retired into the cloister．
The brothers came forward affectionately to welcomehim，and his inauguration as a Sunday feast．Heaven seemed to him to dwell in the sunshine of the church，andto beam upon him from the holy pictures and from the cross．And when，in the evening，at the sunset hour，hestood in his little cell，and，opening the window，lookedout upon old Rome， upon the desolated temples，and thegreat dead Coliseum-when he saw all this in its springgarb，when the acacias bloomed，and the ivy was fresh，and roses burst forth everywhere，and the citron and or-ange were in the height of their beauty，and the palmtrees waved their branches-then he felt a deeper emotionthan had ever yet thrilled through him．The quiet openCampagna spread itself forth towards the blue snow-cov-ered mountains，which seemed to be painted in the air；all the outlines melting into each other，breathing peaceand beauty，floating，dreaming-and all appearing like adream！
Yes，this world was a dream，and the dream lasts forhoure，and may return for hours；but convent life is a lifeof years-long years，and many years．
From within comes much that renders men impure．He felt the truth of this．What flames arose in him attimes！What a source of evil，of that which he would not，welled up continually！He mortified his body，but the evilcame from within．
One day，after the lapse of many years， he met An-gelo，who recognized him．
"Man！"exclaimed Angelo．"Yes，it is thou！ Artthou happy now？Thou hast sinned against God，and castaway His boon from thee-hast neglected thy mission inthis world！Read the parable of the talents！The MASTER，who spoke that parable，spoke truth！What hast thougained？What hast thou found？Dost thou not fashion forthyseif a religion and a dreamy life after thine own idea，asalmost all do？Suppose all this is a dream，a fair delu-sion！"
"Get thee away from me，Satan！"said the monk；andhe quitted Angelo．
"There is a devil，a personal devil！This day I haveseen him！"said the monk to himself．"Once I extended afinger to him，and he took my whole hand．But no，"hesighed，"The evil is within me，and it is in yonder man；but it does not bow him down；he goes aboard with headerect，and enjoys his comfort；and I grasped at comfort in theconsolations of religion．If it were nothing but a consolation？Supposing everything here were，like the world I have quitted，only a beautiful fancy， a delusion like the beauty of the evening clouds，like the misty blue of the distant hills！—when you spproach them，they are very differ- ent！O eternity！Thou actest like the great calm ocean， that beckons us，and fills us with expectation—and when we embark upon thee，we sink，disappear，and cease to be．Delusion！away with it！Begone！"
And tearless，but sunk in bitter reflection，he sat upon his hard couch，and then knelt down-before whom？Before the stone cross fastened to the wall？— No，it was only habit that made him take this position．
The more deeply he looked into his own heart the blacker did the darkness seem．"Nothing within，nothing without-this life squandered and cast away！"And this thought rolled and grew like a snowball，until it seemed to crush him．
"I can confide my griefs to none．I may speak to none of the gnawing worm within．My secret is my prison- er；if I let the captive escape，I shall be his！" And the godlike power that dwelt within him suffered and strove．
"O Lord，my Lord！"he cried in his desper，"be merciful，and grant me faith．I threw away the gift thou hadst vouchsafed to me，I left my mission unfulfilled．I lacked strength，and strength strength thou didst not give me．Im-mortality-the Psyche in my breast-the Psyche in my breast-away with it！—itshall be buried like that Psyche，the best gleam of my life；never will it arise out of its grave！"
The Star glowed in the roseate air，the Star that shall surely be extinguished and pass away while the soul still lives on；its trembling beam fell upon the white wall， but it wrote nothing there upon being made perfect in God，nothing of the hope of mercy，of the reliance on the divine love that thrills through the heart of the believer．
"The Psyche within can never die．Shall it live in consciousness？Can the incomprehensible happen？Yes， yes．My being is incomprehensible．Thou art unfath- omable，O Lord．Thy whole world is incomprehensible-a wonder-work of power，of glory，and fo love．"
His eyes gleamed，and then closed in death．The tolling of the church bell was the last sound that echoedabove him，above the dead man；and they buried him， covering him with earth that had been brought from Jerusalem，and in which was mingled the dust of many ofthe pious dead． When years has gone by his skeleton was dug up，asthe skeletons of the monks who had died before him hadbeen：it was clad in a brown frock，a rosary was put intothe bony hand，and the form was placed among the ranks ofother skeletons in the cloisters of the convent．And the sunshone without，while within the censers were waved and theMass was celebrated．
And years rolled by．
The bones fell asunder ans became ningled with oth-ers．Skulls were piled up till they formed an outer wallaround the church；and there lay also his head in the burning sun，for many dead were there，and no one knewtheir names，and his name was forgotten also．And see，something was moving in the sunshine，in the sightlesscavernous eyes！What might that be？A sparkling lizardmoved about in the skull，gliding in and out through thesightless holes．The lizard now represented all the life leftin that head，in which，once，great thoughts，bright dreams，the love of art and of the glorious had arisen，whence hot tears had rolled down，where hope and immor-tality had had their being．The lizard sprang away and dis-appeared，and the skull itself crumbled to pieces and be-came dust among dust．Centuries passed away．The brightStar gleamed unaltered，radiant and large，as it had gleamed for thousands of years，and the air glowed red withtints fresh as roses，crimson like blood．
There，where once had stood the narrow lane contain-ing the ruins of the temple，a nunnery was now built；agrave was being dug in the convent garden，for a youngnun had died，and was to be laid in the earth this morn-ing．The spade struck against a stone that shone dazzlingwhite．A block of marble soon appeared，a rounded shoul-der was laid hare，and now the spade was plied with a more careful hand，and presently a female head was seen，and butterflies'wings．Out of the grave in which theyoung nun was to be laid they lifted，in the rosy morning，a wonderful statue of a Psyche carved in white marble．
"How beautiful，how perfect it is！"cried the spec-tators．"A relic of the best period of art．"
And who could the sculptor have been？ No one knew，no one remembered him，except the bright Starthat had gleamed for thousands of years．The Star hadseen the course of that life on earth，and knew of theman's trials，of his weakness-in fact，that he had beenbut human．The man's life had passed away，his dusthad been scattered abroad as dust is destined to be；butthe result of his noblest striving，the glorious work thatgave token of the divine element within him-the Psychethat never dies，that live beyond posterity-the bright-ness even of this earthly Psyche remained here after himand was seen and acknowledged and appreciated．
The bright Morning Star in the roseate air threw itsglancing ray downward upon the Psyche，and upon the ra-diant countenances of the admiring spectators，who herebeheld the image of the soul portrayed in marble．
What is earthly will pass away and be forgotten，andthe Star in the vast firmament knows it．What is heavenlywill shine brightly through posterity；and when the ages ofposterity are past，the Psyche-the soul-will still liveon！