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the end of all things. Then followed the blessing of the high altar by the Archbishop, and of the nineteen other altars in the church itself, and in the crypt by nineteen bishops. Finally, in the presence of the vast congregation that had been admitted to the church, decorated with the Tricolor of France, the holy relics were put in their appointed place, and after various other ceremonies came the celebration of Mass by the Papal Legate, during which the choir sang the Messe Royale of Dumont.
It was an impressive sight when the procession of cardinals and clergy made the circuit of the church in order to fetch the holy relics which had been placed in an oratory erected outside the west end of the church. A clear, bright morning had followed a stormy night, and the sun was shining full on the great southern portal that dominates Paris as there issued from it the long procession of lesser clergy and bishops in mitres and gorgeous vestments, followed. by the six cardinals in scarlet robes with great trains of watered silk held up by scarlet cassocked acolytes. It was only a very limited number of spectators that was enabled to watch this gorgeous and impressive spectacle, for so great had been the
demand for admission to the ceremony that even from the precincts the general public was rigorously excluded.
MIND AND MATTER
How wonderful the powers of poets be, Commanding earth, and air, and fire, and sea!
They bade the hills and valleys laugh and sing,
They ordered them about!
Of sheer conceit, one sought a mightier slave,
Bidding the deep and dark blue ocean roll!
Encouraged by success, they tried again
So, in their sweet, soft light, selecting one, 'Twinkle,' a bard sang, 'Twinkle, little star!'
And saw it, acting on his wrinkle,
Wonderful folk, these poet people are!
EVENING ON THE RIVER
See how the water laps this boat of
Here where the rushes, wading
from the banks,
Dimming each field with thin and furtive white,
While hidden birds sing to the failing light
Hold green seclusion in their serried And cattle slowly seek the water's
And drowsy noontide loses count of
So in the twilight we untie the rope To drift our easy way to where we land:
Full of the peace that none quite understand
The peace that is the promise of a hope.
The Anglo-French Review
BY WILFRID WILSON GIBSON
Dear, when you climbed the icy Matterhorn,
Or braved the couching green-eyed jungle night
With heart exultant in the sheer white light
On the snow peak, or cowering forlorn In the old Indian darkness terrortorn
Had you no inkling on that crystal height
Or in the shuddering gloom, how on a flight
Of London stairs we'd meet winter's morn?