"While we were walking about, the
priests and monks of the Order of St. Augustine, who have a convent
attached, came in a procession from the sacristy, and knelt down in
their sweeping black robes upon the marble pavement, in two lines, one
behind the other, and chanted aloud their Ave Maria. It was a
wonderful picture." She still clung to the Puritanical idea that in
religion itself, "What looks so wondrous, wondrous fair, His
providence has taught us to fear. . . . Angels only are fit to live as
monks pretend to live." But she contradicts this theory. No one was
more adapted than she to perceive the godliness of the monastic
sacrifice, when she realized the object of it. Among her dearest
friends and verified ideals were Mr. George Bradford, who always
reminded me of a priest of the true type; and Miss Hoar, whose vestal
soul, celebrating constant rites over the memory of her dead
betrothed, made her the image of a nun. This welcome delicacy and
loftiness of self-consecration my mother also observed in the ranks of
the sometimes harshly criticised friars. At Fiesole, "A young monk
unveiled the picture for us. He was very courteous, and had an air of
unusual goodness and sincerity. He is one of those who 'bear
witness.' As a matter of course I offered him a fee for his trouble,
but he made a sad and decided gesture of refusal, that was very
surprising and remarkable; for it was impossible to gainsay him, and I
felt embarrassed that I had thought of the gold that perishes in the
presence of the heavenly picture and the holy youth.
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