sirous of abrogating the placing of faith in his earthly relatives, as participators in his work, and I referred to the words in Matthew xii. 48-50.
The abbot in the meantime had recovered himself, and he said:
“We believe that the words which the Saviour uttered on the cross to his disciple, regarding his mother, “Behold thy mother,” were not spoken alone for him, but for every one of his disciples in the world, for all mankind and for all time! Therefore we venerate Marie, as our mother, and the mother of all mankind.”
This explanation was beautiful, and it was beautifully given, and I conceded that it might have its truth within certain limits, as—but I would not any longer detain the noble prelate, of whose politeness I did not wish to take undue advantage. I thanked the handsome and worthy gentleman for his kindness and took my leave. He asked if I should like to see his own private chapel, and the other gentlemen conducted me into a room as splendid as a boudoir; brilliant with crimson velvet and gold fringe. Above the altar was a Madonna, by Deschwanden, beautiful and lovable, but too human, a figure less to worship than to fall in love with. Henry IV., of Einsiedeln, was evidently one of the elegant and amiable prelates of the Catholic church, not one of its apostles and saints; he was neither a brother Klaus nor a St. Meinrad.
It was remarkable how all these gentleman seemed to consider themselves thinking and enlightened men,
