A Sculptor's Ghost rises, a sordid figure stained with clay. He peers cautiously around, shuts the trap-door, and kneels at the altar. Sculptor's Ghost (prays). O Aphrodite! hear him not, My work, to me be kind. O goddess! lady of all lands, Let this fair maid be mine, For mine the thought, and mine the hands, That wrought the work divine. [Throws incense on the flame, and disappears by trap-door. The incense smoke thickens, rises into a column, and takes the form of APHRODITE floating among her doves. Aphrodite (to the Statue). Statue. Aphrodite. O maiden, in mine image made! O grace that shouldst endure! While temples fall, and empires fade, Exchange thine endless life of art For beauty that must die, And blossom with a beating heart Change, golden tresses of her hair, Wax warm, ere cold ye wane ; Wake, woman's heart, from peace to strife, To love, to joy, to pain! [The Statue moves, and lifts her arms in the attitude of adoration. What world is this I know not of, What flutters in my breast? Descend, and leave thy marble shrine ; And wedding brings; no more divine And thou shalt love the man who wrought That neither new-born life, nor thought Add beauty to thine eyes. [The Goddess fades into the altar smoke. Enter PYGMALION. He throws himself at the feet of the Statue, who advances to embrace him. Statue. Ah, who then made me,- -was it thou? And who made thee so fair? Pygmalion (with presence of mind). I wrought thee, maiden, Statue. Ghost. even now, From dreams, and clouds, and air! And thou, that wert my statue, art My bride while life endure! A woman with a child-like heart, 'And passionately pure!' [Sculptor's Ghost rises. Believe him not-believe him not, Celestial apparition; I made thee-I; he only got (Confound him!) the commission! Pygmalion. Nay, rich men, tyrants, ladies fair, Ghost. Have seen me working daily on I did the sketch; that scented wretch Concealed I lurk, and do the work, Pygmalion. High priests have watched me modelling, Ghost. Improving chins and noses! Begone, thou dull, opprobrious thing, Ere he can toil he needs a squeeze,' A skull upon a stick! While independent quite of these VOL. I. NO. III. X Statue. Ghost. Statue. Myself will choose: couldst thou design Another shape as fair as mine, To look upon the sun? Why, give me time, and give me clay, And girls like thee, in bright array, And thou, Pygmalion, couldst thou frame Pygmalion. I could not, ah, transcendent dame, Statue. And would not, if I could! Then thine am I! That envious Ghost A troop of girls, a perfect host, That might compete with me! But thou, my sculptor, thou mine own, And I will be thy bride alone, All thine this eager heart! [They embrace. Exit Ghost, swearing in Greek, Etruscan, and Hittite. CURTAIN. A. LANG. About Sisterhoods. I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty; I woke, and found that life was Duty. THIS couplet-I know not whence it comes-was the favourite axiom of a dear old friend of mine, and the key-note of her noble and sorely-tried life of over eighty years. As I sit writing, watching the same hills and the same beautiful river that she watched until she died, it seems a fitting motto for a few words I have long wished to say, and which a chance incident has lately revived in my mind. A young lady, who had been for some time a 'postulant' in one of those Anglican Sisterhoods which their friends so much admire, their foes so sharply condemn, wrote to me that she was about to enter there as a novice, and wished me to be present at the service. These two words were my only clue as to what kind of ceremony it would be, and what sort of novitiate the girl was about to begin. A 'girl' still to me, for I had held her in my arms when only a day old; but in truth she was a woman of thirty, quite capable of judging, deciding, and acting for herself. She had had a hard life, was claimed by no very near ties or duties, and I had felt a satisfaction in her having had the courage to choose a decided vocation-at once a refuge and an occupation, for her Sisterhood bore the name of Orphanage of Mercy. Whatever her life there was or might be, it could not be an idle life. I had a certain sympathy with it, which prompted me at once to say I would go; and I went. It was one of those grey, wet, summer days which always strike one with a melancholy unnaturalness, like a human existence lost or wasted. As I stood in the soaking rain before a large monastic building, the door of which was opened by a nun-like portress, I was conscious of a slight sensation of pain at the difference between this and a bright, happy family home. But not all homes are bright and happy, and not all-nay, very fewwives and mothers have the placid, contented smile of the Sister who came to welcome me in the parlour-a regular convent parlour or 'parloir,' which is what the word originally came from. She explained that Sister (my girl) was in retreat,' and could see no one till after the service; and then we stood talking for several minutes about her and about the Orphanage. The Sister's dress, manner, and indeed the whole atmosphere of the place, were so essentially monastical, that I involuntarily put the question, 'Are you a Catholic?' 'Not Roman Catholic,' she answered, after a slight hesitation. "We belong to the Catholic Church-the Church of England.' Verily shall I add, wisely?—our mother Church of England shelters under her broad wings many diverse broods-if they only could keep from pecking one another! When I found myself in the chapel, it seemed at first exactly like one of those chapels that we see in Norman cathedrals-a high altar brilliantly lighted, and adorned with white lilies, the faint sweet smell of which penetrated everywhere and mingled with that of incense. But there were none of those paltry or puerile images that abound in Roman Catholic churches; nothing except the great crucifix, the common sign of all Christians. Protestant-in the sense of Luther and Calvin, and of modern Low Church and Presbyterianism— the place certainly was not; but no unbiassed eye-witness could have seen any tokens of Mariolatry or saint-worship about it, or in the service held therein. Gradually the whole chapel filled with Sisters, who I saw were divided into three classes-the black-veiled, the white-veiled, and the postulants, or probationers. These latter wore the dress of ordinary young ladies, while the Sisters were undeniably nuns; in their plain black gowns and white or black veils of some softfalling, close-fitting material-a costume as becoming, and probably as comfortable, as any woman can wear. It seemed to suit all faces, young and old, and some were quite elderly and not too beautiful; but every one had that peculiar expression of mingled sweetness and peace, which-let the contemptuous world say what it will I have found oftener on the faces of nuns-Catholic Petites Sœurs des Pauvres, or Protestant Sisters of Charity—than among any other body of women that I know. A fact, which I neither attempt to account for nor argue from, but merely state it as a fact, which few close observers at home or abroad will deny. After a somewhat long pause of waiting, and reading of the printed service which was given us, there was a slight stir and turning of heads. A distant chanting of female voices (some, I |