hang on their mother's breast, and while they nourish themselves, they gaze in her dark eyes, whose expression they understand more from the instinct of childhood than from knowledge. We have here in our little church a miraculous portrait of the mother of God, which is renowned and honored far and wide by the country-people of the mountain. An old shapeless figure cut in wood of small size, probably in the early age of art, when it was yet scarcely aware of its own existence. I have seen the sick, when they prayed before the altar, restored to health, for faith and the commotions of the mind are able to bring forth the strongest phenomena in our delicate nature. Now when I reflect that upon this little spot so many thousands have for centuries derived consolation and joy, I cannot look upon her without emotion. The war has rendered a festival impossible this year, which otherwise has annually been celebrated on the morrow. From several village communities,
