flies' Moral fedaiiiet ttn3 fHciorral Home fiompmioii. 
‘JfiwtHtj Jibing* 
THE SONG- OF THE MYSTIC VALLEY. 
Father Ryan, the author of this exquisite poem, is styled the 
Poet Priest of the South, and resided in. Mobilq, Ala. 
I walk down the Valley of Silence, 
Down the dim voiceless valley alone, 
And I hear not the sound of a footstep 
Around me but God’s and my own; 
And the hush of my heart is as holy 
As hovers where angels have flown. 
Long ago I was weary of voices 
Whose music my soul could not 
win, 
Long ago was I weary of noises 
That fretted my soul with their din, 
Long ago was 1 weary of places 
Where 1 met but the human and 
sin. 
I walked in the world with the 
worldly, 
Yet I craved what the world never 
gave ; 
And I said, in the world each ideal 
That shines like a star on life’s 
wave, 
Is toned on the shores of the real 
And sleeps like a dream in the 
grave. 
And still did I pine for the perfect, 
And still found the false with the 
true ; 
I sought ’mid the human a heaven, 
And I caught a mere glimpse of its 
blue ; 
And I sighed when the clouds of the 
mortal 
Veiled even the glimpse from my 
view. 
And 1 toiled on, heart-tired of the 
Human, 
And groaned ’mid the masses of 
men : 
Till 1 knelt long ago at an altar, 
And heard a voice call me ; since 
then 
I walk down the Valley of Silence 
That lies far beyond human ken. 
Do you ask what I found in the V alley ? 
’Tis my trysting-place with the Di¬ 
vine : 
And I fell at the feet of the Holy, 
And around me a voice said, “Be mine.” 
And then rose from the depths of my soul 
An echo, “ My heart shall be thine.” 
Do you ask how I live in the Valley ? 
I weep and I dream and 1 pray, 
But my tears are as sweet as the dew-drops 
That fall on the roses in May, 
And my prayer, like a perfume from censer, 
Ascendetli to God, night and day. 
In the hush of the Valley of Silence 
I hear all the songs that I sing : 
And the music floats down the dim Valley 
Till each finds a word for a wing, 
That to men like the doves of the deluge 
The message of peace they may bring. 
But far on the deep there are billows 
That never shall break on the beach, 
And I have heard songs in the silence 
That never shall float into speech, 
And I have had dreams in the Valley 
Too lofty for language to reach. 
Scenery of the Sierra Nevadas. 
And angels I’ve seen in the Valley ; 
Ah, me ! how my spirit was stirred ! 
They wear holy veils on their faces, 
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard ; 
They pass down the Valley like virgins, 
Too pure for the touch of a word. 
Do you ask me the place of this Valley ? 
To hearts that are harrowed by care 
It lieth afar between mountains, 
And God and his angels are there ; 
And one is the dark mount of sorrow, 
And one the bright mountain of 
prayer. 
THE LITTLE COTJiN'T. 
One of the most remarkable dwarfs the world 
ever saw was a nobleman of Polish descent, born in 
Chailez, a.i>. 1739. His name was Joseph Born- 
wlaski, always known as Count Bornwlaski, and be 
was aptly termed “ a perfect copy of nature’s finest 
works in duodecimo.” His intellect was remarkable, 
and was early developed. He spoke several lan¬ 
guages, and spent much time in travel, visiting the 
different nations of Europe, seeing 
and being seen in the leading courts 
of Europe. 
He reached Vienna at the age 
of fifteen, and at that time was but 
twenty-five inches in height. He 
was presented to Maria Theresa, 
who became much attached to him. 
The great princess was at the time 
at war with the King of Prussia. 
The queen asked the dwarf about his 
opinion of the Prussian monarch. 
“ Madam,” replied he, “ I have 
not the honor to know him; were I 
in his place, instead of waging a 
useless war against you, I would 
come to Vienna to pay my respects, 
thinking it more honor to gain 
your esteem than to gain a victory 
from you.” 
The queen took him in her lap 
and kissed him. He laughed. The 
queen asked him what lie was laugh¬ 
ing at. His quick reply was —■ 
“ To see so small a man on the 
lap of so great a woman.” 
This answer procured him fresh 
caresses. He gazed at a ring on 
the hand of the queen once when 
sitting on her lap, and she asked 
him if he thought it pretty. Born¬ 
wlaski replied: 
“ It is not the ring that I was 
looking at, but the hand I beseech 
your majesty’s leave to kiss.” 
This was granted, and the queen 
took from her daughter a diamond 
ring and gave it to Bornwlaski. 
The young lady from whose finger 
the ring was taken was the unfor¬ 
tunate Marie Antoinette, after¬ 
wards Queen of France. 
When in Paris, Count Olinski gave an entertain¬ 
ment to some ladies of high distinction, and to please 
them he placed Bornwlaski in an urn. The urn 
was placed on the table, and a funny noise proceed¬ 
ed from it. The count refused to uncover the urn, 
and the curiosity of the ladies was raised to the 
highest pitch. At length the cover was removed, and- 
out sprang Bornwlaski, who ran about the table, to the 
no small astonishment and diversion of the ladies. 
He visited various courts of Europe, his reputation 
preceding him, and everywhere was he caressed by 
the ladies, who universally took him on their laps 
and kissed hinn He lived to the extreme age of 
ninety-eiglit. 
