knowledge and satisfaction that is waiting in the higher, deeper, broader life that is to come.

Penelope's was not a long life. She made her will two years after her visit to London, and in the wording of this document there is another original touch of the healthy cheerfulness of the diary, a cheerfulness which no doubt helped her to meet life and its possibilities and negations with a brave heart. And who would not rather have a brave heart than a long life?

Four years after her journey to London, Penelope's will was proved, and her treasures and furniture scattered. Among the heirlooms which have descended to the heirs of the Sydenhams, is a pall or palm of gold-coloured brocade, bordered with silver point lace. On this the infants of the family were carried to the Font. Yellow being the colour of victory, it was used as an emblem of the Christian warfare, but when the battle was over a white pall covered the coffin.

Under a white pall, in wintry weather, Penelope was carried to her grave by her 'five tenants in very dark grey cloths,' and those who followed strewed rosemary sprigs after the old Devonshire custom into the grave.

No stone marks the spot, and the only inscribed memorial of her death is a gold and enamel ring, with the words 'In memory of Penelope Sydenham,' divided by diamonds.

CHARLOTTE FURSDON.

ST. WILLIBRORD'S DANCE AT ECHTERNACH.

WE had heard very little of this dancing Procession which takes place yearly in the old Roman village of Echternach, in the Luxembourg Ardennes; but what we heard was so extraordinary that we determined to go and see it; planning our tour so as to arrive there on Whitsun Monday, the eve of the Dance.

Only that morning we had seen a very different procession wending its way between the high houses of another old Roman city-the oldest this side the Alps-namely Trèves. The streets were lined with many hundred young trees ungrudgingly cut down for the occasion; and carpeted with leaves and flowers. The richly embroidered silk flags and banners, of all sizes and colours, waving in the morning breeze; the gorgeous vestments of the priests; the acolytes in their scarlet cassocks; the long line of white-surpliced seminarists, relieved by the sombre dresses of the men and women walking in ranks according to their guilds; the white-robed children of the First Communion, with their flowing veils, and flowers in their hands; made a beautiful and dazzling sight not easily to be forgotten. Therefore it was with some regret that we left this interesting old town, so full of ancient memories and beautiful buildings, and retraced our steps to Echternach which we had passed through the previous Saturday. It had been full then, but now it was crowded. The narrow platform in the station was packed with peasants and priests, gesticulating and talking eagerly in German, French, and an unintelligible patois; while outside in the street the noise was even greater. We could scarcely pick our way through the square; it was so lively with stalls, booths, merry-go-rounds, and the usual adjuncts of a fair whether German, French, or English. In the earlier part of the afternoon we heard there had been a succession of sermons in the various languages; but now the sun was set, and the churches therefore closed, the oil lamps were flaring brightly in the booths,

and all was merriment and confusion. Now and again we heard the sound of drums and fifes above the uproar, betokening that another band of pilgrims had arrived from some neighbouring village, and there were fresh arrivals all through the night and early morning. Every house in the little town was filled to overflowing. How they all found shelter is a mystery. Very many must have slept in the street, and some took refuge under carts and sheds. But happily for them the night was not long, as it was after midnight when the noise subsided in the street below, and about four in the morning it began again.

The great devotion of the people on this day centres around the tomb of St. Willibrord, whose body rests in the quaint little parish church-which dates from the 10th century, and is dedicated to St. Peter and St. Paul. St. Willibrord, although patron of this ancient city in Luxembourg, is a Northumbrian saint; a disciple of our own St. Wilfrid of Ripon, and, for three years, a fellow-worker with St. Boniface in the wild country of Frisia. There his self-denying life and labours attracted the attention of Pepin, who caused him to be consecrated Archbishop of Utrecht in the year 696 A.D. On one of his apostolical journeys he met St. Irmine, daughter of the last Austrasian king, Dagobert II., and Abbess of the Convent of Oeren, at Trèves, who, out of affection for his master St. Wilfrid, loaded him with gifts. And one of these gifts was the little monastery of Echternach (with its two churches, the Basilica, or Abbey Church, and the Parish Church), which gradually developed into a large Benedictine Abbey. The large square of monastic buildings, which are still in good preservation, are of later date. One side is used by 'Les Sœurs de l'Enfant Jesus,' but the other half is now the property of the State.

St. Willibrord grew so attached to his Abbey that he made it his head-quarters; dying there among his monks in 739 A.D. There is a curious legend of his burial which tells how the Brothers had treasured up a white marble coffin, destining it for their Father. But alas! it was found to be too short. Deep was their grief; when suddenly, amidst their tears, they saw the coffin lengthen out, and so they were able to lay the holy Abbot in it after all, whilst, adds the monkish chronicler, a sweet perfume, arising from the body, filled the whole church.

A shrine is now being built for the saint in the Basilica, a finely proportioned church which has only lately been restored and painted. For many years it has been in the hands of the VOL. 85 (V.-NEW SERIES). NO. 508.

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State, when it was used first as a glass foundry, and then for barracks.

L'Abbé Krier, in his little book, gives several origins of the Procession; but the following is the most popular and certainly the prettiest. In the seventh century there lived St. Aldhelm, like Willibrord a missionary Bishop, and when he returned from his long journeys the clergy came forth to meet him, chanting as they walked, and with censers in their hands, the people fol lowing; and so rejoiced were the latter at seeing their Bishop again, that they were insensibly led into a sort of rhythmical dance. As St. Aldhelm only died in 709 A.D., Willibrord's disciples must have known of this and copied it; and growing into a regular custom, it continued after his death. The renown of the saint, the numerous miracles worked at his tomb, and the wealthy relations of the abbey attracted many pilgrims; and the little monastery of Echternach soon grew to be one of the most important in Belgium.

Therefore out of gratitude was the Procession first begun, and afterwards the many floods, famines, wars, and above all, La Peste Noire, in 1347, gave it a new impulse; the people flocking to the saint's shrine to pray for his protection. In this way the idea of the Procession as an act of faith and thanksgiving was supplanted by the idea of supplication and prayer; and, from that, expiation and penitence. Penitence both for themselves and for those who never think of sin as such; and prayer against all illness, especially epilepsy or any nervous complaint such as St. Vitus's dance.

But now to come to the description of the Procession. We had been warned that we ought to be at the little parish church some hours before it formed; so six A.M. found us mounting the steep flight of stone steps leading up to the church, which is set on the top of a grass-grown hill. Already it was crammed with people, hearing mass, confessing, or communicating. But there was no stillness, even here, for at intervals a group of pilgrims with their parish priest, and headed by their village band, with fiddles, drums or fifes, as the case might be, entered and marched up the aisle some chanting the Litany to St. Willibrord with more heartiness than music, others reciting the rosary. Many of their faces were a study; so devout, so intense, so earnest, and each so entirely wrapped up in his or her individual devotions as to be utterly regardless of what any one else might be doing or saying; thus the dire confusion that to us seemed most painful was unnoticed by them and of no account. Such, surely, is the

right interpretation to put upon much of what we saw and could not sympathise with; for throughout the day (except among the children, who seemed thoroughly to enjoy it) there was no trace of any sort of levity or irreverence. Even the lookers-on stood bareheaded; no small act of self-denial in that burning sun.

Outside, in the churchyard, it was a gay and animated scene. Groups of women and children squatting on the grass, and peasants in their blue blouses and high-peaked silk caps-some praying, some talking, some eating, and all noisy; and parish after parish making its way up the narrow steps, with their crazy bands playing the same monotonous tune which rang in my ears for days. Many of them looked hot and tired, for they had walked far that morning, as the mud-bespattered scarlet cassocks of the acolytes showed. Each parish entered the church at one door, went up the aisle and round the altar-underneath which the relics of St. Willibrord lie cased in a wooden effigy-and then out at the other door and around the exterior of the church, always ending their procession at a plain wooden cross in the corner of the churchyard. There they dispersed, to snatch a hurried breakfast before the Dance began.

It was now about eight o'clock. A band of soldiers had arrived, and preparations were being made for escorting the clergy to the old stone bridge, over the Sure, which has remained intact since the time when the Romans held the town. We therefore made our way there as quickly as the crowded state of the streets would allow; to find that on the bridge itself there was not even standing-room, so we viewed the scene from the safe retreat of an upper window.

It was a strange sight, looking down on the crowded street and bridge below us. There was literally a sea of heads. The people were packed as closely as it is possible for human beings to be packed within the old grey walls of the bridge, and looking down on them with a calm smile of amusement was the stone figure of some ancient Abbot of Echternach, perhaps St. Willibrord himself! In Brittany such a scene would have looked far gayer and prettier, but here there is nothing specially picturesque in the peasants' dress. The women, both old and young, wear a strikingly unbecoming black lace bonnet on great occasions like the present, and all had sombre skirts and loose black jackets; the blue blouses of the men were the only bit of colour, varying in shade according to the number of times they have been through the washtub. Here and there a French priest in broad