they dispersed and cleared away the misty clouds, from the troubled
thoughts which had held possession of him; he gazed upon his past
life; everything had been a failure, a deception--yes, _had been_. Art
was an enchantress, that but leads us into vanity, into earthly
pleasures. We become false to ourselves, false to our friends, false
to our God. The serpent speaks ever in us: "Taste and thou shalt
become like unto God."

Now, for the first time, he appeared to understand himself, to have
discovered the road to truth, to peace.

In the church was God's light and brightness, in the monk's cell was
found that peace, which enables man to obtain eternal bliss.

Brother Ignatius supported him in these thoughts, and the decision was
firmly made--a worldling became a servant of the church;--the young
artist took leave of the world, and entered the cloister.

How joyfully, how cordially the brothers greeted him! How festive the
ordination! It seemed to him that God was in the sunshine of the
church, and beamed within it, from the holy pictures and from the
shining cross. He stood in the evening sunset, in his little cell, and
opened his window and gazed in the spring-time over old Rome--with her
broken temples, her massive, but dead Colosseum; her blooming acacias,
her flourishing evergreens, her fragrant roses, her shining lemons
and oranges, her palm trees fanned by the breeze--and felt touched and
satisfied. The quiet, open Campagna extended to the blue snow-topped
mountains, which appeared to be painted on the air. Everything
breathed beauty and peace. The whole--a dream!