accorded with, sometimes they crossed, what we should have called the longings and preferences of his pupil, save that no such inclinations were longer to be felt in his subjugated and enthralled personality.
And there was a stage at the entrance on his mission work, and at every crisis of danger and endeavor in it, when the Jesuit, no longer a novice, found his highest joy in adding, of his own free choice, to his pledged vows. He could select his own patron among the glorified and beatified saints. In his ecstatic devotions his kindled eye would have visions of their shining hosts, and the fervor of his zeal and his hidden energies of patience would be quickened in the deep calm of his unfaltering trust. In the hour of mortal peril, as at every crisis of his lot, in the preparation for each missionary enterprise, and when the direst fate of his wilderness exposure was impending over him in starvation, in freezing cold, or from savage malignity, he would make a solemn contract by special vow with the Holy Mother or his heavenly Patron. The tranquillity, the resolve, and the unflinching steadfastness which then possessed him came as a fond assurance that the unseen contracting party in the skies had listened to his vow, ratified, and recorded it. The deepest, dearest longing of the good Father's soul was for the palm of martyrdom. His otherwise joyless life transferred all pleasure and benediction thitherward. To yield his spirit in the sweet rewarding service of Holy Church, the blessed Saviour, the Virgin, and the saints, by suffering, torture, or mortal extremity, was to him the consummation of bliss. But there was a condition, a stern one; and this faithful conscience did not grudge or shrink from it. That crowning glory of martyrdom was to come in the path of simple duty, as a necessity and a boon, — not self-sought and won, not by rash daring, or running unadvised into peril. The least courting of avertible risks on his way to death would deprive him of the coveted palm.
