I don't want either silver or gold. I
want people who will open my eyes, because I
am blind. The prisoners, however, though
pining for freedom, take care to warn, all artisans,
who might be tempted to accept the offers
of the emperor, that they will probably never
be permitted to return. The place in which
the captives have been so long confined is not
of a tempting character. Dr. Beke describes it
thus: " Just picture to your imagination an
isolated locality, rising out of the midst of a
jumble of conical hills, deep ravines, and serrated
ridges, and you have Amba Magdala. On the
summit there are clusters of thatched huts,
occupied by about a thousand troops. Not far
from the church, which you recognise by an apex
surmounted by a glittering cross, you gaze on a
mass of wretched hovels; approach a few steps
nearer, and you behold a strong thorn fence,
guarded by groups of sooty soldiers, close to
whom lie, basking in the sun, bands of
unfortunates, loaded with galling chains. This is
the Royal Prison."

So long as the Emperor Theodore listened to
the counsels of two Englishmen, Messrs. Bell
and Plowden, his kingdom flourished, and his
subjects, if not altogether happy, were content.
He is reported now to indulge in habits of
inebriety, and much of his outrageous violence
upon his own subjects is accounted for by his
fits of delirium tremens. The Abyssinians do
not now receive the present usurper as the true
Theodore of prophecy, who, they have discovered,
is to come from the east: whereas Cassai's
native country, Kwara, is in the west. His
wonderful success at first cast a veil over this
discrepancy; but his tyranny, cruelty, and
oppression, so opposed to the attributes of the
Christian monarch they hoped for, have gained
for him the name of "Pharaoh, king of Egypt;"
and his people sigh for some Moses to deliver
them out of the hands of the oppressor.

A NORMAN HOSPITAL.

THE quarter of Caen where stands the abbey
church of La Trinité has the air of a desert, a
ruinous wilderness. It was in the glaring
glowing heat of afternoon that we walked
up there, and to leave the harvest sunshine
for the cool shade of the magnificent nave was
like passing from purgatory into paradise.
But not a soul was there. It was hushed as a
grave. The echo of our footfall was the only
sound.

Beyond the nave we could not pass alone, for
the sanctuary is closed to the world and
consecrated to the service of a little community of
Augustines, cloistered nuns who are the nurses
of the sick at the Hôtel Dieu, hard by the
church. To such use has come at last the rich
endowment of Matilda — to such good use!
The church is all that is left of her primitive
foundation — a noble and beautiful church, fit to
match with St. Etienne, as she with its builder.
Her bones lie in a twice-violated grave, under a
white stone sarcophagus, in the sanctuary where
the nuns meet to pray. " She loved piety, she
comforted the poor, and, poor herself, was never
rich but to distribute of her treasures to the
needy. For this behaviour, on the first day of
November, after six o'clock of the morning, she
went to enjoy life eternal." This is her memorial
as we read it now, and contemporary
chroniclers tell us besides that she was a noble
lady of high courage, and that the Conqueror
never loved lady but her, his faithful wife and
helpmate.

Sentinels keep the gates of the Hôtel Dieu
and the cloistered ladies, and, on applying there,
we were admitted to view all that the nuns can
never leave. We met two in the arcade leading
to the hospital — tall, capable, mature women,
in the imposing white dress of their order — one
with a vast bunch of keys at her girdle, the
other with a ledger in her hands; for these nuns
work as hard as they pray. A light-footed cheerful
little laundress acted as our guide, first to
the choir, whispering to us by the way that we
had come at a good hour, for we should see the
nuns at prayers. And so she brought us to the
grille, and held aside the crimson curtain for us
to look through; but only two or three were
come in, and we went to view the crypt below
the sanctuary to gain a little time. When we
ascended from the ancient sepulchre, now in
process of restoration and full of daylight, we
heard the rhythmical murmur of many voices;
and when the curtain was put aside again, there
were some fifty nuns assembled, each in her
stall, reciting the office, led by the prioress and
sous-prioress, whose seats were raised above
the rest on the upper step of the peristyle. The
choir, though small, is unique in its beauty
amongst the old Norman churches, and we were
allowed long enough to study it; to see the
faded fresco of the ceiling, the monument of
Matilda, and, if we pleased, to decipher the
countenances of the praying nuns. We were
told that amongst them are many women of
distinction, but none looked young under the
spreading coif and veil. Conspicuous in contrast
with the white robes of the professed ladies
was one in the habit of the world a postulent
preparing for her vows; for none enter here
without serving a severe probation to try them
whether they are fit by strength of heart and
body for the life of labour, watching, and prayer
which all must follow who join the community.

Prom the church we were conducted to the
great salle of the sick women — a vast lofty
gallery with windows at each side, and, on the shady
side, wide open to the air. On the sunny side
the shutters were all closed, and the atmosphere
was perfectly cool and fresh. The beds stood
far apart and were exquisitely clean, and the
sick laces on the pillows looked all as calm as
pain would let them. A group of three
convalescent patients at work, lace-making, by a
window that commanded a view of a green
court, arrested us for a little talk. A girl of
eleven or twelve was sitting by them, with
shadowy folded hands and a countenance full of