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With his story in one’s thoughts he can nearly see his benignant countenance going calmly amongst the haggard faces of Milan in the days when the plague swept the metropolis, courageous where all other folks have been cowards, whole of compassion wherever pity had been crushed out of all other breasts by the instinct of self-preservation absent mad with terror, cheering all, praying with all, assisting all, with hand and brain and purse, at a time when mothers and fathers forsook their young children, the pal deserted the close friend, and the brother turned away from the sister even though her pleadings were continue to wailing in his ears. This was excellent St. Charles Borromeo, Bishop of Milan. To us it seemed that so great a man, so sort a coronary heart, so uncomplicated a mother nature, deserved relaxation and peace in a grave sacred from the intrusion of prying eyes, and thought that he himself would have most well-liked to have it so, but peradventure our knowledge was at fault in this regard.