III.

All through the night Margaret Lee sat by her niece's bed-side, praying for strength for her darling, and watching the fitful slumbers and soothing the sad awakenings. And in the silent watches of the night arose the long-buried ghost of her own life's happiness, and kept guard beside her. There was an episode in the sad story she told her niece that was never mentioned--that she had not allowed herself to think of for many a long year; but to-night memory will not be silenced, and she brings up, once more, the pleasant days when young Tremaine whispered into her ear the same story which Paul told Florence, and the fearful crushing of all her hopes of happiness, when her father forbade her ever to see or speak to him again, his anger was so great against him for having assisted Paul. Margaret submitted quietly, as such natures do; but she never cared for anything afterward beyond doing her strict duty--cheerfully and heartily; but never joyously. Perhaps the old man repented when it was too late; for in two years after, they heard Tremaine was married, and he was very tender to her then. {221} On his death-bed he drew her to him, and, asking her forgiveness if he had made her suffer, blessed her for the fondest love and gentlest tending that ever parent had from child. In that hour Margaret felt repaid for all that had gone before. So, through the long watches of the night, came up the memories of the long ago, and Margaret lived over again the dead joys and sorrows. Toward morning Florence slept quietly, and her watcher threw herself on the bed beside her, and soon fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke, the sun had risen, and on glancing at Florence, she found her lying quietly awake.

"Aunt Margaret," said the young girl, "that--that--letter. I know what he wrote, and it is not necessary to tell him, is it?"

"Only under certain circumstances, my darling; your own heart will tell you what."

"Oh! yes, auntie; but that can never be. I can tell him that, and nothing more."

"My poor, dear child, have you not faith enough? do you not think his love for you is strong enough to live through this trial?"

"Yes, oh! yes! But would it be right to inflict the trial on him? I think not; I think the burden is mine alone, and I alone must bear it!"

"God grant you strength to do so, my precious one! If I could have spared you the suffering, how gladly would I have done it!"

"I know that, auntie, dear. Do you think I do not feel and appreciate the years of care and tender love I have had from you and Uncle Harry? I was as happy as any one could be before--before--and I can and will be happy with you still."

"God bless you, dearest!" was Margaret's answer, as she pressed a kiss on her forehead and left the room.

As soon as she was alone, Florence turned the key in her door; then, throwing a dressing-gown around her, fell on her knees before a beautiful engraving of the Mater Dolorosa, which hung over a _prie-dieu_ at the side of her bed. Long she knelt there, her golden hair falling in dishevelled masses over her shoulders, and nearly touching the floor as she knelt. At first there was no sound, but presently her slight frame was convulsed with suppressed weeping that soon found voice in sobs. At last she rose, and began to dress, ever and anon pressing her hands to her head or heart to still their aching. When she was ready to go downstairs, she again knelt before the picture, and prayed for strength to bear her cross, so that not even the shadow of it should fall on those whose tenderness and love had been her shield in the years that had gone.

And then she went down and greeted her uncle with a brave attempt at her usual manner; she neglected nothing that she had been accustomed to do, none of the little services she had been in the habit of rendering; and, but for the sadness that no strength of will could drive from her face, and the silence of the bird-like voice that before made music through the house the whole day long, a casual observer would not have guessed at the sufferings of the previous night.

On going into the parlor, she saw the letters where she had dropped them the night before, and the sight of them sent a cold thrill of pain to her heart; but she picked them up and put them in her pocket. After going through the house as usual, she locked herself up in her room once more, to read the letters. Arthur Hinsdale's to herself was, as she anticipated, a declaration of affection; that to her uncle, written the day after, expressed a hope that he would support his cause if it needed it. {222} And how were they to be answered? Florence paused long in painful thought on the subject, but felt too utterly miserable to come to any conclusion. So the day passed sadly, and so the night and the next day. On the third day Florence felt that some answer must be given and written before another night went by, and set herself to her painful task. Having completed it, she brought the letter down with her into the parlor, and sat down to some pretence of employment that kept her hands busy, though her mind was far off. Presently she heard the galloping of a horse in the lane, and in a few moments a knock at the front-door. The blinds were down over the front windows, so she had not seen any one pass, and, rising, she tried to make her escape before the visitor was admitted. But she was too late. As she opened the parlor door, the front-door was opened from without by her uncle, and she stood face to face with Arthur Hinsdale. The hearty greeting he had met with from Mr. Lee had reassured the young man, and he was not prepared for the frightened look and deadly pallor that overspread Florence's face when she saw him. She stepped back into the parlor, and held out her hand with a desperate attempt to smile. Arthur took the hand and pressed it to his lips. Mr. Lee had closed the parlor door, and she was alone with him. With a desperate effort she commanded her voice enough to make some commonplace remark about his journey, signing him to a chair, while she seated herself.

"I ventured to come, although I had received no answer to my letter. Did you receive it?"

Florence inclined her head.

"Then you knew the reason of my coming?"

Again Florence bowed, but could not speak.

"Miss Athern, was not my letter plain enough--do you not believe me? I do not understand your silence."

"Your--your letter was fully understood, Mr. Hinsdale, and I thank--"

"You thank me, Florence!"

Then in earnest language he told her how he loved her, and how his fear that his letter had not reached her had brought him there, preferring the pain of a double refusal to the doubt in which he must have awaited her reply by post. To all this Florence listened with head bent down and hands clasped; and when he paused for a reply, she pointed to the letter lying on the table. He took it up and walked to the window; a painful silence followed, broken only by the rustling of the paper in his hands. When he had finished reading, he came to her side, and leaning over her said:

"Am I to receive this as your answer?"

"Yes!" said Florence in a whisper.

"A final and decisive answer?"

"Yes!"

"Then pardon me. Miss Athern, that I allowed my heart to read your conduct as I hoped it was meant, not as you really meant it. I gave you credit for a nobler heart than you possess. Let me tell you the truth, though what I say seems a reproach, that offer would never have been made had I not felt assured, by your treatment of me, that it would be accepted."

Florence started, and the eloquent blood rushed to her very temples.

"Mr. Hinsdale, you have no right to speak thus to me!"

She attempted to draw her hands from his grasp, but could not.

"No right!--well, perhaps I have not. Forgive me, Florence, and only remember that I love you."

{223}

He still held her hands and tried to look into her face, but she bent her head away from him.

"I love you, Florence, and I feel that I am entitled to a little more consideration than that letter shows, Florence, will you be my wife?"

A low but distinct "No," was the answer.

"Do you mean you do not love me?"

She made no answer, and he dropped or rather flung her hands from him and started to his feet.

"Strange, unfeeling! O fool, fool that I was! to build my happiness on such a crumbling base; to be caught in the net of a false woman's beauty, the smiles of a vain coquette!"

"Arthur, Arthur! you will break my heart!"

She had risen and was standing with one hand resting on the back of a chair, the other pressed to her head. He made a motion to approach her, but she put out her hand with a sign to stop him.

"Now listen to me. I am no false woman, no vain coquette. Until the night I received your letter, I knew no reason why I should not--not--" She hesitated a moment. "I knew no reason why I should not have answered it according to the dictates of my heart; but that night a story of a life was told me that--that changed my whole existence. It is a heavy burden to bear."

"But not, dearest, if I can help you bear it." He would have taken her hand, but she drew back from him, "You cannot, no one can--O God! help me, my heart is broken!" She threw her arms up over her head, and would have fallen had he not caught her. She had not fainted, though for a moment she thought death had come to her relief; and almost in a moment released herself from his arms, and said sadly: "I hoped to have spared us both this misery; but it was God's will that we should not escape it. For myself, a little more does not matter; but for you--O Arthur! forgive me the pain I have made you suffer, and remember my own cross is as heavy as I can bear. Good-by!" She held out her hand--"good-by! You cannot return home to-day, it is too late; but you must excuse me, I will send uncle."

"Florence! I am not going to remain if this is your answer. Do you think I could break bread or sleep under your roof after what has passed? Heavens! do you think I'm a stick or a stone?"

"As you will!" she said wearily, "I cannot help it!"

"Then I will take my leave." He was going; but as he laid his hand on the door-knob, he glanced at her, and the expression of heart-broken misery in the sweet face overcame his injured feelings, and he turned and took her hand. "Forgive me, Florence; I have been rude and unfeeling--selfish in my great disappointment. Forgive me, darling; remember my love is strong enough to bear the heaviest burden _you_ could lay upon it, if your own strength fails, Good-by and God bless you." He raised her hand to his lips, and in another moment was gone.

Every day Florence strove manfully with her trouble, and every night her prayers were said before the _Mater Dolorosa_, for strength to bear with silent patience the sorrow her loving friends could not cure. But her face grew pale and wan, her form more slight and delicate, till her aunt, in alarm, proposed a change of scene. It was in the early spring, and Margaret Lee proposed a tour through the eastern cities; but Florence begged so hard not to be taken to New York or Philadelphia that the idea was given up. {224} At last they determined to go direct to Boston, and sail thence for Liverpool. This plan was carried out in June, leaving the farm in charge of the overseer, and the house to Tamar.

To a mind like Florence's, imbued with a loving reverence for all connected with the church, filled with a love for the beautiful and grand, and a heart ready to receive their impressions; with an intellect of no common order, and a quick appreciation of the good and noble, a tour through Europe, particularly Spain, France, and Italy, had many charms, and could not but awake an interest that surprised herself. When they settled at Rome for the winter, they had the satisfaction of a decided change for the better in Florence's appearance.

But she had not forgotten; she was only glad that returning strength of body enabled her to hide more effectually the anguish and heart-sick yearning that sometimes seemed unbearable. Several letters came from Arthur Hinsdale during the first year; but Florence returned the same answer to all; and at last the young man desisted. Three years were passed in idling from one point of interest to another, when the tocsin of civil war in the United States waked up the nations, and called the country's loyal children from far and wide to her assistance.

Once more the scene is laid at "The Solitude;" but this time the earth is not clothed in winter's snowy mantle. Hid in the wealth of foliage the trees are wearing, the birds are singing their vesper hymns, the sun is just sinking behind the woods, and throws his last rays over a group seated on the grass near the slope into the ravine.

Henry Lee is there, and Margaret and Annie and her children; but Mr. Mohun is down in Tennessee with Rosecrans, and the wife's brow wears an expression of anxiety, as she watches her children, that was a stranger to it when we last saw her. Florence, too, is there, looking very well, people say; but there is an indefinable change that those nearest her feel, though they cannot say where or in what it lies. One or two young ladies are added to the group, and a young gentleman, whose shoulder-straps show his rank as second lieutenant, while the foot still bound up and the crutches lying near, show cause for his presence on the scene. He is William Mohun, a younger brother of Annie's husband, and was wounded in the siege of Vicksburg. What he is saying now must be listened to.

"I wish you knew our colonel, Mr. Lee; for a braver, nobler, kinder-hearted man never lived. He led a charge at Vicksburg, and exposed himself unsparingly; indeed, he seemed to court death; yet when he could help a wounded man, he was as gentle as a woman. O Miss Florence! a friend of yours is the regimental surgeon--Arthur Hinsdale, don't you remember him?"

"Oh! yes," replied Florence, with wonderful self-command.

"He, too," continued the young man, "deserves the thanks of the nation; for I never saw such devotion to the wounded and dying. Poor Warrington! hope he is not seriously wounded, for he will be a great loss to us; and I hope Hinsdale is with him, for then I know he will be well cared for."

"See, is there any mention of Joe's regiment. Will?" asked his sister-in-law; and the young man referred to the paper in whose columns he had seen the wounding of his colonel--Warrington. Florence rose quietly and went into the house; the old Newfoundland, who had been lying beside her, got up and walked at her side in stately satisfaction, ever and anon thrusting his cold nose into her hand in token of sympathy. {225} When Florence returned, there were traces of tears in her eyes; but her face wore an expression of loving gratification her aunt understood well.

A month and more has passed, and October began to touch, with her changing pencil, the trees and shrubs. The air was hazy and balmy, and the sun still warm; so the family at "The Solitude" spent many of their evenings in the open air. William Mohun was gone back to duty, and the young lady friends were again at home. Florence and her two aunts were busy over comforts for the soldiers, to help them through the weary winter with the thought that loving hearts at home had not forgotten them. One evening Florence had been down to the spring, and, lured by the lovely evening, seated herself in the summer-house on the knoll above it, with a book. She did not hear a carriage which approached the house from the direction of Hamilton, nor did she see the two gentlemen who alighted from it. Mr. Lee received Arthur Hinsdale and his companion with cordial welcome, though surprised at the sudden arrival, and wondering at Arthur's eager, excited manner. He greeted Henry and Margaret warmly, but asked instantly for Florence. They told him where she was, and the young man, instead of crossing the bridge, which would have apprised her of his coming, passed with a swift foot down the lane, and, springing over the fence among the cherry-trees, down the slope, across the path, was in the summer-house almost before Florence saw him.

"Florence, my darling, our trial is at an end. My precious one, I know your secret now. Cruel! that you doubted me. Could you not feel that nothing could change my love?"

He had taken her hands in his, and held them, looking down into her sweet face while he spoke, Florence looked at him in bewilderment; then, with a sobbing, convulsive movement of her lips, almost fainted.

Meanwhile the gentleman, whom Arthur had introduced as Colonel Warrington, followed Henry and Margaret into the parlor by the door that opened at the end of the house toward the gate. When they entered and Margaret turned to offer him a chair, she saw he was deadly pale, and was glancing round the room as if it recalled something painful. At the same moment a veil dropped from Margaret's eyes. She walked up to him, and, laying her hand on his arm, said, "Paul Athern, in heaven's name speak."

"Paul Athern?" said Henry Lee, with a start of surprise.

"Yes," replied the colonel sadly, "I am Paul Athern. God bless you for the care you have taken of my darling. I can see her now without fear. Henry Lee, I can offer you my hand, and you, an honest man, can take it without hesitation."

Henry Lee grasped the hand extended to him warmly, saying, "I never thought anything else, Athern, after the interview we had; but I rejoice that you are relieved from your painful situation and are living to enjoy the change. We began to fear you had died. Tell us all about it; for Florence and Arthur will not join us yet."

Then Paul Athern told how he had gone from "The Solitude" to New Orleans with a firm purpose to win fortune and a fame that would enable him to present himself before Florence in his true relationship. He worked hard and steadily, and gained the confidence of his employers to such an extent that they took him into partnership, and then he came to Ohio to see his child. {226} But the stain was not removed from his name, and he shrank from the meeting at the last, as much as at first he had longed for it. He rode out to "The Solitude" on Christmas eve, and took a peep at the family group through the window, and had gone again without the consolation of hearing Florence speak. He told them how, in looking in at the window the second time, he feared Tamar had seen him, and he had hurried out to his horse and ridden away quickly. So he went back with only the crumb of comfort that stolen look afforded to his starving heart. When the war broke out, he withdrew from business with a comfortable fortune, and returned to C----, raised a company for the ---- regiment, and rose to the rank of colonel. During his stay in C----, the family were still in Europe; but he came out to "The Solitude," and had a long talk with Tamar. Then came the wound that had prostrated him and put him into Arthur Hinsdale's hands; during the ravings of the fever he had mentioned names and revealed enough to arouse Arthur's interest and curiosity. As soon as he was well enough, the young man asked for an explanation, first telling why he asked it. Paul told him all, and his story only bound the young surgeon more closely to him. The colonel then paid a glowing tribute to the kindness and care he had received from Arthur, and to his general interest in and treatment of the wounded men. He watched till Paul was well enough to travel, and then obtaining a leave of absence for both from the commanding general, started home. At first Paul refused to accompany Arthur; but one day a wounded officer was brought in and laid on the bed next to the one occupied by him. Arthur made a sign to Paul to help him to remove the man's clothes; he stooped over him to unbutton his coat, when the man opened his eyes, and, after looking round with a startled gaze, fixed them on Paul with a frightened stare. Paul looked and recognized the man who had blighted his whole existence. A fierce struggle arose in his breast, and his fingers ceased their work, while he turned away with a look of disgust and dislike. Arthur looked up at him with surprise, and just then the man made a desperate effort and put out his hand, saying faintly:

"Athern, forgive--here--I have it--all here."

And his hand fluttered toward his heart, then fell, and his eyes sought Paul's with agonized entreaty. It was a hard struggle; but the better angel conquered, and Paul took the hand and said:

"I do forgive you, Brooks, as I hope to be forgiven."

A smile passed over the man's face; he moved his head slightly and was dead. In his breast-pocket were two packages, one addressed to Paul's father, the other to an influential gentleman in Philadelphia. The latter was mailed duly, and the former, Paul, his father being dead, opened. It contained a full acknowledgment of having committed the forgery for which Paul suffered, and an explanation of how it was managed. This determined him at once to return to his wife's family. Meantime the same story had been told in different words in the summer-house down by the spring, and it took so long in the telling that it was almost dark when Margaret, going to call her niece, saw them rise and approach the house, Florence, with a bright look of happiness her face had not worn for years, leaning on Arthur's arm. She hastened with trembling footsteps to the parlor, at the door of which Arthur left her, and in another moment she was clasped in her father's arms.

{227}

A gay wedding-party is assembled, when the spring once more puts on her robes of ferial green, in the parlor of "The Solitude." All brides look lovely, they say; but certainly May never smiled on a lovelier one than Florence Athern. Arthur Hinsdale certainly seemed to think so, for he looked at her with reverence mingled with his deep love, as though she were a spirit dropped from the skies. The venerable and dearly loved and honored archbishop is there, and has blessed the new ties; and the bride was given away by that tall, handsome man in brigadier-general's uniform, with one arm in a sling yet, at whose side is the noble form of Henry Lee, while Margaret moves about through the company with her usual quiet grace, and Tamar's face is filled with satisfaction at her young mistress' joy, as she looks in at the door.

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Sayings Of The Fathers Of The Desert.

A brother asked Abbot Antony to pray for him. The old man responded: "Neither I can pity thee nor can God, unless thou shalt have been anxious about thyself, and prayed to God."

Abbot Antony again said: "God doth not allow wars to arise in this generation, because he knoweth they are weak and unable to bear them."

Abbot Agathi said: "If a man of wrathful spirit should raise the dead to life, he would not be pleasing to God because of his wrath."

Abbot Pastor said: "Teach thy heart, to observe what thy tongue teacheth others." Again, he said: "Men wish to appear adepts in speaking; but in carrying out those things of which they speak, they are found wanting."

Abbot Macarius said: "If we remember the evils done to us by men, we shall deprive our soul of the power to remember God; but if we call to mind those evils which the demons raise against us, we shall be invulnerable."

Abbot Pastor said of Abbot John the Small that, having prayed to God, all his passions had been taken away, and, thus made proof, he came to a certain old man and said: "Behold a man freed from passion, and compelled to battle with no temptations." And the old man replied: "Go, pray the Lord that he command thee to be tempted, for the soul grows perfect by temptation." And when temptations came back upon him, he no longer prayed to be freed from them, but said, "Lord, give me patience to bear with these temptations."

Abbot Daniel used to say: "The stronger the body the weaker the soul; and the weaker the body the stronger the soul."

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{228}

Popular Education. [Footnote 51]

[Footnote 51: _Report of the Rev. James Fraser. Blackwood's Magazine_, Jan. 1868.]

At no period of the world's history have nations and their governments seemed to be in such a feverish state of uncertainty and apprehension. From all quarters of Christendom we hear the cry of change. The last vestiges of the ancient order are disappearing. The rule of caste is everywhere confronted by self-asserting populations, who are no longer willing to bear the patient yoke of servitude, even though consecrated by the traditions of centuries. Russia has abolished her serfdom, so long and so deeply rooted in her soil; and the more advanced nations of Europe, whilst yet retaining their accustomed forms of government, are heaving with the volcanic fires of revolution. We speak not of violent revolution, mainly; but of that other more radical and enduring change, which is the inevitable result of the wonderful mechanical inventions of this age. It is simply impossible in the dread presence of steam and the electric cable, for nations to continue to be what the Greek republics and the Roman empire were, or what mediaeval Europe was, centuries ago. The Christian world is now, for all great practical purposes, one nation. Even that "_despotism tempered by assassination_" is not now the thing that Talleyrand described in his witty aphorism; for the Czar himself bows to the censure of the world. Napoleon prosecutes the Parisian editors, and sends them to prison; but it avails nothing toward the suppression of the power of opinion. He, to-day, has greater fear of the sentiment of France, than ever his terrible uncle felt for the combined armies of Europe. In England, the House of Peers has become a gloomy pageant, and the Commons, under the new Reform Bill, will henceforth represent, not the gentry, nor even the moneyed lords of the loom, but the toiling millions of Great Britain. In a word, power is passing from the few to the many, from the hereditary rulers to the multitude. We have nothing to do, in this article, with the merits of this vast revolution, as to the manner of change, its good or evil, its probable success or failure. We accept it as a fact, and propose to deal with it as such. It is very possible that all this would have occurred if America had never been discovered; but it is absolutely certain that the achievements of Christopher Columbus and George Washington have been the chief, immediate causes of its rapid consummation. When a Bourbon king, to gratify the traditional policy and animosities of his house, sent his fleets and armies to help the glorious work of building up the independence of this people, little did either he or his enraged and maniac foe, King George, imagine what the end of it all would be! Little did they dream that this land would, in ninety years, contain thirty millions of men of European blood, and that the whole European population would learn new principles, catch new inspirations, and be filled with new longings, new hopes, and stern resolves by intercourse with this young republic. Those pampered kings could not foresee the advent of steam-ships and the telegraph! {229} They could not foretell the power of emigration--how it would people a continent, build up its commerce, fortify it with the materials for armies and navies, ready to be called into existence more magically than the palace of Aladdin, and, above and beyond all, how its sweeping currents of democratic ideas would rush back upon the father-lands everywhere, washing away the old dikes of royalty and caste, and floating the populations over the battlements of feudal castles, musket in hand, and with loud cries for "change;" that is, for the all-essential change which shall see that governments be henceforth established and conducted for the benefit for the governed, and not that the governed shall be held, as they have been for many thousand years heretofore, as the property of the ruler, existing solely for his glory and profit. Europe sends her millions hither, and they in turn send back by every ship to those they left behind, the wonderful record of what they see here; and these inspiring testimonies are read at the firesides of ten thousand hamlets by kindred men whose awakening intelligence and energies are stirring the foundations of European society and shaking all thrones to inevitable ruin, unless they speedily plant themselves on more solid ground than the _divine right of kings_. It is now very certain that no government anywhere can be said to rest on a sure basis, unless it stand upon the love and confidence of the people. Any other basis is the lawful prey of time and fortune, and will go with the opportunity that may arise for its destruction.

Now, if these be facts with which we have to deal, then a very grave question meets us right here, and it is this: Can any such solid foundation for government be found in a self-governing community? In other words, can the people govern themselves for their own weal, and maintain institutions _solely by the force of their own will_, which shall accomplish the purposes of good government, and for ever secure the approval of all wise and virtuous citizens? If nay, then, royalty and aristocracy being repudiated, whither shall we fly for refuge and hope? If yea, then how is this most precious end to be attained? We Americans, by birth and blood, and still more so by passionate love of country, say most emphatically that we have never doubted that the way to such a consummation is plain, if only the nation will pursue it. It is nothing new; simply the old and trite aphorism, that a free, self-governing nation can only be so upon the conditions precedent of a clear intelligence and a well-established virtue; the latter (if we may separate the two) must always take precedence, and be regarded as the indispensable prerequisite. It follows, therefore, that education without morality would be at least futile. It is very certain that it would be absolutely _fatal_; because the intelligent man of vice is armed with keen weapons, which are greatly blunted by ignorance, and are consequently then less dangerous to society. Catiline, the polished patrician, was a greater object of alarm to Cicero and the Roman senate than the rude assassins whom he had hired to do his treason. Before and during the first French revolution, France was ablaze with genius; but, like the high intelligence of the "Archangel ruined," it brought death in its fiery track. Education without morality is more terrible than the sword in the hands of men or a nation. It is not the part of patriotism to deny that we have seen some instances of this in our own favored country, and that the tendency to that perilous condition is very apparent even now. {230} This has resulted from the too prevalent idea, taught by the infidel or indifferent press, and accepted by the unreflecting or equally indifferent citizen, that morality can be maintained without formal or doctrinal religion; that one morality is as good as another; that Plato would answer as well as Christ; that what even the pagans taught--to deal honestly by your neighbor and perform the domestic and public duties of life with reasonable decency--is quite sufficient; and that all else is nothing more than priestly dogmatism and controversial jargon. So that, indeed, the prevailing opinion of the country would almost seem to be (if we judge it by the secular press and multitudes of very honest and intelligent citizens) that America, as a Christian democratic nation, may be satisfied to be as moral, and consequently as grand and powerful, as was pagan Rome in the days of her republican simplicity of manners. They forget or ignore the history of the _Decline and Fall_, and fail to see in that tremendous catastrophe of the most extraordinary people of the ancient world, the logical development of the certain causes of destruction which were inherent in the nation from the day that Romulus slew his brother upon the wall of the rising city. It cannot be that Christ came for a delusion and a snare, or even as a simple fatuity. If his coming was necessary, then it was to teach a new religion and a new morality; _the one inseparable from the other_. If this be indisputable, then all education which is not based expressly and clearly upon religion is heathenish, and will prove destructive in the end. It will destroy the very people whom it was expected to save. It will consume them as a fire. Pride and lust of power will burn out the public conscience. The nation will drip with the blood of unjustifiable conquest, as did pagan Rome, or be given up to the ferocious struggle for individual aggrandizement, as seen in later revolutionary times. The father of our country fully recognized these principles, and in the foregoing we have but echoed his words of warning in his Farewell Address to the American People:

"Of all dispositions and habits," he says, "which lead to political prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports. A volume could not trace all their connection with private and public felicity. Let it simply be asked, Where is the security for property, for regulation, for life, if the sense of religious obligation desert the oaths which are the instruments in courts of justice? And let us with caution indulge the supposition that morality can be maintained without religion."

To this it will be replied, by some well-meaning persons, "How can we place education in the United States upon the basis of doctrinal religion, when we have innumerable sects, none of which absolutely agree?" And now we approach the marrow of the subject.

First, let us clear away one difficulty. Let it be very distinctly comprehended that nowhere can the state find its commission as exclusive educator of the people. That is a duty and a privilege belonging, of original right, to the family; it is domestical and not political, though it may be always, and is most frequently, wise and politic that the state should lend efficient aid to _assist_, but not _arbitrarily to control_ the training of the free citizen's child. The parent is placed over the child by the Creator, and is the natural guardian, primarily responsible for the training which is to lead through this valley of probation to the eternal home. {231} Religious freedom, freedom of conscience, is not a right granted by constitutions, but is the result of the relation of man as a free, moral agent to the Creator who thought fit to make him the master of his own destiny here and hereafter. To coerce the conscience of the child by an educational system, actively or passively, (for there may be effective coercion by negative means,) is to violate the sacred rights of the parent, vested in him by the divine appointment. There is not a religious man, following any form of worship, professing to be a Christian and an American, who can seriously deny this proposition, or who would accept any other in a question involving his rights and duties in regard to his own off-spring. No such man, we are sure, would tolerate any assumption of the authority on the part of the state to step between him and his child in the matter of religious belief and instruction. No other form of tyranny would arouse so quickly the indignant resistance of an American citizen and father; and every upright man feels in his heart that what would be so grievous to him should not be imposed upon any other of his fellow-citizens, directly or indirectly. Actuated by such views in the main, the state provides a system of public schools from which, theoretical (and it may be practically in most cases,) all forms of doctrinal religion are excluded, and education is based upon a vague, undefined, generalized moral teaching which very many eminent men of different religious denominations have pronounced to be "godless," because the doctrines of Christ (the foundation of his moral law) are not taught in such schools according to any interpretation whatever, for the plain reason that it could not be done without such manifest injustice and wrong as we have already protested against. To read the Bible, _without note or comment_, to young children is, in reality, to lead them to the fountain of living waters and forbid them to drink; whereas, "to expound the word" is, at once, to violate the absolute neutrality which the state is bound to maintain in the presence of conflicting interpretations and dissenting consciences. Such is the precise difficulty. Hence it is, that the Catholic Church has set its face against the peril with which such a system of education threatens its youth; and the Catholic pastors and their flocks, though struggling with poverty, and harassed by ten thousand pressing claims upon their charity, have strained every nerve to establish parochial and other denominational schools where secular education could be imparted without sacrificing religious instruction.

There is no doubt but that there are many strong and marked doctrinal differences between the various Protestant denominations which have led some of their most eminent men to argue against the possibility of a perfect or desirable system of public schools upon the mixed or non-intervention basis. Nevertheless, it is also true that in the fundamental point, essentially characteristic of Protestantism, and in which it especially differs from the Catholic Church (private interpretation and the rejection of tradition) all Protestant churches agree; and herein we find the reason why they can conform to the necessities of such a public-school system as we have described, with some degree of amalgamation; whereas their Catholic fellow-citizens cannot avail themselves of the secular advantages of such schools without a total sacrifice of religious training. {232} We are told by the Rev. James Fraser, despatched on an official mission for the purpose of reporting on the whole subject to the commissioners appointed by her Majesty Queen Victoria, and who visited the United States in 1865, that one of the _influences_ adverse to the success of our American common-school system is, "_the growing feeling that more distinctly religious teaching is required, and that even the interests of morality are imperfectly attended to;_" and another "_influence_" is "_the very lukewarm support that it receives from the clergy of any denomination, and the languid way in which its claims on support and sympathy are rested on the higher motives of Christian duty;_" from which, and other causes, the Rev. Mr. Fraser reluctantly augurs misfortune to the system itself in the future. There can be no doubt but that such "lukewarmness" does exist, and that it is produced solely by the "growing feeling that more distinctly religious teaching is required." No accord of the Protestant sects upon what they call "essentials," can permanently reconcile them to either a doctrinal teaching at the public schools, in which it would be impossible for them all to agree, or to the alternative necessity of excluding from the schools all manner of "distinct religious teaching," without which "even the interests of morality are imperfectly attended to." Hence springs not only the lukewarmness, but the affirmative opposition of distinguished Protestant clergymen to the "godless system."

It is altogether erroneous, however, to suppose, and unjust to charge, that Catholics are hostile to the continuance of the present schools. FAR FROM IT. They rejoice to see their Protestant fellow-citizens availing themselves freely of those great opportunities to instruct the future self-governing citizens of the young republic. They appreciate, nay, they insist upon the absolute necessity of raising the standard of popular intelligence, so as to insure the wisest possible administration of public affairs through the agency of the elective franchise. That their church is profoundly solicitous for the secular education of her people is too manifest for dispute, since she has, by the instrumentality of her various religious orders, established universities, colleges, academies, and innumerable preparatory schools in every great city, and throughout the rural districts of the country, wherever it was possible to do so. A glance at the Catholic Register or Directory, for 1868, will satisfy the most sceptical upon that point. The Roman Catholic Church has covered Europe with such institutions, grand in design, and magnificent in endowment; and it is not her purpose to permit her children in America to fall behind the age for the want of similar advantages, if she can supply their necessities. She is ever appealing to their public spirit, their patriotism, their religious sentiment, to obtain the means to build and conduct her educational establishments; and most nobly have they ever responded; for it was by the steady contributions of the poor mainly, that nearly all of those great works were begun and perfected.

But we may well adopt the assertion of a writer in the last January number of _Blackwood's Magazine_, that "_the fact is palpable and every statesman, philosopher, and candid student of the educational question confesses, that voluntary agencies are wholly unable to undertake a task so gigantic,_" as that of reaching the great mass of helpless ignorance existing even in the most favored communities. {233} It is exactly here that government may legitimately step in with its organized resources, but without wearing the pedagogue's cap. The wisest governments of Europe, Catholic and Protestant, have done this. They have abandoned the Lacedemonian usurpation of domestic rights, reproduced by the first Napoleon, as he expressed the policy in his curt style, "_My principal end in the establishment of a teaching corps is to possess the means of directing political and moral opinions._" A candid confession for an autocrat. The nephew, who now reigns over France, has learned by the experience of misfortune to be wiser and more faithful to natural rights. In Catholic France education is entirely free and without favoritism. The public educational fund is equitably distributed to Catholic and Protestant, and each is permitted to rear, under the supervision of their respective clergy, as they may elect, the children of their own religious household. Conscience is respected; and yet the youth of the country are not deprived of instruction in the Christian faith at the public schools. Protestant Prussia is as liberal and as wise as France, and her system of public instruction is based upon the necessity of religious teaching, and the right of the parent to direct the child, and the just relation of the pastor to the parent, and therefore the equity of a proper distribution of the public-school fund. We have not the time, nor is it necessary to go into the details; but it is sufficient to say that the Prussian system concedes more to the Prussian Catholic than the American Catholic has yet asked from an enlightened and democratic American government; and yet, strange to say, the American Catholic has been violently and persistently charged with hostility to public education, and a conspiracy to destroy republican institutions! Even England, iron-clad in her prejudices, has adopted the principles of Prussia, niggardly as her policy toward the public schools has always been. And what shall we say of "benighted Austria," the land of popish concordats! Let Mr. Kay, a recognized authority upon matters of education, and a Protestant, answer this question.

"The most interesting and satisfactory feature of the Austrian system is the great liberality with which the government, though so staunch an adherent and supporter of the Romanist priesthood, has treated the religious parties who differ from themselves in their religious dogma. It has been entirely owing to this liberality that neither the great number of the sects in Austria, nor the great differences of their religious tenets, has hindered the work of the education of the poor throughout the empire. Here, as elsewhere, it has been demonstrated that such difficulties may be easily overcome, when a government understands how to raise a nation in civilization, and wishes earnestly to do so.

"In those parishes of the Austrian empire where there are any dissenters from the Roman Church, the education of their children is not directed by the priests, but is committed to the care of the dissenting ministers. These latter are empowered and required by government to provide for, to watch over, and to educate the children of their own sects in the same manner as the priests are required to do for the education of their children."

He also says:

"And yet in these countries--Austria, Bavaria, and the Rhine provinces, and the Catholic Swiss cantons--the difficulties arising from religious differences have been overcome, and all their children have been brought under the influence of religious education without any religious party having been offended." (_Kay_, vol. ii. p. 3.)

And bearing testimony to the earnest desire of the Catholic Church to advance the education of her children everywhere, he says:

{234}

"In Catholic Germany, in France, and even in Italy, the education of the common people in reading, writing, arithmetic, music, manners, and morals is, at least, as generally diffused and as faithfully promoted by the clerical body as in Scotland. It is by their own advance, and not by keeping back the advance of the people, that the popish priesthood of the present day seeks to keep ahead of the intellectual progress of the community in Catholic lands; and they might, perhaps, retort upon our Presbyterian clergy, and ask if they, too, are in their countries, at the head of the intellectual movement of the age? Education is, in reality, not only not suppressed, but is encouraged by the popish church and is a mighty instrument in its hands and ably used. In every street in Rome, for instance, there are at short distances public primary schools for the education of the children of the lower and middle classes of the neighborhood. Rome, with a population of 158,000 souls, has 372 public primary schools, with 482 teachers, and 14,000 children attending them. Has Edinburgh so many schools for the instruction of these classes? I doubt it. Berlin, with a population about double that of Rome, has only 264 schools. Rome has also her university, with an average number of 600 students, and the papal states, with a population of 2,500,000, contains seven universities; Prussia, with a population of 14,000,000, has but seven."

If the church has been found in hostility to educational systems, it has been when, as in Ireland, the schools have been made _proselytizing agencies_ and _instruments of oppression_; and if she has disfavored without opposing other systems, as here, it was solely to preserve her _own people_ from the damaging effects of a purely secular education, and to secure for them the higher advantages of a religious training. If others find that the schools answer all their wants, she is well pleased to see them derive every benefit therefrom which the best administration of such a system can produce. But the Catholic people say: If we who are counted by millions, and who are daily adding to the wealth of the nation by our labor and enterprise, are required to pay taxes for the support of the public schools which we cannot use for the education of our children, ought we not, at least, to receive an equitable proportion of the public fund, to assist us in securing what every good citizen wishes to see accomplished, the education of our youth? We are now millions, and millions more are coming, by ship and steamer, every day, almost every hour. We are a part of the nation, children and citizens of the great republic. Shall we add to the virtue and intelligence of the community, or to its ignorance and vice? We are struggling with all our might, and devoting all our means to reach the lowest stratum of our society, and lift it up into the light and air of secular knowledge and spiritual grace. Why should not the State of New York help in the good work?

The regulations of France, Prussia, Austria, England, and other countries of Europe would assuredly afford to our legislators the practical details of a good working system, which it is not our province to suggest in form, uninvited. Let it be conceded, however, that millions of men throughout this country should not be taxed for establishments of which they cannot conscientiously avail themselves, unless, at the same time, they are permitted to

## participate, in a reasonable way, in the enormous funds derived

from those tax-rates. Let the schools, though denominational when endowed by the state, be subject to state inspection so far as to insure the full compliance with the requirements of the general law as to the standard of education to be bestowed, but with no further control over management or discipline.

{235}

In the European countries referred to, (it may be said here generally,) each religious denomination when sufficiently numerous in a district to justify it, is permitted to establish a denominational school; receiving its share of the public fund, and being subject to governmental inspection as to the proper application of the money, and the faithful discharge of the engagement to impart secular knowledge according to the fixed educational standard. The selection of the school-books and the religious training of the children are in such cases placed in the charge of the clergy, or made subject to their revision. Where the religious denomination has not sufficient numerical strength to enable it to establish a separate school, its children attend the other public school or schools, but are carefully guarded against all attempts at proselytizing, and their religious instruction is confided to their own ministers. In no instance is the proper proportion of the school fund ever refused to any denomination which has the number requisite under the law for the establishment of a separate school. By these means, perfect freedom of conscience is preserved, and public harmony and good-will promoted; whilst at the same time, the children of all churches are brought up in the wisdom of the world without losing the fear of God. In this way, too, religious freedom becomes a _practical thing_, and not a constitutional platitude or an empty national boast. In this serious matter, this great national concern, those European monarchies have expelled sham altogether. Have we? Do we in the United States, vaunting our hatred of "_church and state_," our devotion to entire freedom of conscience, our preeminent love of "_fair play_," our respect for the _inviolable rights of minorities_, do we imitate the liberal example of monarchical Europe, Catholic and Protestant, when we tax our six millions of Catholics for public schools, and then refuse them a

## participation in the fund? What just man will say that such a

rule is right? What wise man will say that it is _politic_? At least, let it not be said that in our great cities, where there are tens of thousands of poor Catholic children, and in those rural districts where the numbers are notoriously sufficient to justify the establishment of one or more schools, they shall be driven to seek an education under a system which their parents cannot conscientiously sanction, or be left to the chances of procuring the rudiments of learning from the over-taxed and doubly-taxed resources of their co-religionists. Help the schools now actually existing, and which are filled to overflowing with eager scholars; and assist those who are willing to build up others; the cost is no greater; the educational policy of the state is equally satisfied, whilst the morals of the rising generation, purified by religious faith and strengthened by religious practices, will give the republic assurance of a glorious future.

We are satisfied that such a system would give us an enlightened Christian people, and not merely a nation of intelligent men of the world, as cold as they are polished, and as indifferent to divine things as they are eager for the pleasures of sense and the pride of life.

This would be a truly solid basis upon which to build and perpetuate the empire of a self-governing nation. Without this, our constitution is a rope of sand, our republicanism a delusion, and our freedom a miserable snare to the down-trodden nationalities all over the earth.

--------

{236}

All Souls' Day--1867.

Dying? along the trembling mountain flies The fearful whisper fast from cot to cot; Strong fathers stand aghast and mothers' eyes Melt as their white lips stammer, "Not, oh! not Him of all others? Nay, Not him who from our hearths so oft drove death away?"

Well may those pale groups gather at each door. Well may those tears that dread the worst be shed. The hand that healed their ills will bless no more, The life that served to lengthen theirs has fled; And while they pray and weep, Unto his rest he passeth like a child asleep.

Ah! this is sudden! why, this very morn He rode amongst us: sick men woke to hear The step of his black pacer: the new-born Smiled at him from their cradles; many a tear On faces wan and dim. He dried to-day: to-night those cheeks are wet for him.

For there he lies, together gently laid The hands we were so proud of, his white hair Making the silver halo that it made In life around his brow; as if in prayer The gentle face composed. With nameless peace o'ershadowing the eyelids closed.

And as beside him through the night we hold Our solitary watch, I had not started To hear my name break from him, as of old, Or see the tranquil lips a moment parted. To speak the word unsaid, The last supreme adieu that instant death forbade.

I dread the day-dawn, for his silent rest Befits the night: I half believe him mine, While in the tapers' shadowy light, his breast Seems heaving, and, amid the pale moonshine That wanders o'er the lawn. Crouch the still hounds unknowing that their master's gone.

{237}

But when the morning at his window stands In glory beckoning, and he answers not; Not for the wringing of the widowed hands, Or orphans wrestling with their bitter lot, I feel, old friend, too well, That naught can wake thee but the final miracle.

Was it but yesterday, that at my gate, Beneath the over-arching oaks we met; Throned in his saddle, statue-like he sate, A horseman every inch: I see him yet, His morning mission done. His deep-mouthed pack behind him trailing, one by one.

Mute are the mountains now! No more that cry Of the full chase by all the breezes borne Down the defiles, while echo's swift reply Speeds the loud chorus! Nevermore the horn Of our lost chief will shake Those tempest-riven crags, or pierce the startled brake!

Those summits were his refuge when the touch Of gloom was on him, and the gathered care Of long life, that braved and suffered much, Drove him from beaten walks, to breathe the air That, haunts gray Carrick's crest, And spur from dawn to dusk till effort purchased rest.

But yet, in all these thirty years, how few The days we saw not the familiar form Amid the valleys passing, till it grew Part of the landscape: through the sun or storm With equal front he rode, Punctual as planets moving in the paths of God.

I've seen him, when the frozen tempest beat, Breast it as gayly as the birds that played Upon the drifts: and through the deadly heat That drove the fainting reapers to the shade. Smiling he passed along. Erect the good gray head, and on his lips a song.

I've known him too, by anguish chained abed, Forsake his midnight pillow with a moan, And meekly ride wherever pity led, To heal a sorrow slighter than his own; Or rich or poor the same-- It mattered not: let any sorrow call, he came.

{238}

Thy life was sacrifice, my own old friend, Yet sacrifice that earned a sacred joy, For in thy breast kept beating to the end, The trust and honest gladness of a boy; The seventy years that span Thy course, leave thee as pure as when their date began.

Who could have dreamed the sharp, sad overthrow Of such a life, so tender, strong, and brave? My pulse seems answering thy finger now-- 'Twas one step from the stirrup to the grave! Oh! lift your load with care, And gently to its rest the precious burden bear.

All Souls' Day! as they place him in the aisle. The bells his youth obeyed for Mass are ringing; And, as beneath the churchyard gate we file, To latest rite his honored relics bringing. You'd think the dead had all Arrayed their little homes for some high festival.

As if for _him_ the flowering chaplets, strewn Throughout God's acre, breathe a second spring; To him the ivy on the sculptured stone A welcome from the tomb seems whispering: The buried wear their best. As, in their midst, their old companion takes his rest.

Yes, he is yours, not ours: set down the bier: To you we leave him with a ready trust: Beneath this sod there's scarce a spirit here That was not once his friend: Oh! guard his dust! And if your ashes may Thrill to old love, your graves are gladder than our hearths to-day.

----------

{239}

Is it Honest? [Footnote 52]

[Footnote 52: Sermons in answer to the Tract, _Is it Honest?_ By Rev. L. W. Bacon. _The Brooklyn Times_, March 9th, 17th, 24th, 1868.]

A brief tract, issued a short time since by The Catholic Publication Society, seems to have produced an unusual commotion among our non-Catholic brethren, and has called forth reply after reply from the sectarian press and pulpit. The tract is very brief, and consists only of a few pointed questions; but it has kindled a great fire, and compelled Protestants to come forward and attempt to defend their honesty, in uttering their false charges and gross calumnies against Catholics and the church. It has put them on their defence, made them feel that they, not the church, are now on trial before the public. This is no little gain, and they do not have so easy a time of it, in defending their libels, as they had in forging and uttering them, when Catholics had no organ through which they could speak, and were so borne down by public clamor that their voice could not have been heard in denial, even if they had raised it. Times have changed since those sad days when it was only necessary to vent a false charge against the church, to have it accredited and insisted on by a fanatical multitude as undeniable truth, however ridiculous or absurd it might be.

Since our sectarian opponents have been put upon their defence, we trust Catholics will keep them to it. We have acted on the defensive long enough, and turn about is only fair play. They must now prove their libels, or suffer judgment to go against them. They feel that it is so, and they open their defence resolutely, with apparent confidence and pluck. They have no lack of words and show no misgiving. This is well; it is as we would have it, for we wish them to have a fair trial, and to make the strongest, boldest, and best defence the nature of the case admits.

In our remarks we shall confine ourselves principally to the justification attempted by Mr. Bacon, in his sermons, as we find them in the _Brooklyn Times_; and we must remind him in the outset that the assumption with which he commences--that the tract, in appealing to the good sense of the public, whether it is honest to insist on certain charges against the church as true, when the slightest inquiry would show them to be false--makes an important concession, or any concession at all to the Protestant rule, is altogether unwarranted. He says: "This submitting of the questions in dispute to the public, man by man, after the Protestant, the American fashion--concedes at the outset one great and most vital principle, to wit, that the ultimate appeal in questions of personal belief, is to each man's reason and conscience in the sight of God." Quite a mistake. There is no question of personal belief in the case. The question submitted to the public by the tract is not whether what the church teaches and Catholics believe is true or false, but whether it is honest to continue to accuse the church and Catholics of holding and doing what it is well known, or may easily be known, they do not do, and declare they do not hold? {240} This is the question, and the only question, submitted. Is it honest to continue repeating day after day, and year after year, foul calumnies against your neighbor, when the proofs that they are calumnies lie under your hand, and spread out before your eyes so plainly that he who runs may read? We think even the smallest measure of common sense is sufficient to answer that question, which is, on one side, simply a question of fact, and on the other, a question of very ordinary morals. The competency of reason to decide far more difficult questions than that, no Catholic ever disputes. We think even the reason of a pagan can go as far as that. "Why even of yourselves judge ye not what is right?"

"But this tract," the preacher continues, "is a plain assertion that no man ought blindly to accept the religious opinions to which he is born, nor the instructions of his religious teachers; but that he is bound, in honesty and justice, to hear the other side, and decide between them by his own private judgment." If by opinions is meant faith, it does no such thing; if by opinions are meant only opinions, it may pass, though the tract neither argues nor touches the question. The Catholic always supposes man is endowed with reason and understanding, and that both are

## active in the act of faith as in an act of science. There is and

can be no such thing as _blind_ faith, though blind prejudices are not uncommon. Men seek or inquire for what they have not, not for what they have. They who have the faith do not seek it, and can examine what is opposed to it only for the purpose of avoiding or refuting it. Catholics have the faith; they are in possession of the truth, and have no need to make for themselves the examination supposed. Non-Catholics have not the faith; they have only opinions, often very erroneous, very absurd, and very hurtful opinions, and they are therefore bound, not by the _opinions_ they have received from their religious teachers, or to which they were born, but to seek diligently, with open minds and open hearts, for the truth till they find it. When they find it, they will not be bound to seek it, but to adhere to it, and obey it. There is no Protestant teaching in this, and it is nothing "different from what the Church of Rome always teaches her followers."

The tract says: "Americans love fair play." The preacher says:

"I believe it is no more than the truth. If there is one thing rather than another that Americans do love, it is this very thing--absolute freedom and fairness of religious discussion. Curious, isn't it? How came Americans to 'love fair play'? Englishmen seem to have a similar taste. Catholic or Protestant in England can speak or write his thoughts, on either side, without hinderance or constraint. The same thing may be remarked, in a measure, in Northern Germany. How can you account for it? What is the reason, do you suppose, why they don't 'love fair play' in Spain? or in Austria? or in Mexico? or in Rome? This injured innocent stands in New York, at the corners of the streets, bemoaning himself that he is treated 'dishonestly, and unjustly,' because the public will not buy and read his books; and all the time, in the Holy City itself--under the direct fatherly government of the pope--a subject is not allowed to be (as this tract says) 'honest and just' toward Protestant Christians by examining both sides, except at the peril of being punished as for an infamous crime! 'Americans love fair play.' Why do all Roman Catholic nations suppress it? Why does the pope forbid it in his own dominions? And what reason have we to believe that, if these who are clamoring for 'fair play' should ever hold the power in this country, they would put it to any different use here, from that which prevails in Catholic countries generally?"

{241}

We are not aware that there is any less love of fair play in Spain, Mexico, or Rome, than in the United States, England, or North-Germany, in Catholic than in non-Catholic countries, only there is more faith and less need to seek it, or to examine both sides in order to find it. As a matter of fact, though we cannot regard it as any great merit, Catholics are generally far more ready to hear both sides, and to read Protestant books, than Protestants are to read Catholic books. We have never met with intelligent Catholics as ignorant of Protestantism as we have generally found intelligent Protestants of Catholicity. There is nothing among Catholics to correspond to the blind prejudice, deplorable ignorance, and narrow-minded bigotry of sectarians; but we are happy to believe that even these are mellowing with time, losing many of their old prejudices, and becoming more enlightened and less bigoted and intolerant; there is still room for improvement.

"Let us understand in the outset," says the preacher, "that the charges against Catholics and the Catholic Church that are complained of in this tract, are conceded by the writer to be of grave importance. The prohibiting of the Bible to the people--the belief that priestly absolution has efficacy of itself, and is not merely conditional on the sincerity of the sinner's repentance--the paying to images of such worship as the heathen do--all these are declared by this writer to be 'detestable and horrible.' So that if it should appear that any one of them is proved against Catholics or the Catholic Church, the case is closed against them. He is not at liberty to go back and apologize for the doctrine or palliate it. He has declared it to be 'false doctrine'--'detestable and horrible.'"

What the tract regards as important or unimportant, is nothing to the purpose; what the preacher must prove is, that it is honest to continue to repeat charges against Catholics and the Catholic Church which have been amply refuted, and the refutation of which is within the reach of every one who would know the truth; or at least he must show that the refutation is insufficient, and that the charges are not false, but true. He will not find us shrinking from the truth, apologizing for it, or seeking to get behind it or around it. We, however, beg him to understand that he is the party accused, and on trial, not we, and that we are probably better judges on doubtful points, of what is or is not Catholic doctrine and practice, than he or any of his brethren. He will do well, also, to bear in mind that the question raised by the tract is not whether the doctrine of the church is true or false, but whether it is honest to persist in saying that it is what the church and all Catholics affirm that it is not. What he must prove, in order to be acquitted, is that the church and Catholics do hold what the tract denies, and denies on authority, or that there are good and sufficient reasons for believing that they do so hold.

1. The tract asks, "Is it honest to say that the Catholic Church prohibits the use of the Bible, when anybody who chooses can buy as many as he likes at any Catholic bookstore, and can see on the page of any one of them the approbation of the bishops of the Catholic Church, with the pope at their head, encouraging Catholics to read the Bible, in these words, 'The faithful should be excited to the reading of the Holy Scriptures,' and that not only for the Catholics of the United States, but also for those of the whole world." Mr. Bacon does not meet directly the facts alleged by the tract, nor plead truth in justification of the libel; but undertakes to show that even if false, yet Protestants may be personally honest in uttering it; and he adduces various circumstances which he thinks may very innocently induce Protestants to suppose that the church does prohibit the use of the Bible. {242} We have not the patience to take up in detail all the circumstances alleged, and refute the inferences drawn from them; most of them are mere inventions, perversions of the truth, misapprehensions of the facts in the case, and none, nor all of them together, justify the inference, in face of what the tract alleges, that the church prohibits the use of the Bible; and it is easy for any one who honestly seeks the truth to know that they do not.

The facts alleged by the tract are accessible to all who wish to know them. He who makes a false charge through ignorance, when he can with ordinary prudence know that it is false, is not excusable; and it is not surely in those who claim to be the enlightened portion of mankind to attempt to defend their honesty at the expense of their intelligence. They are the last people in the world, if we take them at their estimate of themselves, to be permitted to plead invincible ignorance.

The _Newark Evening Journal_ is bolder and more direct than Mr. Bacon. It asserts that the Church actually forbids the reading of the Scriptures, and boldly challenges the fact alleged by the tract. It says: "On the very page from which are taken the words, 'The faithful should be excited to read the Holy Scriptures,' are quoted, it is also said, 'To guard against error it was judged necessary to forbid the reading of the Scriptures in the vulgar languages, without the advice and permission of the pastors and spiritual guides whom God has appointed to govern his Church.' How then can it be false to say that the Church prohibits the use of the Holy Scriptures?" Simply because to forbid the _abuse_ of a thing is not to prohibit its _use_. The faithful, for the promotion of faith and piety, are excited to read the Scriptures; but to guard against error or the abuse of the sacred writings, those who would wrest them to their own destruction are forbidden to read them in the vulgar languages, except under the direction of their spiritual guides. A prudent and loving father forbids his child, who has a morbid appetite or a sickly constitution, to eat of a certain kind of food except under the direction of the family physician, lest the child should be injured by it; can you therefore say that he prohibits the _use_ of that kind of food? Certainly not. All you can say is, that while he concedes the use, he takes precautions against the abuse, which is in no sense inconsistent with anything asserted by the tract.

Mr. Bacon, referring to reported cases of the confiscation of Bibles, circulated by the Bible Society, found in the hands of the laity, says the French Bible confiscated was the Catholic version of De Sacy; that the Polish Bible circulated by the Bible Society was, word for word, the copy of the version published two centuries before, and approved by two popes; the Italian Bible, for reading which the godly family Madiai were persecuted and imprisoned, was the Catholic version [not so] of Martini, Archbishop of Florence, published with the approbation and sanction of Pope Pius VI. Suppose this correct, it does not prove that the Church prohibits the use of the Holy Scriptures, but is very good proof to the contrary. These versions were made and published for the people, and would have been neither made nor published if the use of the Scriptures was forbidden. And how can you say that popes prohibit what you show they approved and sanctioned? There was a German Bible before Luther, and our Douay Bible was published before the version of King James.

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"But I am not willing," continues the preacher, "that this effrontery [what effrontery?] of this question should be let go even with this answer." We can easily believe it. "I am ready to call witnesses." Well, dear doctor, your witnesses; we are ready to hear their testimony. "Whoever heard of a Catholic Bible Society multiplying copies of the Bible?" Nobody that we know of. But how long is it since Protestants had a Bible Society? Prior to that, did they prohibit the use of the Holy Scriptures? "Popes have fulminated their bulls against Bible Societies, denouncing them as an invention of the devil." Not unlikely; but it is one thing to denounce Bible Societies, and another to prohibit the use or the reading of the Bible. Your witnesses. Rev. sir, do not testify to the point. Besides, all the facts, or pretended facts, you bring forward are too recent for your purpose. The accusation that the Church prohibits the use of the Scriptures was made by Protestants long before any of them are even said to have occurred, and therefore could not have originated in them. _Ex-post facto_ causes are not admitted in catholic philosophy. The charge brought against the Church betrays no little folly and ingratitude. If the Church had prohibited the use of the Scriptures, how could the Reformers have got a copy of them? They certainly purloined them from her, and could have got them from no other source.

The preacher concludes his first sermon by saying: "I am glad the time has come when it is understood on both sides that, if the Roman Church is to commend itself to the American people, it must begin by repudiating, as horrible and detestable, the teaching and practice for three hundred years of the church." What has for three hundred years been falsely alleged by her enemies to be her teaching and practice, agreed; but what has really been her teaching and practice, denied. "Let it but make good this new claim, and we thank God for the new reformation, and welcome it to the platform of Protestantism." There is no new claim in the case; what the tract asserts has always been the doctrine and practice of the church; she has always encouraged the use and opposed the abuse of the Holy Scriptures. That the preacher should desire a new reformation can be easily understood, for the old has well-nigh run out; that he will ever be able to welcome the church to the platform of Protestantism is, however, not likely; for she is not fond of standing on platforms, and prefers to remain seated on the rock. The reverend gentleman may be shocked to hear it; but it is, nevertheless, a fact, that the Bible and reason are not special Protestant possessions; they were ours ages before Protestantism was born, and will be ours ages after Protestantism is dead and forgotten.

2. In his second sermon--in a note to which he corrects his assertion that it was the Catholic version of Martini, and states that it was the Protestant version of Diodati, that was used by the godly family of the Madiai--the preacher confines his efforts to questions raised by the tract with regard to the worship of images and pictures, and of the Blessed Virgin and the saints. The tract asks:

"Is it honest _to accuse Catholics of paying divine worship to images or pictures as the heathen do_--when any Catholic indignantly repudiates any idea of the kind, and when the Council of Trent distinctly declares the doctrine of the Catholic Church in regard to them to be, 'that there is no divinity or virtue in them which should appear to claim the tribute of one's veneration;' but that all the honor which is paid to them shall be referred to the originals whom they are designed to represent?' (Sess. 25.)

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"The answer to this question," the preacher says, "is to be found by asking two others: 1. What sort of honors do the heathen pay to images? 2. What sort of honors do Roman Catholics pay to them? When we have got answers to these two, we can compare them, and shall be able to say whether they are the same."

We respectfully submit that neither of these questions need be asked; for so far as pertinent, both are answered in the tract itself. The accusation against Catholics which the tract implies cannot be honestly made, is that we pay _divine_ worship to images and pictures, as the heathen do; what the tract then denies is that Catholics pay _divine_ worship to images and pictures; and what it asserts is, that the heathen do pay them divine worship; but this assertion is simply illustrative, and should it be found inexact, it would not affect the formal denial that the worship Catholics pay them is _divine_. As to what sort of worship Catholics do render to images and pictures, the answer in the tract is explicit, that it is a "certain tribute of veneration paid them in honor of their original. The worship is not divine worship, and the honor paid is not paid to them for any virtue in them, but is referred solely to their originals." The catechism puts this clearly enough. "_Q. And is it allowable to honor relics, crucifixes, and holy pictures? A._ Yes; with an inferior and relative honor, as they relate to Christ and his saints, and are the memorials of them. _Q. May we then pray to relics and images? A._ No; by no means, for they have no life or sense to hear or help us."

The preacher labors to show that this inferior and relative honor is precisely what the heathen pay to the images of their gods; but this, if true, would not prove that we do, but that the heathen do not, pay divine honors to images. He cites various authorities, Christian and heathen, to prove that it is not the brass and gold and silver, when fashioned into a statue, that the heathen worship, but that through the statue or image they worship the invisible gods; that is, they worship the image as the visible representation of the invisible divinity. This is, no doubt, in some respects, the actual fact; nobody pretends that they worship precisely the material statue, but the numen or god, the prayers, invocations, incantations, and the other ceremonies of the consecration of the statue by the priests compelled to enter the statue and take up his abode in it. But to this image, which for them contains the god, the heathen offer sacrifices and other acts of worship which are due to God alone, which makes all the difference in the world, though we have no doubt that the type copied, perverted, corrupted, and travestied in heathen worship is the Catholic type; as all heathenism is a corruption, perversion, or travesty of the true religion, or as Protestantism is a corruption, perversion, or travesty of the Catholic Church.

The heathen images and pictures represent no absent reality, and are not memorials of an absent truth, like our sacred images and pictures; and the heathen, then, can honor only the material substance or the supposed indwelling numen or daemon. The gods they are supposed to bring nigh, represent, or render visible, are either purely imaginary, or evil spirits; hence the Scripture tells us that "all the gods of the heathen are devils." And finally, to these idols, which are nothing but wood and stone, brass and silver, or gold, which represent, if anything, demons or devils, the heathen pay divine honors; while we simply honor and respect images and pictures of our Lord and his saints for the sake of the originals, or the worth to which they are related. {245} Here is a difference which we should suppose even our Protestant doctor capable of perceiving and recognizing.

The preacher forgets that what is denied by the tract is, that we pay divine honors to sacred images and pictures, and cites ample authority to prove that we do not pay divine honors to them or through them. We offer them no sacrifices, and we offer them no prayers or praises, even as symbols or as memorials of a worth they represent. They are never the media through which we honor that worth; but we honor them for the sake of the worth to which they are related, as the pious son honors the picture of his mother, the patriot the picture of the father of his country, or the lover the portrait of his mistress. The respect we pay them springs from one of the deepest and purest principles of human nature, and can be condemned only by those who hold that there is nothing good in nature, and condemn as evil and only evil whatever is natural.

The minister thinks that, even should enlightened and intelligent Catholics understand the question as explained by the catechism and defined by the Council of Trent, yet ignorant Catholics may not; and with them the honors paid to images and pictures actually degenerate into idolatry. He asks:

"But how in this respect do the people of modern Italy differ from those of ancient and heathen Italy? Do the practices of the people there correspond to the doctrines of the theologians, or have they, as of old time, 'bettered the instruction?' Do they pay no special veneration, as if there were some special virtue in the image itself, to those images that are reputed to bleed or sweat, or to the pictures that wink? If it was only as a guide of the thoughts toward the person represented that the image or picture served, then one image would serve as well as another, except that those in which the skill and genius of the artist had most excelled to represent in touching and vivid portraiture the object of the worship, might be preferred above ruder and coarser works. But as I have passed from church to church in those lands in which the Roman system has had unlimited opportunity to work itself out into practice, and have 'beheld the devotions' of the people, I have seen certain statues frequented by a multitude of worshippers, and visited by pilgrims from afar, who had come to bow down before them, and hung with myriads of votive offerings--waxen effigies of arms and legs and other members that had been healed in consequence of prayers to that

## particular image. And one fact, which I did not then appreciate

the bearing of, was constantly observed by myself and my companion--that these objects of special worship and veneration were _never_ works of superior art, but commonly rude, and sometimes even grotesque. The inexpressibly beautiful and touching statue by Bernini, of the Virgin holding upon her knees the body of the dead Jesus, is in the crypt of St. Peter's, and admiring critics go down to study it by torchlight. But the image which is _adored_ is a grimy bronze idol above it in the nave of St. Peter's, which is so venerated as the statue of that apostle that the toes of the extended foot have been actually kissed away by the adorations of the faithful."

It is very evident that the preacher, whatever opportunities he may have had, knows very little of the Catholic people in general, or of the Italian people in particular, and his guesses would deserve more respect if made in relation to his own people. Protestants have no distinctive worship which can be offered to God alone, and are therefore very poor judges of what they may see going on before their eyes among a Catholic people. The Church is responsible only for the faith she teaches and the practices she enjoins, approves, or permits. If the people depart from this faith and abuse these practices in their practical devotion, the fault, since she takes away no one's freedom, is theirs, not hers. {246} The worship that Catholics render to God, the honor they pay to the saints, and the respect they entertain for sacred images, differs not, as all worship with Protestants must, simply as more or less, but in kind, and not even a Protestant community can be found so ignorant as not to be able to distinguish between an image or a picture and the saint or person intended to be represented by it. For the many years we lived as a Protestant we never met any one of our brethren who mistook his mother's portrait for his mother herself, or the statue of a distinguished statesman for the statesman himself. Who ever mistakes the equestrian statue of George Washington in Union Square for George Washington on horseback, or confounds Andrew Jackson himself with Mill's ugly equestrian statue of him in one of the squares of Washington? Who could mistake the bronze horse on which the image of the old General is placed, and which you fear every moment is going to tilt over backward, for a real horse? Well, my dear doctor, however ignorant these Italian people may be whom you see kneeling before an image or a picture of the Madonna, they know more of the doctrines of the Gospel, more of God, and of man's duties and relations to him, more of his proper worship, than the most enlightened non-Catholic community that exists or ever existed on the earth. They may not know as much of error against faith and piety, of false theories and crude speculations as non-Catholics; but they know more of Christianity, more of what Christianity really is, what it teaches, and what it exacts of the faithful, than the wisest and most learned of your sectarian ministers, not even excepting yourself.

With regard to bleeding, sweating, or winking pictures, if you find people believing in them, you will never find among Catholics any who believe that they bleed, sweat, or wink by any virtue that is in the picture itself; but that the phenomenon is a miracle, which God works by the saint pictured. You may doubt the miracle, but not reasonably, unless on the ground that the evidence in the case is insufficient. Whoever believes in God believes in the possibility of miracles, and there is nothing more miraculous in a picture of the Madonna winking, sweating, or bleeding, than there was in Balaam's ass speaking and rebuking his master. It is simply a question of fact. If the proofs are conclusive, the fact is to be believed; if insufficient, no one is bound to believe it.

If you find the people flocking to a particular image or picture and bringing to it their votive offerings, it certainly is not, as the preacher takes notice, on account of its merit as a work of art; for the Italian people, with all their love and exquisite taste for art, do not, like so many non-Catholics, confound artistic culture with religious culture; nor is it because they hold that there is any hidden virtue in that particular image or picture itself, but because the saint whose it is, has or is believed to have specially favored those who have invoked him before it. They may or may not be mistaken as to the fact, but the principle, on which the special devotion to our Lady or a saint before a particular shrine is a correct one; and there is in the practice no special honor to the image or picture for its own sake, and consequently nothing necessarily superstitious or idolatrous.

Even if, as there is no reason to believe, the statue of St. Peter in St. Peter's at Rome, and which the preacher calls a "grimy bronze idol," was originally, as he tells us some say it was, a statue of Jupiter, the honor paid to it by the faithful would not be paid to Jupiter, while intended to be paid to St. Peter. {247} But the toes of the image have been worn away by the kisses of the worshippers; and do not these kisses prove that Catholics adore the image? The heathen adore their gods by kissing the feet of their statues; and when Catholics kiss the feet of the images of their saints, how can it be said that they do not worship or adore images as the heathen do? The heathen use incense in the worship of idols; Moses prescribes incense, and the Jews use it in their worship of the true God; therefore the Jews are idolaters! The preacher forgets that what the tract declares to be dishonest is the accusation that Catholics pay _divine_ worship, that is, the worship due to God alone, to images and pictures, as the heathen do. To kiss the feet of the statue of St. Peter, from love and devotion to the saint himself, the prince of the apostles, on whom our Lord founded his church, is not to pay divine worship to the image, nor even to Peter himself. Were we so happy as to find ourselves at St. Peter's in Rome, we are quite sure that we should kneel before the statue of St. Peter, and kiss its feet, running the risk of its having been once a statue of Jupiter, and we should do it as a proper method of expressing our love and veneration for the great apostle, and as simply and innocently as the mother kisses the carefully preserved portrait of her beloved son slain in battle for his faith or his country. As to using the forms used by the heathen to express affection or devotion, if proper in themselves, we have as little scruple as we have in using the language which our ancestors used in the worship of Woden or Thor, in our prayers and praises to the One Ever-living and True God.

3. The sermon next takes up the false accusation that Catholics pay divine worship to the Blessed Virgin and the saints. The tract asks:

"Is IT HONEST _to accuse Catholics of putting the Blessed Virgin or the Saints in the place of God or the Lord Jesus Christ_--when the Council of Trent declares that it is simply useful to ask their intercession in order to obtain favor from God, through his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord, who alone is our Saviour and Redeemer--

"When 'asking their prayers and influence with God,' is exactly of the same nature as when Christians ask the pious prayers of one another?"

The preacher says, "At the outset let me remark, that the question what Roman Catholics _do_ is not conclusively answered by quoting what the Council of Trent declares." This supposes that the same rule must be applied to Catholics, who have an authoritative church, that is applicable to non-Catholics, who have none, or to people among whom every one believes according to his own private judgment, and does what is right in his own eyes. But this is not permissible. Our faith is taught and defined by authority, and to know what we as Catholics believe or do, you must be certain what the church authoritatively teaches or prescribes. We cannot go contrary to that and be Catholics. No doubt Catholics may depart from the faith of the church, and disobey her precepts; but when they obstinately persist in doing so, they cease to be Catholics in faith and practice, and their belief or their practice is of no account in judging what is or is not Catholic doctrine or practice. They who believe or do anything contrary to what is declared by the Council of Trent, are _pro tanto_ non-Catholics. To know what is Catholic faith and Catholic practice, you have only to consult the standards, of the Catholic Church--not every individual Catholic, as you must every individual Protestant when you wish to ascertain what is Protestant opinion and practice. {248} Our standards speak for themselves; and in determining what Catholicity enjoins or allows, you must consult them, and them only.

Mr. Bacon and his brethren have as free access to our standards as we ourselves have, and they must remain under the charge of dishonestly misrepresenting us, or prove by our standards that the church offers or authorizes or does not forbid her children from offering divine worship to the Blessed Virgin. Their surmises, their conjectures, their inferences from what they see among Catholics, but do not understand, must be thrown out as inadmissible testimony. There are the standards: if they sustain you, well and good; if not, you are convicted, and judgment must go against you. This is the case presented by the tract, and which Mr. Bacon and his friends are to meet fairly and squarely.

Now, the tract shows from the standards, from the Council of Trent, which is plenary authority in the case, that the accusation against Catholics of "putting the Blessed Virgin or the saints in the place of God or the Lord Jesus Christ," is an accusation so manifestly untrue that no one can honestly make it. Here also is the catechism, which the church teaches all her children. "_Q. Does this commandment [the first] forbid all honor and veneration of saints and angels?_ No; we are to honor them as God's special friends and servants, but not with the honor which belongs to God." The Council of Trent declares that "it is good and useful to ask the saints who reign together with Christ in heaven, to pray for us," "or to ask favors for us from our Lord Jesus Christ, who alone is our Redeemer and Saviour." We ask the saints in heaven, as we ask our friends on earth, to pray for us. Here is the whole principle of the case. The Council of Trent, Sess. 22, c. 3, defines that, "though the church is accustomed to celebrate masses in honor of the saints, yet she teaches they are never to be offered to them, but to God alone." _Non tamen illis sacrificium offerri docet, sed Deo soli, qui illos coronavit._ Now, with Catholics the distinctively divine worship, the supreme worship due to God alone, and which it would be idolatry to offer to any other, is sacrifice, the highest possible sacrifice, the sacrifice of the Mass, which our priests offer every day on the altar; the one unbloody sacrifice which was offered in a bloody manner on Calvary. This is offered to God alone; all else that is offered to God in worship, prayer, praise, love, veneration, may, in kind at least, be offered to men. We honor the chief magistrate, whether called king or emperor, president or governor; we honor the prelates whom the Holy Ghost has placed over us in the church; we pray to or petition rulers and men in authority; we chant the praises of the great and the heroic; we love our country, our family, and friends; we venerate the wise and the good, who, in services to the cause of truth, morals, and religion, prove themselves godlike. That Protestants, who have no sacrifice, no priest, no altar, no victim, should mistake the nature of our _cultus sanctorum_, is not surprising, for they have nothing in kind to offer God that we do not offer to the saints, especially to the queen of saints, the Blessed Mother of God. But this is their fault, not ours; for it is easy for them to know--for our standards tell them so--that we as Catholics place the supreme act of worship in the sacrifice of the Mass--holding that only God is an adequate offering to God, and that the sacrifice of the Mass is never offered to the saints or to any but God alone. {249} There is a marked difference between our _cultus sanctorum_ and that with which men like Mr. Bacon, of Brooklyn, seek to identify it. The heathen offered sacrifices, the highest form of worship they had, to their idols, their demigods and heroes; we offer the highest worship which we have--and we have it only through God's goodness--to the one, living, true God only. This proves that the accusation against Catholics of putting the Blessed Virgin and the saints, as objects of worship, in the place of God, is a false accusation, so well known or so easily known to be false, that no one of ordinary intelligence can honestly make it.

But the preacher supposes that Catholics, in other respects, put them in the place of God. This is impossible. Catholics hold that the saints, with the Blessed Virgin at their head, are men and women--creatures whom God has made, has redeemed with his own blood, and has elevated, sanctified, and glorified by his grace, and therefore they cannot identify them with him or substitute them for him. We hold that Mary is the Mother of Christ, and that he is her Lord as well as ours, and that it is through his merits alone, applied beforehand, that she was conceived without original stain; and can anybody, so believing, mistake her for her Son, in any respect put her in his place, or assign to her his mediatorial work? The very fears expressed by our Protestant friends that we do or are liable to do so, prove that even they are able to discriminate between her and her Son; why not then we?

The reverend gentleman continues:

"We are invited to several inquiries. First: Is it true that the prayers that are offered by Roman Catholics to departed saints, and especially to that holy woman whom we with them in all generations unite to call the blessed, are only of such a nature as we might offer to a fellow-Christian here upon the earth in soliciting his prayers in our behalf? Secondly: Are these supplications only for favor and influence, or are they for the direct gift of blessing and salvation? Do they put Mary into the place of Christ, the one Mediator between God and man; making of the All-Merciful Saviour who inviteth all to come unto him, an inaccessible object of dread and terror, whom we dare not approach except through the mediation of Mary? Do they ascribe to her the glory due to Christ, the only name given under heaven among men whereby we may be saved? Do they profess faith in her alone for salvation? Do they put the saints in the place of the Holy Ghost, by supplicating from them directly the divine gift of holiness and the renewal of the sinful heart?"

We have answered these questions by anticipation. It is probable that Catholics believe somewhat more distinctly and more firmly in "the one mediator of God and men, the man Christ Jesus," than do the sects, and are less likely to forget it, seeing that all their practical devotions, public and private, the great honors given to Mary and the saints are founded on it and tend directly to keep us from forgetting it. Catholics do not pray to Mary because they regard the All-merciful Saviour as inaccessible, or as an object of dread and terror; nor because she comes in between them and him, represents him, or enables them to approach him through her, as is evident from the fact that we not unfrequently directly beseech him to grant that she and other saints may pray for us. We honor her as the mother of God in his human nature. We pray to her to pray to him for us, not only because she is our mother as well as his, but because she is dear to her Son our Lord, and he delights to honor her by granting her requests. {250} For a like reason we invoke the saints, that is, ask them to pray for us. We must then be more ignorant and stupid than even our sectarian ministers believe us, if, in praying to them because as his friends they are dear to him, we substitute them for him from whom what we seek can alone come. If we believe they themselves give it, why do we ask them to pray him to grant it? Cannot our acute and ingenious doctor see that the invocation of saints renders the error he supposes Catholics fall into utterly impossible in the case of the most ignorant Catholic, and that it tends to fix the mind and the heart directly on the fact that every good and every perfect gift is from above and cometh down from the Father of lights? Can he not see that the intercession we invoke is a clear confession of the truth he thinks it obscures or obliterates? If we think the good comes from them, why do we ask them to intercede with Christ to bestow it? Why not ask it of them? But is it true, as the tract affirms, that we ask nothing of Mary and the saints in heaven that it would be improper to ask of our fellow-Christian? This is not precisely what the tract asserts. It asserts that asking their prayers and influence is exactly of the same nature, that is, the same in principle, with what Christians do when they ask the pious prayers of one another. To this the preacher replies:

"I hold here a volume of 800 pages, almost every one of which contains an answer to these questions, so far as I honestly read it, in the affirmative. It is _The Glories of Mary_, by St. Alphonsus Liguori, approved by John, Archbishop of New-York. I scarcely know where to begin quoting, or to cease.

"'O Mary, sweet refuge of miserable sinners, assist me with thy mercy. Keep far from me my infernal enemies, and _come thyself_ to take my soul and present it to my eternal Judge.' 'All the mercies ever bestowed upon men have come through Mary.' 'Mary is called the gate of heaven, because no one can enter heaven if he does not pass through Mary, who is the door of it.' 'As we have access to the eternal Father only through Jesus Christ, so we have access to Jesus Christ only through Mary.'

"'Mary is the peacemaker between sinners and God.' 'My Mother Mary, to thy hands I commit the cause of my eternal salvation. To thee I consign my soul; it was lost, but thou must save it.' 'Thou art the advocate, the mediatrix of reconciliation, the only hope, and the most secure refuge of sinners.' 'I place in thee all my hopes of salvation.' 'She is the advocate of the world and the true mediatrix between God and man.' 'Blessed is he who clings with love and confidence to those two anchors of salvation, Jesus and Mary.' 'Deliver me from the burden of my sins; dispel the darkness of my mind; banish earthly affections from my heart.' 'O Lady, change us from sinners to saints.'"

Tastes differ, and not every Catholic would employ every expression used by St. Alphonsus in his _Glories of Mary_; but none of these expressions convey to the Catholic mind what they do to the Protestant mind; for Catholics have a key to their meaning in their faith in the incarnation. The strongest of them is justified by the relation of Mary to that great mystery in which centres and from which radiates the whole of Christianity. From her was taken that flesh, that human nature, in which God redeems and saves us; and being taken from her, she has a relation to God, our Saviour, and consequently to our redemption and salvation, which no other woman, no other creature, has or can have. This relation explains the passages in the Litany of our Lady of Loretto, and those passages of St. Alphonsus and other Catholic writers which assert that all mercies and graces come from God through her. They all come from God in his human nature; and as that nature was taken from her, they must in some sense come through her. {251} They come through her, because they come from God as born of her. They also come through her, because God, her divine Son, who gives them, loves her as his mother, and delights to honor with the highest honor a creature can receive; he therefore confers the favors mortals pray for only through her intercession. But as all the special honor done to her is done only in consequence of her relation as his mother, the higher we carry that honor the more clear, distinct, and energetic our conviction of the fact of the incarnation, and the more impossible it must be for us to put her in the place of the Incarnate Word, or to substitute her for her Son, who is the one mediator of God and men, the man Christ Jesus. To do so would be not only to rob him of his glory, but to deny her title to that very honor given to her as the mother of God. Catholics are not capable of anything so illogical and absurd.

The key to the other expressions objected in St. Alphonsus is in this same relation to the incarnation and the confidence of the Saint in the power and efficacy of Mary's prayers or intercession for us with her divine Son. He confides to Mary, leaves in her hands the cause of his eternal salvation, as the client confides his cause to his advocate or counsel. "My soul," he says, "was lost, but thou must save it"--by thy intercession with thy Son, who will deny thee nothing thou dost ask, because thou canst never ask but what he inspires thee to ask, and what is agreeable to his will, and he delights to honor thee before heaven and earth by granting thy requests. In the same way understand the expressions, "the advocate," "the mediatrix of reconciliation," and all the rest. The term mediatrix is not the best possible, because it is liable to mislead not a Catholic, but a non-Catholic, who believes little in the incarnation, and refuses to interpret the language of Catholics by the official teaching of their church. The Catholic always knows in what sense it is said, and for him the explanations are never necessary; still less are they necessary for Him who sees and knows the thoughts and intents of the heart before they are even formed. It is the duty of non-Catholics to consult the standards of the church and to explain what seems to them difficult or inexact in the warm and energetic expressions of Catholic love and devotion by them; and it is not honest to found a charge against Catholics on such expressions without having done so. The preacher continues:

"'Is IT HONEST to accuse Catholics of putting the Blessed Virgin or the saints in the place of God or of the Lord Jesus Christ? You have the answer. You know the place which God claims for himself the 'honor which He will not give to another.' You have heard from the very words of the Roman Catholics themselves the place to which they exalt the spirits of departed men and women."

Yes, you have the answer such as your minister gives; and we have shown that his answer misinterprets facts which he does not understand; that it refuses to interpret them by the key furnished in the official teaching of the church; that it contradicts itself, and proves, if anything, the falsity of the very charge it undertakes to establish, and therefore clears neither him nor you, if you accept it, from the charge of dishonestly bringing false accusations against the church of God.

{252}

"Is IT HONEST _to assert that the Catholic Church grants any indulgence or permission to commit sin_--when an 'indulgence,' according to her universally received doctrine, was never dreamed of by Catholics to imply, in any case whatever, any permission to commit the least sin; and when an indulgence has no application whatever to sin until after sin has been repented of and pardoned?"

The preacher has the air of conceding that this charge is unfounded, and says, "If it is made, it does not appear to be sustained yet he maintains that indulgences really remit the punishment due to sins committed after the indulgence has been bought and paid for; for they are alleged to preserve the recipient in grace till death, in spite of subsequent sins." And he cites the case of Tetzel, in the sixteenth century, in proof He adduces what purports to be a form of absolution published by Tetzel, and offered for sale in the market-places of Germany. The form of absolution alleged is manifestly a forgery, and a very stupid forgery; and besides, absolution and indulgences are very different things, and the indulgence affects only a certain temporary punishment that remains to be expiated after the absolution is given or the eternal guilt is pardoned, and is rather a commutation than a remission of even that temporary punishment, which, if not commuted or borne here, must be expiated hereafter in purgatory. There is no _form_ of indulgence; there are _conditions_ of gaining an indulgence; but there is no certificate given to the effect that we have obtained it. If we have sincerely complied with the conditions prescribed by the pope, we gain it; but whether we have gained it neither we nor the church can know in this life without a special revelation. Every Catholic knows that to offer money for it would argue a disposition on his part that would render it impossible, while he retained that disposition, to gain an indulgence. No one can gain an indulgence while in a state of sin, and hence indulgences are not at any price profitable things to purchase. That Tetzel exaggerated the virtue of indulgences was asserted by Luther and his friends; but that he offered them for sale in the market-places, was never, we believe, even pretended until after his death--was and never has been proved. Luther and his friends complained that he was causing a scandal, and procured his arrest and imprisonment in a convent of his order, where he died two years after, without the matter, owing to the troubles of the times, even undergoing a judicial investigation. As for Luther's own testimony, in a case touching his hatred against Rome, it is of no account.

"The only sense," continues the preacher, "in which the Roman Church has ever sold licenses for crime, has been in this, of announcing (not in America, in this century) a tariff of cash-prices at which (_with_ contrition) all evil consequences of certain sins, whether in this world or the world to come, would be cancelled. The price-current in Germany in the sixteenth century, ranged as follows: for polygamy, six ducats; for sacrilege and perjury, nine ducats; for murder, eight ducats. In Switzerland, at the same period, the price was for infanticide, four francs; for parricide or fratricide, one ducat."

This seems to us quite enough. The Catholic will perceive that our learned friend is not very well posted on Catholic matters. He evidently confounds sacramental absolution with indulgences, and indulgences with the dispensations which the church grants in

## particular cases, not from the law of God, nor the law of nature,

but from her own ecclesiastical law; and supposes that the fees paid to the chancery for the necessary legal documents in the various causes that come before it, are the fees paid by the faithful for indulgences and the pardon of their sins. [Footnote 53] {253} A man who speaks of matters of which he knows nothing is liable to say some very absurd things. Nevertheless, the preacher says expressly, and we doubt not means to concede the point made by the tract, that indulgences are not licenses to commit sin, but he has labored to make his concession as little offensive to his Protestant brethren as possible. Still he concedes it. "I think, therefore," he says, "that the author of this tract is right in claiming that it is not just to assert that the Catholic Church grants any indulgence or permission to commit sin." No, she does no such thing, she only "intimates beforehand her willingness, if such and such crimes are committed, to make it all right with the malefactor both in this world and the world to come, for penitence--and CASH." He who should offer cash to pay for absolution would receive for answer, "Thy money perish with thee!"

[Footnote 53: For a full proof of the forgery of the above passage in the book called _Tax-Book of the Roman Chancery_, see Bishop England's Letters to Dr. Fuller, Works of Bishop England, vol. iii. p. 13.]

"Is IT HONEST _to repeat over and over again that Catholics pay the priests to pardon their sins_--such a thing is unheard of anywhere in the Catholic Church--when any transaction of the kind is stigmatized as a grievous sin, and ranked along with murder, adultery, blasphemy, etc., in every catechism and work on Catholic theology?"

The preacher thinks it is very honest, because, if the church prohibits and punishes it as simony, it is very evident that it sometimes happens. If the offence had never been committed, the church would never have had occasion to legislate on the matter. It was argued that for a long time the crime of parricide was unknown at Rome, because there was no law prohibiting and punishing it. This is his answer, and a proof, we suppose, of his candor of which he boasts, of his readiness to die rather than knowingly repeat a false charge against the church! The real accusation against the church, which the tract denies can be honestly made, is that Catholics are required to pay, or that the priest can lawfully exact pay, for the pardon or absolution he pronounces in the sacrament of penance. It does not necessarily deny that the thing may sometimes be done, but, if so, it is unlawfully, is a sin, and ranked along with murder, adultery, etc. The sin of simony, in one form or another, has in the history of the church often been committed, and those who committed it are, in general, favorites with Protestant historians, who seldom fail to brand as haughty tyrants and spiritual despots the noble and virtuous popes who struggled energetically against it, and did their best to correct or guard against the evil. But honest men will not hold the church responsible for the misdeeds of unprincipled men, which she prohibits and exerts all the power of her discipline to prevent and punish. The case is too plain to need argument. Penance, the church teaches, is a sacrament, of which absolution is a part, and to sell any sacrament or part thereof is simony, a grievous sin; and though there is no sin that may not have been committed, yet the fact of a priest, however depraved, demanding pay for sacramental pardon or absolution is not known to have ever occurred. The church prohibits it, indeed, but only in prohibiting simony, and we are not aware that she has ever passed any special law against this particular species of simony, and therefore the argument of the preacher falls to the ground, and for aught he shows, it is true to the letter that the thing is unheard of.

{254}

"Is IT HONEST _to persist in saying that Catholics believe that their sins are forgiven merely by the confession of them to the priest, without a true sorrow for them, or a true purpose to quit them_--when every child finds the contrary distinctly and clearly stated in the catechism, which he is obliged to learn before he can be admitted to the sacraments? Any honest man can verify this statement by examining any Catholic catechism."

"Nothing," says the preacher, "could be more conclusive than this logic, if we could constantly presume that the belief and practice of the people always coincide exactly with the teaching of the catechism." If the coincidence were perfect, there would be no sins to confess, no need of the sacrament of penance, and no question as to the condition of ghostly absolution or pardon could ever be raised. But as the preacher finds nothing to object to under this head in the teaching or official practice of the church, we must presume that he finds the logic of the tract, whatever may be the deceptions, if any, practised upon the priest, is quite conclusive, and he certainly concedes quite enough to show that the accusation against the church which the tract repels, cannot be honestly repeated. We would remind the preacher that no one is forced against his will to go to confession, and the very fact of one's going is presumptive proof of sincere sorrow for his sins, and a resolution, weaker or stronger, God helping him, to forsake them. Why should he seek to deceive the priest, when he knows that if he seeks to do so, he would not only receive no benefit from the absolution, but would commit the grievous sin of sacrilege by profaning the sacrament?

"Is IT HONEST _to say that Catholics believe that man, by his own power, can forgive sin_--when the priest is regarded by the Catholic Church only as the agent of our Lord Jesus Christ,

## acting by the power delegated to him, according to these words,

'Whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven them, and whose sins you shall retain, they are retained?' St John xx. 23."

The preacher has offered no reply, or, if he has, we have overlooked it, to this grave accusation; perhaps he has none to make. The journals, however, attempt a reply, the purport of which is, that, though the tract states truly the official teaching of the church, yet Catholics practically believe, as every one knows who has had intercourse with them, that it is the priest, not God, who they believe pardons sin. This, too, is in substance the reply of Mr. Bacon throughout. The tract states the doctrine of the church correctly on all the points made, but then that, it is pretended, is not the doctrine of the Catholic people, the practical doctrine of Catholics, and gives no clue to the practical workings of the Roman system--a clear confession that they really have nothing to object to Catholic doctrine and practice, though they have much to object to in what is no doctrine or teaching or practice of the church. The reason of this, we suppose, is, that they have no conception of the church. Now, we think it is very likely that there are many Catholics who cannot define very scholastically the distinction between efficient cause and instrumental or medial cause; but put the question to the most ignorant Catholic you can find. "Do you believe the priest as a man in confession pardons your sins?" as soon as he gets hold of what you are driving at, he will answer: "No; he pardons or absolves them as a priest." This answer means that the priest does not absolve by a virtue in him as a man, but by virtue of his priestly office, to which he is appointed by the Holy Ghost; that is, as the minister, or as the tract says, the agent of our Lord Jesus Christ. All Catholics unhappily do not conform their life to their faith; but you will find that the faith of the people is that of the church, that which the church officially teaches; and there is no room for the distinction which non-Catholic ministers and journals, try, as their best resort in self-vindication, to make between Catholicity in the formularies of the church and the Catholicity that works practically in the faith and lives of the Catholic people, whether learned or unlearned. {255} All this talk about the practical workings of the system is moonshine, at least outside of the record, to which no Catholic is bound to reply. We are required to believe and defend only what the church teaches and requires of her children:

8. The tract concludes with the question,

"Is IT HONEST _to make these and many other similar charges against Catholics_--when they detest and abhor such false doctrines more than those do who make them, and make them too, without ever having read a Catholic book, or taken any honest means of ascertaining the doctrines which the Catholic Church really teaches? AMERICANS LOVE FAIR PLAY."

In spite of all that sectarian preachers and journals can say, the unprejudiced and fair-minded American will answer, to each question the tract puts, No! it is not honest, but gravely dishonest; for every one is bound to judge Catholics by the standards of the church, open to all the world. And these manifestly disprove the accusations.

We have attempted no defence in this article of our holy religion itself. We have only attempted to show our Protestant accusers that their efforts to prove themselves honest, in their false charges against the church and her faithful children, are unsuccessful. They have not successfully impeached the tract in a single instance, nor vindicated themselves from a single one of its charges; nor can they do it. Many things may be said against the immaculate spouse of Christ; the daughters of the uncircumcised may call her black, may rail against her, and call her all manner of hard names; but she stands ever in her loveliness, all pure, and dear to her Lord, who loves her, and gave his life for her, and dear to the heart of every one of her loving children, and all the dearer from the foul aspersions cast upon her by the ignorant, the foolish, and the malicious.

We have not taken much notice of the professions of candor and independence of the preacher; for we have never much esteemed professions which are contradicted by deeds; nor are we easily won by fine things said of individual Catholics by one who in the same breath calumniates the holy Catholic Church. Few sermons have we read that show a more decided hostility to our religion than these of the Rev. Leonard W. Bacon, of Brooklyn, which are unredeemed from their low sectarian character by any depth of learning, extent of historical research, force of logic, richness of imagination, flow of eloquence, or sparkle of wit. We have found them very commonplace and dull; we have found it a dull affair to read and reply to them; and we fear that our readers will find our reply itself very dull, for dulness is contagious.

--------

{256}

Magas; or, Long Ago.

A Tale Of The Early Times.

## Chapter IX.

"She is bewitched, my lord," said her attendants to Magas, as he stood the next day by the bedside of Chione, and she knew him not. "She is bewitched. Chloe and two or three others heard the spell muttered just before she fell."

Magas looked incredulously, yet half-believing what they said. "Why, who can have bewitched her?"

"The Christians, my lord; there were many present, and they came on purpose. They failed the first time, but they did it the next."

Magas gazed at Chione, as she lay, for the most part insensible, yet at intervals uttering incoherent words which alarmed them all. He said softly, "Chione?"

She started up and gazed fiercely at him. "Begone!" she said, "you have lost me my soul for ever; begone!" And she struck him a violent blow.

"It is ever thus, my lord," said an attendant consolingly, "when people are thus attacked by the furies; they hate those most that they loved the best."

"What makes you think the Christians have bewitched her?"

"They are practising magic all over, and playing all kinds of tricks throughout the country."

"But why should they attack your mistress?"

"Why, my lord--" And the woman hesitated.

"Well, what?"

"Well, my lord, they do say she was once one of them; and when any one leaves them, they never forgive them--they torment them for ever."

"Pshaw! what nonsense is this?"

"I did not make the story, my lord; more than one says so."

"Let those in this house beware of ever saying it again then, unless they are fond of being scourged." And Magas turned away. He was but half satisfied, however. He remembered the meeting with the bishop, as he had afterward discovered him to be. He knew, too, that Lady Damaris was accounted a Christian, and that Chione always shrank from naming her. The Christians had a great name for magic: but Dionysius and the Lady Damaris were of the highest families. Magas paced for many hours the sacred grove to which he had wandered, then suddenly betook him to the bishop's residence.

He was admitted, courteously received; but it was some time before he returned the bishop's greeting. Dionysius waited his pleasure with the courtesy for which he was remarkable.

At length Magas said: "I cannot think you have done it."

"Done what, my son?"

"Bewitched Chione; made her mad."

"Is Chione ill?"

"She is very ill, she is raving and insensible by turns."

"Your words seemed just now to imply I was concerned in her illness."

"Her attendants think--think--tell me, noble Dionysius, is it true that Chione was ever a Christian?"

"Why do you ask?"

{257}

"Because it is important that the Christians should know that, if they have bewitched her in revenge for her leaving them, they must undo the spell at once, or brave my vengeance."

"This much, at least, I may tell you--the Christians have not bewitched her."

"Yet she fainted at some words uttered close to her, and that was the _second_ interruption of the evening."

"My son, you must not make me responsible for the interruptions; I was not present at your meeting."

"No, but some Christians were; that has been ascertained."

"Even so; each one must answer for himself."

"You did not send them there?"

"I did not!"

"Now, will you tell me, was Chione ever a Christian?"

"I would rather that she answer for herself."

"She is not in a state to answer for herself, and your answer may prevent some suffering; if she was never a Christian, those slaves shall be scourged who affirm she was."

Magas had hit on the right method, as he intended; the bishop answered at once: "Spare the poor slaves, my son. I baptized Chione myself."

"Baptized?"

"Yes, admitted her within the pale of the church by washing away all sin; by that she became a Christian."

"How long ago?"

"About fifteen months before she was missing from Corinth."

When did she leave your society?"

"I suppose when she left Corinth; I have not spoken with her since."

"Is her present illness connected with her Christianity?"

"How can I possibly tell, my son? I have not seen her; mental agitation may have caused it, and her leaving her religion may have caused that; how can I tell?"

"But has magic been used upon her?"

"Not by Christians, decidedly; and I should think, not at all. Her brain is probably over-worked, and she has been suffering from over-excitement: these will frequently cause derangement."

"And you think religion has nothing to do with it?"

"I did not say that, my son; to profess one thing and believe another must occasion uneasiness, until the conscience is dead. I should say, from your account, that Chione is suffering from mental disturbance, brought on by her unfaithfulness to her own convictions. Once a Christian, she must still feel its influence; and unwilling to yield to its teachings, she writhes under its power."

"That is it, that is what her nurses say; she is under the power of the Christians--bewitched by them. Now, that spell must be undone."

"If it is in her own mind, caused by her own act, _no one_ can undo it, as long as _her_ will remains perverse."

"What does this mean?" said Magas.

"It means this, my friend: Christianity links the soul to the living God from which it sprang. To become a Christian is not a myth, not a mere intellectual conviction, not an adoption of philosophical tenets: it is an _act_, a solemn act of _surrender_; it is an acknowledgment that the world has been disturbed by influences foreign to the true God; it is a renunciation of those influences, a solemn reunion of the soul with the Eternal Soul, the Creator, the Upholder, the Redeemer; it is positive. {258} A soul so linked by her own free consent, placed under influences unknown to those outside, must, so long as conscience speaks at all, suffer from the conflict she is undergoing, in breaking loose from a personal intercourse with her Maker, as also from a revelation of truth, beauty, and goodness, to plunge anew into the darkness of human guesses."

"You speak in enigmas, my lord! I presume one must be initiated to understand you. Meantime, tell me, can you do anything for Chione?"

"I am somewhat of a physician, although no professor of magic. I will see your patient, if it will give you comfort."

Magas bethought him: the visit of a Christian bishop to his house would be too remarkable. What was he to do? Suddenly he said: "What could possess Chione to make herself a Christian?"

"I believe it was the love of truth and beauty. She sought a key to the mysteries of life, and Christianity offered her one."

"And yet she left it!"

"It is by no means clear that she has left it, otherwise than by act. She is an unfaithful member, but she still believes, or it would have no power over her."

"I wonder is it religion that is making her so ill? My Lord Dionysius, among her former companions, do you know one whose discretion you could trust to take care of her for a day or two, who would be competent to discover whether Christianity is disturbing her?"

"I know an amanuensis who might perhaps be willing to oblige you; we will see." They left the house by a side-door. The bishop led the way through a narrow path for some distance, till they came to a villa. Here he made a signal at the gate; it was opened by an old servitor, who bowed profoundly as he admitted him and his companion. Dionysius whispered a word in his ear, and the old man tottered on before to a side entrance, which he left open. They entered, and very shortly another door opened into a small library. A lady was writing there; they saluted her, and Magas recognized Lotis.

The bishop quickly made known the purport of his visit, and Lotis willingly offered her services. Magas, however, demurred. "Is it possible," said he; "are you really a Christian?"

"I have that happiness," replied Lotis.

"Why, how can it be? how is it that lofty minds like yours and Chione's can ally yourselves with such a drivelling set?"

Lotis smiled as she observed, "I think, Lord Magas, that the illustrious Dionysius, who stands beside you, will scarcely feel complimented."

Magas blushed and apologized. "Forgive me," he said; "I am so fairly confounded to-day, I do not know what I am saying."

Dionysius said smilingly, "You do not know what Christianity is, and therefore stand excused beforehand. Do you wish Lotis to accompany you to Chione?"

"The more, as I think she will scarcely be suspected of--" Magas hesitated. The bishop filled up the gap for him--"of belonging to such a drivelling set. No; and Chione even does not know it; so your secret will be doubly safe. You may confide in Lotis entirely."

## Chapter X.

Lotis took her place by the bedside of her friend, but she found her situation almost a sinecure. Though Chione did not recognize her, she was very uneasy in her presence. "Take those large black eyes away from me," she would say. {259} Finally Lotis found herself reduced to watching in the next room, as Magas still desired her to stay and direct proceedings; and to beguile the hours, she occupied herself in what had become almost a business with her, in transcribing the gospels and apostolic papers for the use of the different churches. Magas often visited her, and would have shared her watch, had she permitted it; but this she would not hear of; so he was obliged to be content with frequent visits to inquire after the progress of Chione, and by degrees to study the parchments on which Lotis was engaged.

Ashamed to manifest the interest he felt, he took them to his own apartment, and studied first, then secretly copied the writings with his own hand. Weeks went on; Chione's health improved, but her insanity did not pass away. Lotis proposed she should be removed to a dwelling in the neighborhood of Lady Damaris' abode, and be there tended.

"Two influences are about her here," she said, "counteracting each other. There all will be in unison." Magas assented. "I am no longer afraid of Christians," he said; "but how any one _once_ believing what is here written," continued he, producing the gospel he had written out with his own hand--" how any one, once believing, can fall away, is a mystery. I would give all my possessions to have the faith, the confidence in God, herein described. Faith seems to mean the creature's power in God, derived from God. Could I once feel that God is my Father in the sense the gospel has it, I would bid adieu to philosophy for ever, and be at rest."

"Then you are not angry that Chione is a Christian?" said Lotis.

"I am angry that she has acted a lie, and imposed upon me," he said.

"It was love of you that constrained her. Forgive her, Magas."

"_Love_ of me! Did she not know I love truth? I can never believe her again."

Lotis left the apartment and proceeded to superintend the removal of Chione.

Magas went to the bishop, to make arrangements for Chione's maintenance; he wished to settle revenues on her ere he departed.

"Depart! are you about to leave Athens, my son?"

"Yes, father; it has become hateful to me, since I no longer love Chione."

"You do not intend to desert her?"

"I leave her in good hands; what can I do more?"

"Her whole being is bound up in you; through you she sinned."

"That is the worst of it; I cannot look at her without feeling that; but yet, I knew not she was a Christian, nor did I know how sublime the Christian faith is. I cannot forgive her for abandoning her faith."

"But you are not a Christian, Magas?"

"No! I am waiting for the manifestation of God. I am going to the apostle who has heard and seen, who works miracles in the name of Jesus; I am going to ask of this Jesus the _power_ of faith."

"What do you mean by the power of faith, Magas?"

"The power of becoming a son of God, of being free, with the freedom of old Merion, who is more free amid his chains than the young worldlings with their power and wealth. Free from my own passions, which master me and blind me; free from false knowledge, which misleads me; free from the power of habit, which enslaves me. {260} I want power to endure that crucifixion which dying to these objects will occasion me. I feel my own nature rebelling against my aspiration, and I want power to conquer it. The apostle says the gospel is power unto salvation, and that power is needed where life must be one combat, as mine must be for the time to come."

Dionysius, too modest to arrogate to himself the gifts which daily experience proved him to possess, of working miracles to attest the power of God, simply said, "The holy apostle Paul is even now at Corinth; you cannot do better than seek him there; I myself will shortly do the same."

## Chapter XI.

Two years have passed; such years! Magas has left Athens, has become a Christian--nay, a Christian preacher. His property has been more for others than himself; for he has renounced wealth, pomp, earthly power, to follow the footsteps of that wondrous convert who was brought to Christ by being struck down to earth by excess of light--blinded by glory--by seeing the heavenly vision with the unprepared eyes of earth. By St. Paul confirmed in the faith, Magas was, through the same apostle, set apart for the ministry through the laying on of hands. Magas has so completely changed his nature, his very features seem altered. The young Athenian noble, proud of a long line of ancestry, but seeks to devote his days to the one Master who shares his undivided heart.

Yet he returned to Athens, and his voice was heard by Chione.

All night she listened; in her short slumbers she dreamed of him; In the morning her wandering senses had returned. Lotis entered her room with her breakfast; and the wild light in Chione's eyes had subsided. She looked around; she inquired, "Where am I? Lotis, why are you here?"

"I am here to tend you, dear Chione; you have been ill."

"Ill!" said Chione, passing her hand over her brow; "Ill! I've, had a long, strange dream! Where's Magas?"

"I do not know," said Lotis.

"He was here last night," said Chione. "I heard his voice; all night I watched for him; why did he keep away?"

"I cannot tell you," answered Lotis.

"Cannot tell! Is not this his house? is he not at home?"

"No! this is not his house," said Lotis; "he has been away from Athens, and he left you here to be taken care of. Now you must ask no more questions, but take your breakfast. I will send to Magas to tell him you are better."

Lotis left the room and summoned another attendant, charging her to be careful of her speech, lest the newly returned reason should again fail, she herself sought the bishop to let him know of the change.

It required some care to break to Chione the tidings that she was in the house of the Lady Damaris; that for two years she had been a prey to a most cruel malady of the brain, during which time Lotis had taken every possible care of her; and that Magas had been, during that time, away. Reawakened reason almost tottered again on its throne. Chione's pride was evidently hurt.

"Two years! two years! was that the end of my triumph? Magas! a mad woman! What has Magas been doing?"

"He will tell you that best himself; he will be here shortly."

"Two years! two long years! O Magas!"

......

{261}

"They met! But is this Magas? is this Chione? The long, lank hair, eyes almost starting from their sockets; and that form, so shrunken, so bereft of its former beauty, can this be the Venus Urania? And Apollo! will you recognize him in that weather-beaten form, coarsely clad, and mien so humble, though an intellectual manliness still sat upon the brow?

"Is this Magas? the same, and yet so changed? Magas, speak to me."

"You are then recovering at last, Chione?"

"At last! yes! I knew not of my illness till I recovered. Strange thing, this mind is, Magas! I lived on you: you were absent--I died; your voice brought me back to life."

"Nay, you were ill before I left you, Chione. It was a higher voice speaking to you, to which you turned a deaf ear, that caused your illness."

"What mean you?"

"That the remorse you felt for your abandoned faith upset your mental energies. Venus Urania should not have been enacted by a Christian."

"You have discovered my secret then; but I am a Christian no longer."

"Oh! do not say that, Chione; say, rather, you will repent, do penance. Chione, you cannot at will cast away faith. The effect those words produced on you show that you still believe."

"The devils believe and tremble," muttered the unfortunate woman; "yet it is not faith they have."

"But you are not yet a reprobate--are not yet beyond recall. Chione, I, Magas, entreat you, do not lie to your God. You cannot deceive him, and for his power, does not your past illness make you tremble for the future?"

"What means this altered tone, Magas?" said Chione bitterly. "Are you turned against me? Ah! I see how it is! Two years of absence, two years of illness, have done their work. Man's constancy is of a summer day; the winter comes, he freezes with the cold; for the love within no longer glows, no longer sends the blood rushing through the veins with a warmth that defies exterior cold. Some other form fresher than this frame impaired by sickness hath replaced Chione in your heart. You come to bid me farewell. Farewell, Magas."

Deceived by her feigned calmness, Magas rose. "Again, Chione, I entreat you to return to the religion you have abandoned."

"And do penance at the church door in sackcloth and ashes? Is that your meaning? Will you be there to see me beg the prayers of the faithful as they pass in to the mysteries from which I am excluded?"

This was said with an inconceivable mixture of sarcasm and bitterness.

"Love could sweeten even such an act as that," said Magas; "surely, even that is better than apostasy."

"And who are you that dare to twit me with apostasy? False one, wearied of thy old love, seeking another," (here she seized the arm of Magas,) "tell me," she said fiercely, "what is the name of the fair one for whom you abandon me?"

"Why would you know?" asked Magas.

"That I might tear her limb from limb!" said the frenzied woman.

"That is beyond your power, Chione. Him I love sits enthroned in the heavens. I have no earthly love. Chione, farewell. Remember, Magas blesses you--blesses you as he leaves you. You will not see him soon again, for Magas is a Christian priest."

{262}

He left her.

No, the energies did not depart as she started to her feet on hearing the last words--"a Christian priest!" "Magas! Oh! had I known, could I have guessed! The love of Magas without losing my religion! Can I regain it? Yes; by penance, Chione, doing penance! Faugh! Chione standing in the cold, clothed in sackcloth, exposed to the derision of the faithful. 'Twould be easy to love, he said. Did he say so? Love must be boiling hot indeed to sweeten such an act as that; and my love, ah! ah! love for religion, such a religion as that, ah! ah! ah!"

The poor woman raved, but alas! there was too much method in her madness. Wilfully she shut out faith; wilfully she turned to hate all that heretofore she had held dear; but she acted for a while with an earthly prudence that deceived those around her.

She staid with the Lady Damaris until she had recovered health and strength, until she had made herself sure of the independence Magas had settled on her. Then she left, and opened a school of philosophy, which was soon filled. Her former reputation did her much service in that respect, and that she had escaped from the enchantments of the Christians, who had tried to destroy her, added to the interest she inspired. She soon recovered her former beauty, and she studied now, studied deeply, how to thwart the Christians, how to demonstrate that whatever was beautiful in their religion they had stolen from the muses; that whatever was mystical came to them from Hindostan, the seat of mysticism; that whatever was reasonable and ethical they had learned from philosophy. It was a splendid success in Athens, that philosophical school of Chione; for it flattered the passions while it shed the grace of eloquence and refinement over them. All beauty, taste, and melody were made to yield their utmost sweetness there. Her disciples were of the rich, the great, the noble. They could practise the elegant course of study alternating with ease that she prescribed: "To enjoy is the aim of existence, refinement, cultivation, a correct system of ethics makes perfect enjoyment. Science gives interest, lifts one above the vulgar. Art ennobles and civilizes, and Athens is still the central point of art, science, and philosophy." So said Chione.

## Chapter XII.

"Indeed, Lotis, you must give me more hope than that; you must not bid me despair."

The words were spoken somewhat louder than was intended. They were heard by one who was passing by. The speaker was Magas; the passer-by was Chione. Magas was lamenting over the account he had heard of Chione's continued resistance to grace. Chione applied to the words another meaning; she ascribed them to a passion felt for Lotis, and her heart burned with rage and jealousy.

"Magas was then returned to Athens. What was he doing?" She set spies on his steps. He was often at the bishop's house, often in the Christian assembly; but also often had interviews with Lotis. This fact, which might have been easily explained by the occupation of Lotis, who supplied copies of books, and kept various accounts for the church, was otherwise interpreted by the misled woman, and she resolved on the destruction of Lotis. {263} If she could not regain the love of Magas, at least she would not have a rival. She had influence in the city. Nero's persecution, though but little felt in the colonies, could be brought to bear. Lotis should not live to triumph over her by a Christian marriage. The idea was insupportable.

Up to this point, Chione had kept herself unfettered from human ties since Magas had departed. She had loved Magas, and though many had made her offers of marriage, she could not resolve to accept them. Magas was alike elegant and profound. Who was worthy to succeed him? Athenian after Athenian paid court to her; gay, witty, and attractive to all, Chione accepted none. This was a matter of great wonder in so licentious a city as Athens.

But a greater wonder still was to ensue. A new Roman praetor arrived. A rude barbarian he seemed to the fashionables of Athens: certainly he was not distinguished for refinement, for learning, or for elegance; but it was soon observed that Chione held him enthralled, and, what was more remarkable, that she seemed to favor him.

How it happened, people could hardly tell, but a different spirit seemed animating Athens. The Christians, from being despised were becoming feared, and at length hated. When Nero's edict had been first made known, it made little impression; but gradually a voice was found, to proclaim that there were Christians in Athens practising magic to the detriment of all good citizens.

A few poor slaves were seized and brought before the praetor; they were ruthlessly condemned on acknowledging themselves Christians. People were startled, but poor slaves have few friends, and the matter blew over. Suddenly the praetor grows more religious, decrees foreign to the usual spirit of Athenian government are enacted; a test is instituted, and several free citizens of Athens have to abide the scrutiny; executions follow, and Chione's reputation suffers, for it is currently reported that it is she who instigates the inquiry and persecutes the new sect.

The Roman praetor evidently takes counsel of her. But there comes one concerning whom even he hesitates; a young lady, daughter of a philosopher, one beloved for her private virtues, is brought before the judge. "Sacrifice to the genius of the emperor." "I cannot." "Why not?" "I am a Christian." How often have the words been repeated; they are so simple, yet so fraught with consequence; how many perished under that simple interrogatory! Lotis undergoes it; she is remanded; the praetor seeks to release her; he is sick of his office when it hits upon the young, the innocent, the lovely; the outside interests him, he cannot see the soul. Faith, ever young, has sustained many an aged slave, wrinkled with age; has adorned many a worker embrowned and toil-worn, bearing marks on his frame that his life has not been spent in uselessness; but these excited only a passing interest, if any--they were common people (would that the toiling saints were more common!) they went to their doom, by fire or by the headsman, unmarked by men and unpitied, though Heaven assumed their souls with hymns of joy, dressed them in white garments, crowned them with brilliants, endowed them with perpetual youth and with beauty that never will fade. But here comes a lady. The praetor understands that she has slaves to wait upon her, every luxury attends her; she may lead a life of indolence, if she pleases. These are the exterior signs, the signs that awaken commiseration. The praetor hesitates. {264} Chione does not hesitate. The prisoner is not only a Christian, she is a member of a conspiracy just laid open to Chione's apprehension. She has lived in the city longer than the praetor, she knows its dangers. This Lotis is a dangerous person, she is a personal enemy to Chione; she must die; nay, Chione names the manner of her death; she is to die by fire. The praetor, infatuated by his passion for the guilty woman who prescribes to him the sentence he is to pronounce, submits, gently hinting that he looks for his reward. "Reward!" says Chione to herself, "is not a smile from me reward enough for a barbarian like him?" And in her egotism, she really believes she is speaking the simple truth.

The sentence is pronounced; horror seizes the city; to-morrow the flames are to consume the conspirators, who are many in number; and Lotis is among them; there is no escape.

The ancient bishop contrives, however, to visit his condemned flock, bearing consolation, courage, and, above all, the blessed sacrament, with him. To each and all he addressed himself according to their needs; if he, too, staid a little longer with Lotis than with the others, it arose out of a previous conversation, and because he wished to promote a holy work.

"My daughter, do you know who has stirred up this accusation against you?"

"I rather guess than know it, father. What have I done to draw down Chione's hatred?"

"She is jealous of Magas in your regard. She cannot appreciate the depth of Christian devotedness; she can understand selfish aims alone."

"Poor Chione!"

"Do you, from your heart, forgive her?"

"I have not thought about forgiveness; I pity her too much."

"Do you remember the conversation we had years ago?"

"About laying down my life for her? Father, I do."

"Are you willing to do so now?"

"If I thought it would save her soul, I am more than willing."

"Pray for her, then, my daughter."

......

'Twas a wild shriek that rang through the streets that morning, as Magas arrived just in time to see the procession set forth, to recognize Lotis, to hear Chione's name as the one who had procured her condemnation. "Stop, stop!" he had cried to the Roman soldiery; "stop! It is all a mistake; stop! In a few minutes it will be rectified. Stop for a short time, in the name of all that is holy!" Had Magas donned his patrician's dress and scattered largess, as in times of yore, his words would have been heeded; a few minutes would have been granted. Even now, his air, his manner, his authoritative gestures occasioned a slight pause; but his weather-stained appearance caused him to be considered as a plebeian, and the pause was not long. He flew rather than ran to Chione's abode. "Come," said he, "it seems you are omnipotent in Athens; come and prevent a murder." He dragged her with him to the praetor's house, but the great man was absent. A bright flame lit up the sky! "My God, if we are too late!" he cried. Almost carrying Chione in his arms, Magas hurried through the streets, till they came to a place set apart for the execution. It was already commenced; singing hymns of glory to God, one soul after another departed homeward. Magas paused opposite to Lotis; she made a sign of recognition. Magas turned to Chione. "Are you a devil," he shrieked, "that you have dared to do this?" "Forgive her, Magas, as I forgive her," said the dying Lotis. "Farewell, Chione! Friends we were in youth, and we shall yet meet in heaven." Lotis was gone.

{265}

"Meet in heaven! meet in heaven! meet in heaven! I and Lotis meet in heaven! meet in heaven! Magas, tell me, Magas, can it be?"

The brain of Magas was on fire with excitement, and he held a murderess in his arms; but he was a Christian priest, and he answered solemnly:

"God is merciful; Christ died for sinners. Do penance; it may be yet."

Conclusion.

Very many years have passed away, and if the dignity of person is considered, a more solemn martyrdom than the last we have commemorated is to take place. The venerable bishop and his companions, some priests, some laymen, are to lay their heads upon the block--among them Magas. A woman veiled, bearing but few remains of beauty or of youth, was also there; but not a prisoner; she was there to kneel at the bishop's feet, to pray for his blessing. That morning, for the first time for long, long years, had that woman knelt within a Christian church--had received the adorable sacrament of the body and blood of our Lord, after years of penance heroically, _lovingly_ performed at the entrance to the building. That morning she had been absolved, that morning communicated. Ere he went to his home in heaven, the venerable bishop, who had sustained the fainting and often faltering soul through so many years of expiation, had thought fit to pronounce her purified, to command that she should again take her place among the faithful. She came to thank him; to accompany him--him and Magas! Consoled, the procession moved along. Chione--such was the name of the penitent--knelt as the victims knelt. The bishop, ere he surrendered himself, gave his blessing to all the assembly. Magas preceded him to the block. When the axe fell, the woman fell also. Magas and Chione stood together before the judgment-seat of God.

-------

Translated From Le Correspondant.

Abyssinia And King Theodore.

By Antoine D'Abbadie.

A Spanish bull having accidentally strayed on a railroad, which spoiled the beauty of his beloved country, met a locomotive. The king of the pasture-lands, fired with anger at the violation of his right, and listening only to the voice of his courage, lowered his head and butted with his horns so accustomed to victory against the mail-clad invader of his verdant fields. This battle is an image of that which is going to take place between England and Theodore, King of the Kings of Ethiopia. It is plain that it is not Theodore who represents the locomotive.

{266}

Before explaining the true motives of the costly English expedition to Abyssinia, it may be well to look at the physical and moral condition of the country which is to be the scene of conflict, and where I passed more than ten years of my youth.

The whole extent of territory from Suez and Aquabah to the Strait of Mandeb, or _affliction_, along the shores of the Red Sea, is barren and desolate. The small, scattered towns in this region owe their existence to commercial travelling; and even in the most favored portions of the land it takes a two or three days' journey from the salt water into the interior, before meeting cultivated fields.

The only deep bay in the south of the Red Sea is that of Adulis, which the natives designate by the "Gulf of Velvet," perhaps on account of the smoothness of its waters, sheltered by the palisades which guard it on the eastern side. The English, who are fond of baptizing territories before conquering them, have called this part of the sea, "The bay of Annesley." This name is said to be that of the family of Lord Valentia, who, little versed in geography, imagined that he had discovered in 1809 those celebrated districts anciently frequented by Egyptian merchants in the time of the Ptolemies. The island of Desa, formed by a row of schistous hills, shelters the entrance to the bay of Adulis, which we call by this name in memory of that flourishing city of Adulis, which stood by its waves up to the sixth century of our era. The natives still show the site of that Grecian city, and inform the traveller that it was swallowed up by an earthquake. Of its past greatness, there remain but a small number of carved capitals in the lava of the environs, and some sculptured marbles which seem to display the Byzantine style. Near these ruins is the large village of Zullah, which contained, in 1840, two hundred and fourteen cabins, and a population of about one thousand souls. It is from Zullah that the shortest route lies to the plains and highlands of Ethiopia, or, as the English call it, Abyssinia.

Except during January and February, when the weather is still warm, Zullah suffers from the frightful heat which pervades the whole of that stretch of low land called Samhar, which lies along the sea. Wishing to take a bath during the summer, I could not, by reason of the seeming excessive coldness of the water. But placing a thermometer in it, I found the temperature 36 degrees, while in the shade the air was at 48 degrees. I found it at 65 degrees in the between-decks of a French steamer; and when evening brings a refreshing breeze to cool this burning atmosphere, one is tempted to say with a Frenchman after having escaped during the bloody "reign of terror:" "I have done a great deal, for I have managed to live."

Travellers at this season start at midnight, and traverse, on their way into Ethiopia, a plain as barren as desolation itself. Sometimes they encounter the _Karif_, an atmospheric column of a red brick color, which appears on the horizon like a living phantom. This column seems to increase in volume as it approaches, the air that drives it along roaring like a whirlwind. Man and beast are obliged to turn their backs to it, and it covers them with a dry, black cloud, as with a mantle of horror. In a few minutes the _Karif_ passes away; and men are glad to be out of its hideous gloom, even though it be but to wander again through that intense but quiet heat which broods over the Samhar. Sometimes, also, the _Harur_, which the Arabs call the _Simoom_ or _paison_, surprises the traveller. {267} This wind comes without any previous sign of warning, belching out burning death like a furnace. The patient camel then puts his head on the ground, rejoiced to find relief even in the relative freshness of the scorching earth; the strongest of the natives succumb; and such is the sudden and complete prostration of human strength during the simoom, that in the open country I have been unable to hold up a small thermometer, to learn at least the temperature of this strange wind, which science has as yet failed to explain. This Harur lasted five minutes. They say that men and beasts die if it lasts a quarter of an hour.

After crossing those desert plains, the traveller finds the country gradually assume an undulating character. A stream is met. Mountains rise up before him, and deep, verdant valleys extend among them.

I often visited those valleys with, the vain hope of seeing a phenomenon very rare in Europe. During the summer season caravans repose or march in perfect safety under a serene sky, when suddenly the practised ear of a native hears a strange noise in the distance, rapidly increasing in loudness. He cries out, "The torrent!" and climbs breathlessly up the nearest height. In less than half a minute after, the whole valley disappears under a broad and deep stream, which carries with it trees, pieces of rock, and even wild beasts. Rising in an instant, those torrents vanish in a day, and leave no trace of their passage, save ruins of all sorts, and pools of stagnant water in the indentations of the soil. The general nakedness of the mountains explains these strange phenomena. From the bottom of the funnel in which the traveller stands when he is in one of those valleys, he cannot see the small clouds which let fall their liquid burdens with an abundance unknown out of the tropical climates. There is very little loam, and still less of roots of trees to absorb this sudden rain; so that it rolls from rock to rock, as on a roof, rushes through every little valley, and mingles in one common river, as frightful as it is transitory. One day, as I arrived just too late to behold it in all its grandeur, I found a solitary individual, who, with a stupefied look, regarded the still humid earth. "God save you," said I, "what news have you? Where are your arms? Can a man like you remain without lance or buckler?" "May you live long and well!" he replied. "The torrent has carried away my lance, my buckler, my ass, my camel, and my whole substance, my wife and my children. Woe is me! Woe is me!" I then turned to my guide and asked him: "Does thy brother speak truly?" "Doubtless," answered he, "and if the torrent came at this moment, unless we were warned of its approach by the small noise of which I have spoken, it is not the most swift-footed, but the most lucky, who would be saved." Then turning toward the son of his tribe--"May God console thee, my brother!" We all repeated this pious wish, and continued our route, without being able to give anything to this wretched man, for we had neither victuals nor money; and from the summit of the neighboring hills we could hear him repeating for a long time, "Woe is me! Woe is me!"

For more than two centuries the civilization and native wealth of Ethiopia have been concentrated around Lake Tana. Just on its shores stands Quarata, the largest city of oriental Africa--proud of its sanctuary and its twelve thousand inhabitants. A little further on is Aringo, the Versailles of the dusky kings. {268} Near it is Dabra Tabor, the capital, or rather the camp of the last chiefs, as well as of the actual sovereign; and finally, on a spur of mountain which projects to the south, appears Gondar--the famous Gondar, which I have seen, still powerful, although reduced to eight thousand inhabitants, only a fourth of its former population. Of all the faults of King Theodore, that which the Ethiopians will be least ready to forgive is his having systematically burned the city of Gondar. Of seventeen churches, only two have escaped this cool and useless cruelty of the despot.

The Ethiopians are a people of very mixed origin. Languages, institutions, usages, and prejudices, even the shades of color and the formations of the human body, are placed in strange juxtaposition with one another. Except the Somal, who afford instances of tall stature, the Ethiopians are of medium height, have thick lips, white and well-formed teeth, and are of slender frame. Their hair is curly; but straight hair, though rare, is sometimes seen. The Semites have often the aquiline nose of the Europeans. As to the color of the skin, all degrees, from the copper color of the Neapolitan to the jet black of the negro, are found. This latter color is often allied to European features. There is an unconscious and natural grace in all the movements and actions of the Ethiopians. Our sculptors might study their gestures and drapery with profit.

On the coast, to the north of Zullah, live the Tigre, whose language, traditions, and customs entitle them to be considered among the descendants of Sem, like the Hebrews and Arabs. The same must be said of the Tigray, who inhabit the neighboring plateau, and speak a kindred idiom to that of the Tigre. The Amaras, more lively, more intelligent, and more civilized, live in the interior, and use a language of Semitic origin, yet modified by associations with the sons of Cham. This is the language used by most European travellers, for it is commonly employed by the merchant, by the learned, and in diplomacy. The Giiz, or Ethiopian, closely connected with the Tigre, is the dead language, the Latin of those distant countries. It is used in quotations, in philosophical and religious discussions, and sometimes to conceal the sense of a conversation from the vulgar. From Tujurrah to the environs of Zullah, a common language, entirely different from those which we have mentioned, unites all the fractions of the Afar nation, often called Dankalis, but improperly, for the Dankalas, the Adali, etc., are only tribes of the Afar. The Sahos, who are the most numerous among the inhabitants of Zullah, and extend along all the slopes of the neighboring plain, consider themselves as strangers to the Afar, and speak a distinct but affiliated dialect. Another idiom much more important by the number of the nations who use it, has also the same origin as the Afar tongue. We mean the Ylmorma used by the Oromos, whose name in war is Gallei or Galla, and who, by reason of their conquests, have extended their sway from the Afar country as far as to the still unknown regions of interior Africa. Called Gallas by all the Christians of Ethiopia, the Oromos threaten, by their proximity, the stronghold of Magdala, where the English prisoners have been awaiting for four years the arrival of their avenging countrymen.

A serious calculation of the population of any African nation has never been made. As to the centres of population, a fatigued and disgusted traveller, looking at them from a distance and but for a moment, might state the census of such or such a city to be ten thousand souls. {269} An optimist, on the contrary, might gravely affirm that at least thirty thousand should be admitted as the correct number. It is, in fact, almost impossible to form a proper estimate of the population of Ethiopia. Considering its extent of territory, I should say there are three or four millions in it, though if some other traveller were to maintain that it contains six or eight millions I could not refute his opinion, owing to the fact that I do not know the proportion between the inhabited and the desert portions of the country.