The Catholic World, Vol. 06, October, 1867 to March, 1868.

by Various

My Meadowbrook Adventure.

"No, no, Tom; that is out of the question. I can't afford to go away just now. I am getting into a fine practice; the courts open in ten days; and besides, I am in the midst of an essay on the Law of Contracts which I promised for the next number of a certain law magazine. Your prescription is a very pleasant one; but really I can't take it. You must give me a good dose of medicine instead."

"I tell you what it is, Franklin, I don't let my patients dictate to me in that style. You have been fool enough to throw yourself into a nervous fever by working in this nasty den all summer, instead of taking a vacation-run to the country as you ought to have done; and now, if you don't follow my directions, I swear I won't cure you! Go off to some quiet farm-house for a week or two, and, if your essay on contracts weighs upon your mind, take the stupid stuff with you. I'll risk your working much at it after you get within scent of the fields."

I could not stand out very long against the bluff orders of my friend and physician Tom Bowlder. I knew, too, that he was right. I had overtasked myself. I had been dangerously ill; and, eager as I was to get on with my work, I could not help feeling that rest and change were absolutely necessary for me. So I packed my portmanteau, not forgetting my precious essay and a liberal supply of writing-paper, and the next morning saw me on the way to Meadowbrook.

It was a quiet, sleepy little village, nestling at the foot of a beautifully wooded ridge, and looking out from its shelter, across a slope of green fields, to a little stream which ran purling over the stones a quarter of a mile distant. Majestic old elm-trees shaded the grassy roads and swung their branches over the roofs of the trim little cottages. There was only one house in the place which pretended to be anything better than a cottage, and that was a rather stately villa, a good hundred years old at least, which stood a little way out of the village, surrounded with trees, and shut in from the public gaze by an enormous hawthorn hedge which ran around the extensive grounds. Meadowbrook House, or "the house," as it was generally called by the villagers, was the property of an old maiden lady named Forsythe, the daughter of a retired merchant who long years ago had chosen this quiet spot as a retreat for his old age. Mr. Forsythe was a Catholic, and one of his first actions after removing to Meadowbrook was to build the pretty stone church in the main street of the village, and to pledge a certain sum annually from his ample income for the support of the priest. When, after a long life of usefulness, he died and was buried by the side of his wife, leaving all his property to his daughter, who had already long passed the period of youth, the generosity of Miss Forsythe continued to supply what the poor little Catholic congregation was unable to give, and the excellent spinster was still the mainstay of the church. Poor Father James, an old man now of nearly seventy, would have fared ill but for her assistance.

So much I learned in an after-supper chat with my landlady on the night of my arrival. I cannot say that I was much engrossed at the time by the good woman's garrulous narrative, but after-events were to give me a deep interest in Meadowbrook House and in everything connected with it. I had taken lodgings in the village inn, a neat, quiet, respectable establishment, where there were few guests except the villagers who used to drop in of an evening to enjoy a little gossip and a pipe, and with whom, after a days' ramble, I used often to sit and smoke my cigar. I led an idle but most delicious life during my ten day's holiday. I ranged through the woods, with my gun on my shoulder, bringing home now and then a bird or so, but caring in reality more for the walk than the shooting. I whipped the brook for trout. I searched the fields for botanical specimens. I wandered about with a volume of Tennyson or Buchanan in my pocket, stopping at times to lie down and read under the trees. I did almost everything, in fact, except work at my essay, which remained in the portfolio where I had originally packed it.

One sunny afternoon I was dozing on my back in the shade of an apple orchard, when a strain of music was borne to my ears, beginning like the distant hum of bees, and gradually swelling on the air with slow and majestic cadences. I had never heard such music in Meadowbrook before. Curious to know whence it came, I followed the sound, and was not long in discovering that some practised hand was touching the wheezy little organ in the village church. Not the same hand which was accustomed painfully to struggle with the keys there on Sunday, and wring from them broken and doleful sounds to the distress of all nervous listeners. The person who was playing now had the touch of a master; and as the plaintive phrases of the Agnus Dei from Mozart's First Mass broke upon the solitude of the church, the rickety organ seemed infused with a new spirit. I could not have believed that so much pathos and such exquisite delicacy of tone could be drawn from the wretched instrument whose laborious whistling and puffing had set my teeth on edge the previous Sunday. I sat down in a pew under the gallery, and listened. It was not until twilight approached that the playing ceased. I heard the organ closed; the player was silent for a few moments; "He is saying a prayer," thought I; and then a soft step began to descend the stairs. Thinking it possible the performer might feel annoyed at perceiving a stranger in the church, I sat quietly in my place, confident that the growing darkness and the shelter of one of the pillars would screen me from observation. I could see very well, however, though I could not be seen, and my surprise was great when a slender female figure issued from the gallery staircase, and came within the light of the open street door. She was young—not more than eighteen, I should think—with a face of rare beauty, a pretty form, a light and graceful carriage, and the unmistakable air of a gentlewoman. Small, regular features, light brown eyes, cheeks like a peach, blooming with health, a profusion of dark hair, and an expression of remarkable simplicity and sweetness made up a picture of loveliness such as I had never seen before. She wore a fascinating little round hat, and when I first caught sight of her was just drawing on her gloves, and I could see that her hands were small and shapely. She bent her knee as she passed before the altar, and when she went out into the street the church seemed suddenly to have grown darker. My first impulse was to follow her; but I stopped, feeling that it would be an intrusion, and trusting that she would return the next day, if she supposed herself to be unobserved. So I kept still until she had been gone several minutes, and when I left the church she was nowhere to be seen.

I determined to ask my landlady about the fair musician, and that evening, when worthy Mrs. Brown brought me my supper, I detained her a few minutes in conversation—an amusement to which she was in noway adverse.

"It's been an elegant day, hasn't it, now, Mr. Franklin?" said the old woman, as she placed on the table the smoking rasher of ham and the pile of buttered toast; "and it's plain to see what a world of good this tramping about the country is doing you. I wouldn't say you were over-strong yet; but, Lord bless me! when you first came here, you were little better than a ghost. Well, well, sir, and I hope you won't find our little village too dull for you!"

"Dull! Mrs. Brown. Not a bit of it. I wish I could stay here a year. By the way, who is it plays the organ so beautifully in Meadowbrook church? I heard the music, and stopped awhile to listen."

"Plays the organ, sir? Well, you know there's Mr. Thrasher, the schoolmaster; he's the organist on Sundays, and very like you heard him practising—though why he should be out of school to-day, and this not a holiday—"

"Mr. Thrasher, Mrs. Brown, thumps on the organ as if he was thumping his pupils, and his singers scream as if they felt the blows. This was not Mr. Thrasher. It was a young lady!"

"Well, sir, I never knowed of no young lady playing the organ except it was Betty Cox, the butcher's daughter. They do say she has a wonderful talent for music, and Mr. Thrasher, he has been giving her lessons this last month, and I wouldn't wonder if it was her!"

Now, it had been my privilege to hear Miss Betty Cox finger the keys one day after Mass, and a more doleful performance I never had listened to. Even if I had not seen the performer, I should have been sure it was not Miss Betty; but, quite apart from her musical proficiency, I felt a little bit indignant that the beautiful girl who had made such an impression upon me should be mistaken for a Betty Cox. No, she was not one of the village damsels; that was clear. And unfortunately it was equally clear that Mrs. Brown knew no more about her than I did myself.

I fell asleep that night humming the Agnus Dei, and dreamed of angels with round hats and brown kid gloves, playing on rickety organs, and hurling legions of musty school-masters out of the clouds.

The next day I took my book to the church-yard, and chose a shady spot where I could hear the first notes of the organ. I waited a long while, reading little, for I could not fix my attention on the page. At last she came, as I had hoped. For more than an hour I listened to the exquisite tones which seemed to flow from her agile fingers. Then she went away without perceiving me.

I need hardly say that I made many another visit to the church, for the pursuit of the fair organist had now become a genuine passion with me. Sometimes I waited all the afternoon without seeing or hearing her. Then I used to go to my room and be moody and miserable all the evening. A rainy day would throw me into despair, and I watched the clouds with the eagerness of a schoolboy on a holiday. My readers will not need to be told that I was falling desperately in love. Once or twice I met her walking, and had an opportunity to notice more particularly the singular beauty of her form and countenance, and the refined and quiet air which pervaded her whole person. Once I met her by accident at the crossing of a brook. I gave her my hand to help her over, and she took it with the modest frankness of a true lady, saying, "Thank you, sir," in a voice which seemed to me as sweet as her face. Yes, I was certainly in love.

I might easily have found out all about her by asking a few questions in the village, where the shopkeepers, at all events, would hardly be as ill informed as my landlady; but since my conversation with Mrs. Brown I had become, I know not why, unwilling to speak of her. I had grown to look upon her as my secret, which I was disposed to guard pretty jealously. A bit of mystery, be it ever so little and unnecessary, is one of the most charming things in the world to a young lover, and I have always thought that Sheridan displayed great knowledge of human nature when he made Lydia Languish refuse to be married without an elopement. At some time in our lives almost all of us give way to more or less of the same sort of nonsense.

There came a sudden end at last to my mooning and dreaming, and it came in a way with which even Lydia Languish herself could not have quarrelled. I had been off one day on a long ramble among the hills, and, missing my way, did not get back to Meadowbrook until close upon evening. As I came near the village, I was made aware of some extraordinary commotion in the place. Men and women were hurrying through the streets, and voices were shouting in excited tones. I ran after the crowd, and as I turned into the main street a glance in the direction of the church revealed the cause of the disturbance. Flames were bursting through the gallery windows, and a dense smoke poured through the open door. Nearly the whole population of Meadowbrook had gathered around the scene of disaster. The men, and some of the women with them, had formed lines leading to one or two of the nearest wells, and were passing buckets with all the speed they could; but it was too evident with but little prospect of subduing the conflagration. I have already mentioned that the building was of stone, so there was little fear of the walls falling; but the woodwork of the interior was old, and burned almost like tinder. The organ-gallery was, of course, of wood, and inside the tower, which stood at the front of the edifice, there was a wooden staircase, forming the only means of access to the gallery. It was in the tower, I saw at once, that the flames were burning most fiercely. The rear of the church was as yet untouched. I need hardly tell what my first thought was when I saw the cruel glare that lighted up the approaching twilight. A sickening sensation crept over me. If the fair musician was in the gallery when the fire broke out, her escape seemed effectually cut off. I ran forward but there was little need to ask questions. The distressed expression on every face, the eager eyes fixed upon the windows of the gallery, the frantic but vain efforts of one or two of the boldest of the crowd to penetrate the doorway, out of which the smoke was rolling in great black clouds, told me that my worst fears were true.

"Ah! sir," said one of the men "it's a dreadful thing to see a pretty young creature like that burned to death before our very eyes. But we can't get to her!"

A cold perspiration broke out upon my forehead, and for a moment I reeled like a drunkard. "Good heavens!" I cried; "have you no ladders?"

"Yes, we have two; but look at the tower, sir. There's no window except in the belfry, and both the ladders together would not reach that."

"Take the ladders into the church by the back way," I cried, "and get up the front of the gallery! Here," I added, pulling out my purse, "this for the first man who reaches her."

"We wouldn't want your money, sir, if we could get at the young lady," answered one or two voices together; "but there's little use in trying. Three men have gone into the church already."

They were still speaking when there was a stir among the crowd at the side of the building, and the three men reappeared. Their clothes were scorched, and even their hair was slightly singed.

"Can't do it," said one; "the gallery front is burning like a furnace. We got the ladders up, but we could not climb them and hardly got them away again."

"Did you see anything of her?"

"No, and didn't hear a sound. If she has not been choked already by the smoke, she must have gone up into the tower."

It was a slight hope, yet there was something in it after all. Behind the organ there was, as I knew, a door opening into a sort of lumber-room in the tower, from which a rude flight of steps, terminating in a ladder, led up to the bell. It was possible that when she found the gallery staircase in flames, (I afterward learned that it was here the fire broke out; it was supposed to have been caused by a coal dropped on the stairs by a tinker who had been repairing the roof that afternoon)—it was just possible, I say, that she might have retreated up these steps in the hope of being rescued through the belfry window. For a moment or two after the failure to reach her through the interior, there was a pause of awful suspense. Whatever was to be done, however, must be done at once. The flames were making rapid headway, and in ten minutes nothing would be left of the tower but the bare stone shell. Already it was doubtful if any one could survive even in the upper portion of it. The men were still throwing bucketfuls of water into the burning porch with frantic speed; but this, of course, did little good, for the fire was spreading high above their reach. Others were running helplessly about with coils of rope. Suddenly a thought seized me. Just in front of the church, but on the opposite side of the road, stood an enormous elm-tree. Some of its upper branches reached within fifty feet of the top of the tower. Was it not possible to bridge across that chasm?

"Is there any opening," I cried, "in the tower roof?"

"No, sir; none at all."

"Give me an axe and some rope."

Two or three axes were thrust at me. I took one, and tied it round my waist with a long coil of rope. Then I chose out another coil, and, throwing it over one of the lower limbs of the elm-tree, clambered with some difficulty into the branches. It would have been very hard climbing without the rope; but as I could throw it from limb to limb where I could not reach, and as I was a sufficiently expert gymnast to pull myself up by it, a few seconds saw me on one of the upper branches which had caught my eye from below. There was a battlement around the top of the tower, and I thought if I could secure one end of the rope to one of the projections of this battlement, I might contrive, by tying the other to the tree, to work my way across. I made a large slip-noose, gathered up the line like a lasso, and cast it with all my strength. The first attempt failed. The crowd below saw my object now, and gave a tremendous cheer. I tried again, and this time the noose caught upon the battlement. I drew up the rope as tight as I could, tied it fast to the tree, and, clasping it with my legs and hands, began the most dangerous and difficult part of my enterprise. There was a breathless silence below as I pulled myself across the awful chasm. I could hear the roar and crackling of the flames, and the hot air and acrid smoke were driven into my face until I thought I should have fainted and fallen to the ground. At last I reached the battlement. With much trouble I clambered upon the roof, and while the excited villagers were screaming themselves hoarse and hurrahing like madmen—I hardly heard their cries at the time, but, with other incidents of that memorable afternoon, they came to me afterward—I plied my axe so vigorously that in a few minutes I had stripped off a section of the roofing, and made an opening two or three feet square. It was too dark now to distinguish anything in the interior, but I knew that the platform on which the bell rested must be some twelve or fifteen feet below me. Fastening the second coil of rope to the battlement, I let myself down through the hole until I felt the solid planking under my feet. There was a suffocating odor of fire, but the air was still pure enough to be breathed without serious inconvenience, groped about in the dark until I found the ladder leading below, and, trembling with apprehension, hurried down as fast as I was able. I shouted, but there was no answer. I reached the landing-stage where the ladder stopped and the rough steps, already mentioned, began, and at this moment some barrier which had kept the flames confined below seemed to give way, and a flood of light streamed up the staircase. I hurried on with the energy of desperation. When I reached the lumber-room, the door-way leading into the gallery was wrapped in fire. Through it I could see the old organ blazing, the planks dropping off one by one, and the metal pipes melting under the intense heat. The lower staircase was nearly consumed, and the floor of the room itself had caught in several places. The dreadful glow reflected upon the rough stone walls and rugged beams showed me in a moment what I had come to seek. There, in a remote corner which the fire had not yet reached, was a female form stretched senseless on the floor. A round hat was lying beside her, and her rich brown hair fell in graceful waves over her neck. Her white arms, from which the sleeves had fallen back, were stretched out before her, and her fingers clasped a rosary, as if her last conscious act had been a prayer. I seized her by the waist, and, with a strength at which I even now wonder, rushed with my burden toward the steps which I had just descended. She was still living. I could feel the beating of her heart and the heaving of her breast, and my joy at this discovery gave me fresh energy. How I got her up the steps I never clearly knew; but in a short space of time I had reached the top of the ladder and burst open the single window which looked out from the bell-chamber. The cool air revived her almost instantly. I held her up for a moment by the window, and, as she opened her eyes with a bewildered stare, I tried to say a word to calm her. She gazed at me an instant and then burst into tears, and her head fell forward on my shoulder.

"Fear nothing, dear lady," said I, "you are safe now. Collect your strength as much as you can. I am going to let you down through this window."

"And yourself!" she asked, staggering to her feet.

"Oh! make yourself easy about me. I shall follow you by the same way. You have only to keep calm, and there is little real danger."

The rope by which I had descended from the roof was still hanging there. I whipped out my knife, and cut it off as high as I could, there was still enough left to reach within fifteen feet of the ground. I tied it around her waist, wrapping my coat about it, so that it might chafe her as little as possible, gave it two turns around the windlass of the bell to strengthen my hold, and then shouted to the crowd below to put up their longest ladder under the window. A cheer told me that I was understood, and, before the preparations for the descent were quite finished, I saw a ladder raised against the wall, and two or three stout fellows standing ready to receive my burden.

"Now," said I, "you have only to be careful to keep yourself clear of the stones with your feet; grasp the rope by this knot to diminish the strain on your waist, and trust me for the rest."

The window was so near the floor that there was little difficulty in her getting out. I braced my feet firmly against the windlass, and lowered away carefully, but as fast as I dared, for the increased roaring of the flames below warned me that I had not a second to lose. The openings I had made in the roof and window had, of course, created a strong draught in the tower, and the fire was now burning in it like a furnace. Her feet touched the topmost round of the ladder just as I had got within a yard of the end of the rope. A pair of brawny arms received her, and at that moment the floor of the lumber room and gallery fell in with an awful crash; there was a lull for an instant; then a dense mass of smoke, flame, and cinders burst forth, as if belched from a volcano, and in less than a minute the outside as well as the interior of the tower was wrapped in flame. Not soon enough, however, to touch what I had fought so hard to save. I thank God I had the presence of mind, when I heard the crash, to know what was coming; and, that no precious moments might be lost in unfastening the rope from her waist, I threw the other end out the window the instant I saw her foothold was secure, and the men hurried her down the ladder just in time. I heard her utter a cry of horror as I sacrificed my own means of escape, and, looking out, I saw her carried senseless away. Terrible as my danger was, I could not help noticing the awful grandeur of the scene. Twilight had given way to night, but the red glare illuminated the surrounding objects, and threw a flickering, unearthly light upon the upturned faces of the crowd. I saw women running to and fro, wringing their hands in despair, and men looking up at the window where I stood, with an expression of mingled fright and pity. But, if I had had a mile of rope, it would have been of little use to me now. The burning timbers had fallen outside the door of the tower, and I could not have let myself down without falling into the midst of them. I thought of the bell-rope; if I could get back to the roof with that, I might let myself down at the side. It would not be long enough to reach near the ground, but, if I escaped with a broken leg, that would be better anyhow than being burnt to death. I seized the rope where it was attached to the bell, and began to pull it up through the hole in the floor; a few feet of it only came away in my hand; the rest had been consumed. The smoke by this time was pouring through every crack, and the heat of the small chamber in which I stood was so intense that I knew that, too, must soon fall in. The roof was about twelve feet above me. My last hope was to reach it, and return by the same frightful bridge by which I had worked my way over. I shuddered to think of trusting myself again upon that dizzy crossing, with my hands already torn and bleeding, my brain reeling, and my eyes half-blinded. I sprang, however, upon the windlass, and made one desperate leap for the hole in the roof. I just grasped the rafters, and as I did so the planks upon which I had been standing gave way, and the bell and its platform sank into the ruins. I never can forget the horror of that moment when, as I made my leap, I felt the timbers crack and fall under my foot into the blazing abyss. For the present, however, I was safe. I had got a firm hold, and with much exertion, nerved by the strength of desperation, I succeeded in drawing myself up and getting upon the roof. The rope-bridge was still there. I staggered toward it, and as I showed myself over the battlements a hearty cheer went up from the crowd, who had given me up for lost when the belfry fell in. I heard, yet hardly heeded them. In the act of climbing over the parapet, my eye fell upon the fragment of the second rope which I had cut away. Scarcely reflecting upon what I did, yet with a sort of providential instinct, I loosened it from the wall, tied one end around my body, and passed the other around the rope which had to support me across the dreadful chasm, making it fast with a noose which would slip easily as I pulled myself along. Thus the whole weight of my body would not have to be borne by my disabled hands. This precaution, I believe, was all that saved me. I made the crossing with great pain, dizzy from excitement and over-exertion, and suffering intensely from the smoke and flames which the wind was now driving upon me. Ten or twenty yards of the distance were yet to be passed, when I was dimly conscious of a sudden swaying of the crowd, a suppressed groan from many voices at once, then a quick slackening of the rope, a thundering crash as of falling walls, and a quick rush of air that took away my breath. Mechanically I tightened my grasp. Without seeing, I knew what had happened. The tower had fallen in. It has often been mentioned how in a moment of deadly peril the memories of years will rush across the mind with the speed of lightning. Now, in the instant while I was falling through the air, I had time to notice the excitement of the people, to comprehend what had taken place, to breathe a short prayer, and to calculate my chances of being dashed to pieces against either the trunk of the tree or some of the lower branches. But the same good Lord who had saved me before was again on my side. The rope swung free of obstructions; I was jerked once or twice back and forth; I lost my hold; there was a sharp pain as if some one had struck me a tremendous blow, and I knew no more.

When I came to my senses again, it was with a feeling of bewilderment inexpressibly painful. I recognized nothing about me; I remembered nothing that had happened. I was lying in bed in a large, cheerful room, so bright and pretty that it was comfort even to look at it. The sun was struggling through the closed blinds, two or three logs of wood blazed in the capacious fire-place, and two luxurious, great, chintz-covered armchairs stood before the hearth. The walls were hung with a neat flowered paper, and the mantel-shelf was decorated with curious old china vases and various knick-knacks. Everything was the perfection of cleanliness and order, yet nothing looked prim. The coverlid on the bed was of warm, harmonious tints; the linen was, beautifully soft and white; there was a table in the middle of the room, covered with a bright cloth, and bearing a number of books and a dish of luscious-looking fruit; and on a little stand by the bedside was a bouquet of rare hot-house flowers. Here was a pleasant scene to open one's eyes upon; but where was I? I threw myself back upon the pillow, and gradually the events I have narrated in the preceding pages shaped themselves in my memory. I felt very weak, but I was not long in satisfying myself that I had broken no bones. I looked at my wounded hands. They were covered with scars, but the wounds were healed. I knew then that I must have been lying there a pretty long time. I was still wondering, when the door opened softly, and a tidy-looking elderly woman, whose dress indicated that she was some sort of an upper servant, came into the room. She uttered an exclamation of pleasure when she caught my eye, and came up to the bedside.

"Well, sir," said she, "it does my heart good to see you looking so much better. You've had a hard time of it, that's the truth; but we'll soon have you up, now."

"You're very kind," I answered; "anybody might get well in this room; but please tell me where I am."

"O sir! you're at Meadowbrook House. Miss Forsythe had you fetched here right after the fire." "How long ago was that?" "About two weeks." "So long! I must have been very sick. You are very good."

I thought she seemed a little surprised at the fervor of my gratitude; but I took no notice of it, and was going on to ask her further questions when she very peremptorily shut me up.

"Now, that will do," said she; "don't say another word. You must keep quiet for a while; if you talk, I'll go away and not come near you again."

"Just one thing more. Who brought those flowers?"

"Well, if you must know, Miss Forsythe herself. She brings them every day. I suppose she'd scold if she knew I told you. But now, keep quiet till the doctor comes, and, if he is willing, I'll chat with you as much as you please."

So saying, the good-natured nurse to ensure my silence, left the room. But, indeed, I felt little desire to talk any more just then. I had asked about the flowers with a vague hope that they might have been culled by the hand which I had learned to prize so dear, and I am ashamed to say that, when the name of the excellent old lady, whose hospitality I was receiving was mentioned, I turned my head with a sigh of disappointment. I fell to worrying about the fair organist; wondering whether she had suffered any harm from the perilous occurrences of that memorable night; whether I should ever meet her again, and how we should meet; how I could approach her without seeming to presume upon the service I had rendered; and, finally, why Miss Forsythe should have lavished so much care and kindness on a total stranger. I was in the midst of such reveries when my nurse returned and ushered in the doctor.

"Well, Franklin, old fellow! Got your wits again, have you?" exclaimed a cheery and familiar voice. "That's right; now we'll soon get you on your legs."

The doctor was no other than my old friend Tom Bowlder. He had heard of my accident, hurried down to Meadowbrook, taken entire control of me, established a close friendship with the lady of the mansion, put himself on the best of terms with the housekeeper, Mrs. Benson, and installed her as nurse, and, thanks to his skill and tenderness, I had passed safely through a dangerous crisis. After putting a few professional questions, he sat down by the bedside, and indulged me with a little conversation.

"Well, old boy," said he, "I suppose you want to be told first about yourself." (I did not; but I let him go on.) "You've had an ugly time of it—brain fever and that sort of thing, you know—and it's a wonder you weren't killed outright. But you are all right now, and you can have the satisfaction of knowing that you saved one of the prettiest girls that ever breathed, and I do believe one of the best."

"She is not hurt, then?"

"Not a bit."

"And you have seen her? Is she still in Meadowbrook?"

"Seen her! Why, of course I have. How could I help it? I see her every day."

In spite of my previous perplexity how I should conduct myself if I ever met her again, I was now so eager for the meeting that, weak as I was, I wanted to get up at once. But to this, of course, Doctor Tom would not listen.

"Yes; but, Tom, you mustn't keep me here for ever. I want to—to see"—I stammered and broke down—"to see Miss Forsythe, you know, and thank her for taking care of me."

"All in good time, Franklin. I don't mean to keep you in bed much longer; and the moment you are able to leave the room, I promise you shall see her, and make as many acknowledgments as you want to. For the rest of the afternoon, however, you must keep quiet. There, now, you have talked enough for one day. Good-by." And so saying, Tom left me to myself.

Mrs. Benson soon came back, bringing a tray covered with a snow-white napkin, a bowl of gruel, and a glass of wine. Tom had evidently given her instructions; for I could not draw her into conversation, and, as soon as she had seen me comfortably fixed, she went away again.

The next morning, Tom paid me an early visit, and doled out a few more scraps of information. I learned that Miss Forsythe had caused all my luggage to be brought from the inn, and that, as long as I could be persuaded to remain in Meadowbrook, I was to make her house my home. "You need not look surprised," added Bowlder. "I satisfied her that you were a very respectable person; and, indeed, I believe the old lady knows some of your family."

"Well, see here, Tom; when I was out of my head, did I talk much?"

"Talk! I should think you did! Chattered like a magpie; raved about round hats and little brown gloves, talked a good deal of lovers' nonsense, and sometimes hummed a few bars of music—Miss Forsythe said it was a bit out of one of Mozart's Masses. One day you grabbed a hold of me, and asked if I knew you had been listening under the gallery, and 'if she knew about your loving her.' Miss Forsythe blushed like a rose, and went out of the room."

"Did she?" said I, blushing now in my turn. "I don't see what difference that ought to make to her."

Tom opened his eyes at this remark in a very curious way.

"Well," said he, "I thought it might make a good deal of difference; but I suppose you two know best. Now I must be off. Old Doctor Jalap, who physics the villagers, has fallen sick himself, and I have to take care of him and his patients, too. I mean to let you get up tomorrow, though I would not advise you to go into the streets till you have got all your old strength, and some to spare. The people down here have got the preposterous idea that you're a sort of a hero, and whenever you show yourself, they'll shake you to death with congratulations."

When Tom had gone, I thought a great deal over his remark about Miss Forsythe, but I could not comprehend it. The old lady had certainly been very kind to me; but, even if she did know my family, it was unreasonable to suppose that she should take a very warm interest in my love affairs. And what did Tom mean by saying that "we two knew best?" The more I reflected, the more I got puzzled. Possibly, said I, Miss Forsythe knows this young lady. At any rate, I'll lose no time in seeing her. I can't lie here, muddling my brains, any longer. So I got up, found my clothes, dressed, and made my way down-stairs. Mrs. Benson met me in the hall, and, of course, began to scold; but she had to admit that I seemed stronger, after all, than anybody suspected me to be, and, now that the mischief was done, I might as well see Miss Forsythe. "You'll find her in the parlor, sir; she's just come in from the garden."

There was no one in the parlor when I entered it, but at the further end of the room was an open door leading to a conservatory, and there I caught a glimpse of somebody moving among the flowers. I went forward, and saw a lady, whose back was toward me, in the act of plucking a flower to add to a bunch in her hand. She did not hear me until I spoke:

"Miss Forsythe, I don't know how to thank you properly for—"

I stopped in amazement, for, as she turned, I beheld not the good old spinster, but that sweet, innocent young face which had so long haunted me. She started at my voice. A deep blush suffused her features. She hesitated a moment; she cast down her eyes; and then, with a frankness which was even more charming than her maiden modesty, she sprang forward to meet me, and placed both her little hands in mine.

I have no purpose of repeating all the foolish things we said in the next half hour. This was the Miss Forsythe who had watched over my sick-room, and had run away when I raved about her in my delirium. It never occurred to me, when Tom Bowlder made his last puzzling remarks, that there could be any other Miss Forsythe than the mistress of Meadowbrook House. My Miss Forsythe was the niece of that good lady, and, when I first met her, had just arrived in Meadowbrook on a visit for the first time in her life. The aunt came into the room, after a while, and I then had an opportunity of making my interrupted acknowledgments in the right quarter, and beginning a friendship with her which I look upon as one of the blessings of my life. Tom came back, too, before long, and, though he pretended, at first, to scold me for breaking out of bounds before I had been regularly discharged by my physician, he must have seen, by the sparkle in my eyes and the elasticity which happiness imparted to my whole frame, that my rashness had been of a vast deal of service to me.

"Doctor," said the old lady, "I think you and I must let him alone. Mr. Franklin seems to have changed his physician, and I dare say Mary, there, will do him more good now than all the medicines in the world."

"Upon my word, Miss Forsythe, I believe you're right; and, if Miss Mary will take care not to lead her patient through any more fiery furnaces, I'll trust the case to her hands."

I have only to add to my story that the essay on the Law of Contracts was never finished, business of a very engrossing nature (including a contract of a peculiarly interesting kind) absorbing all my spare moments during the next few months. By the liberality of the elder Miss Forsythe the little church was soon restored, and the asthmatic organ which had played such a memorable part in my life was replaced by a new and excellent instrument. The flames, fortunately, had spared the sanctuary and all the rear portion of the building. As soon as the repairs were finished, there was a merry wedding at Meadowbrook, and Father James gave us his blessing as we knelt together in the sacred place where we had so narrowly escaped together from a horrible death. The little side-altar, which has since been put up in the church, was built by my wife and me to commemorate our deliverance. Once or twice a year we make a visit of a week or so to dear Aunt Forsythe at Meadowbrook. Mary and I never fail at such times to say a prayer of thanksgiving in the church. Then we stray together into the organ gallery, and, while the old familiar strains flow from her touch, I sit by her side, and thank God in my heart for blessing me with so sweet a wife.

---

Joy In Grief.
From The French Of Marie Jenna.

"Blessed are they that mourn:
for they shall be comforted."

Friend! in vain thy bosom hides the sharp and cruel sword that wounds it.
I have understood thy silence, and my prayer hath still been for thee.
Cast away the foolish pride that shuts thy heart against my friendship;
Come, and weep before me.
Well I know that there are days of heavy grief and lonely suffering,
When the soul doth find in solitude a grim and bitter pleasure;
And the thoughtless world beholds its shrouded majesty pass by it
Pale, and wrapped in silence.
Then the friendly hand, uncertain, stops and hesitates before it,
Fearing lest too rudely it may draw aside the veil of mourning:
There are griefs so great and sacred that all human thought and language
Dies upon the threshold.
Now, however, days are past; and it is time I came and sought thee.
Oh! permit a friend to share the heavy burden of thy sorrow.
Put thy hand in mine, thy weary head upon my heart, and rest thee:
I have suffered also.
I will not approach thee with those vain and heartless words of fashion,
Words which grief receives and spurns as mocking echoes of its wailing;
No, I have a word to whisper that will bring a holy comfort:
'Tis a heavenly secret.
If I might, as from an urn, before thy feet pour out my treasures,
Hope and peace would fill thy soul now groping in despairing darkness.
Light would shine upon thy pathway; sweet repose would mark thy slumbers,
Dreams of happy moments.
There are pure and lofty summits where the soul of man reposes.
'Tis the sword which cleaves our hearts asunder opens up the pathway.
Friend of mine, believe me that the loss of all things counts as nothing
If those heights be mastered.
Silly bees, we flit from flower to flower in this world's pleasure-garden;
Drinking in their rich perfumes and tasting of their honeyed sweetness.
Resting there, and living on its passing charms as if its beauty
Were enough for ever.
There we dream away our life, and precious moments pass unheeded;
Placing all our joys in pleasures fleeting as the summer sunshine,
Joys that vanish when the evening casts its shadows o'er the garden
Gone before the moonlight.
'Tis when robbed of human love; when seated desolate and lonely
On the wide and arid desert, with no kindly eye to greet us;
When the howling tempest rages, and the frightful darkness thickens,
Comfort has a meaning.
Then the brow defeat has humbled, and the heart grown sick with sorrow,
Find an arm and hand divine to lean upon and bear its burden:
And the spirit wrung with anguish, crushed by cruel disappointment,
Sings a hymn unspoken.
When before the lost one's footsteps opens an abyss of horror,
Then appears a bridge of safety stretching o'er the gulf's dark passage:
There, where danger threatens most, and death menaces, God is standing
Open-armed to meet him.
When the fitful joys of human passion are consumed within us,
Other joys begin their reign of which the soul as yet knew nothing.
Ah! what matter, when a brilliant star appears in heaven above us,
If the lamp burn dimly?
O thou mystery of suffering, deep abyss for human wonder!
Since that day when on a shameful cross love gained its greatest triumph,
We begin to sound thy awful depths, and catch at least faint glimpses
Of thy hidden meaning!
Come, for there the lesson may be learned which only He, the Master, teaches
From his throne of truth and wisdom. At the feet of Jesus seated,
Words will fall upon our ears that human lips have never spoken
Words of heaven's language.
Sword of sorrow, minister of peace, I bless thee for thy wounding!
Pleasing is the pain of sacrifice, and sweet the tears of martyrs
Shed for too much joy when from the eyes all earthly sights are fading
In the light of heaven.
Of those melodies divine, those flames of love and joy celestial,
Of those floods of rapture springing from the lonely plains of sorrow,
Ye, poor, thoughtless souls, know nothing, nor have ever dreamed their presence,
Ye who ne'er have suffered.
Man of sorrows! he who never trod the road of desolation,
He who hath not borne a cross and followed thee to crucifixion,
He who hath not passed through death unto the day of resurrection—
He hath never known thee.
Blessed are the mourners! From the mouth of Truth these words have fallen.
Blessed! Yes, it must be true indeed, my God, when thou hast spoken.
Welcome, then, be suffering, welcome! Happy they above all measure
Who in thee find comfort!

---

Translated from the French of L. Vitet.
The Present Condition Of Christianity In France.

That the men for whom the Christian faith is but an ordinary belief, a purely human work, and therefore mortal and perishable, should consider that their object is to be best attained by separating it from the living portion of our society and keeping it sequestered, so to speak, within the circle of retrogressive ideas; that such should be sarcastic at the expense of liberal Catholicism, and, looking upon its plans as chimerical, should triumph on learning of its defeats, nothing can be more natural: in so doing, they but carry out their policy and sustain their cause. But that true Christians and sincere believers should form an alliance with them or follow the same rut; that they should strive to attain the same end by opposing harmony and reconciliation with the spirit of the age, jesting at peace-makers, and objecting to their endeavors, not only on the plea of the impracticability of the schemes, but on the ground that the attempts made are culpable, impious, and sacrilegious; this is worse than an error, worse than blindness, and constitutes for the future of Christian beliefs a grave and alarming symptom.

There would be little cause for anxiety if a small portion of the faithful, a few chagrined beings, a few morose old men were the only obstinate adherents to these views, for time would be the best remedy in such a case; but do not be deceived, the masses are inclined to the adoption of similar opinions. Conciliatory ideas are as yet only within the reach of a certain élite. The group in whose midst they were born upward of thirty years since is scarcely more numerous now than then, and is, perhaps, less favorably thought of and less sustained by the public. Yet how many reasons are there for its more general recognition! Is not the party under a better guidance than in earlier days? Whom can it terrify by its temerity? In politics it only aspires to the possession of the most harmless liberty; in religion its tendencies are ultramontane only to the extent prescribed by faith. What, then, does it lack? Is its cause obscure, badly defined, ill-defended? Never were its traits given more brilliant prominence. God has bestowed upon it defenders of wondrous might. When an idea is fathered by the indefatigable energy and overwhelming eloquence of the Bishop of Orleans, by such masters of speech as M. de Montalembert and Father Lacordaire, by writers such as M. Albert de Broglie and Father Gratry; when young and valiant champions, such as Charles Lenormant, Frédéric Ozanam, and Henri Perreyve have died in its service; if it attract not; if it make not great and speedy conquests; if it secure not at once the approval of the competent, and obtain from the people naught but sterile applause, there can be no misunderstanding, its time is not come, and men's minds are not prepared for its reception. But does it follow that opinion has espoused the opposing cause, and that hostility and warfare against modern laws and ideas are generally favored? that all other Christians accept unreservedly the doctrines of certain violently retrogressive journals that do religion the injury of being regarded as its confidants? No; the masses, by their own instinct, escape the contagion of extremists' opinions; but, without breaking off entirely from modern ideas, the great majority of the faithful hold them to be dangerous and avoid their contact. Between civil and religious society there is a marked coldness and restraint; there is a want of confidence and sympathy; the least that can be said is, that they live in two separate camps.

This should not be. We cannot calculate upon a new uprising or upon a complete awakening of Christian belief, unless sincere concord between the church and society be reestablished. The present disagreement, if prolonged, would seem to indicate a decline of Christianity; it might be said that religion was losing, for the first time, the knowledge of the needs of the epoch, as well as that power of rejuvenation that for eighteen centuries has endowed it with such unexampled longevity. That the prediction that preceded its birth may be realized, that it may live as long as this earth, upon which nothing lives and endures without change or modification, must it not submit to the common law, and, while remaining fundamentally the same, be transformed and renewed, superficially at least? To sentence it to immovability lest some change take place in its elements; to petrify it that its purity may be greater, is to proclaim its ruin and announce its death. A cessation of life and a life of lethargy are about the same.

How comes it, then, that, despite so many causes of alarm, in the depth of our soul we are calm, and our fears are mingled with so much hope? Do faith without reasoning and pure instinct comfort us? No; it is Christianity itself, and Christianity of today, that reassures us by its acts. Notwithstanding the disagreement with the age that hinders its progress, notwithstanding the wounds from which it suffers, the coldness with which it is treated, the hearts that are closed to it, whithersoever it penetrates it is still so brimming with life and light, so lavish of compassion and love, it still causes one to shed freely such soothing tears, and gives birth to so many deeds of self-devotion, that it is most evident that its vigor is unsubdued. The tree about to die does not put forth such boughs and fruits. The sap flows, the roots spread; an eternal youth betrays itself by unmistakable signs. Seek not these consoling symptoms elsewhere but by the domestic fireside, or under the shadow of the altar, in the retirement of the house of God. Ask not for an official and public explanation; neither institutions, nor laws, no monuments, nor outward indices would assert it. In this respect, the contrast between the days we live in and the centuries gone by is most striking. Eighty years since, while Christians, isolated and apart from each other, estranged themselves more and more from God, whilst the belief in Voltaire reigned at the bottom of all hearts, society remained outwardly Christian, religion presided over all the acts of every-day life, and hallowed them by its presence and its blessings; everything was done in its name, and its sovereign authority was proclaimed everywhere. Now, it is only at distant intervals and in certain ceremonies in which, out of mere force of habit and for purposes of adornment, it is made to figure, that some shadow of its former prestige is allowed it; for the remainder of the time no allusion is made to it, it is set aside as a superfluity and avoided as a hinderance to action. Judging by this, you would think, perhaps, that it has fallen into oblivion, that it is forsaken, lifeless, and unhonored. But it is only dead in appearance: look more closely, uplift the veil, and you will behold a wholly different condition of Christianity. While the outer world escapes its dominion, the world of men's consciences is being regained. That which institutions refuse to yield to it, souls commence to accord. How numerous the rebellious or perplexed spirits that gradually bow to it and bravely summon its aid! How many tired hearts are indebted to it for rest! Do you not see whole families, hitherto all but ignorant of the blessings of faith, almost transformed by a new baptism? It is most generally to the influence of children that these metamorphoses are due. The Christian education which through their medium obtains access to the fireside instills itself into the minds of their parents. The mother learns the truths that are explained to her daughters, and becomes attached to them in understanding them more thoroughly and acting in accordance with their precepts, the better to inculcate them; even the father feels the necessity of not interfering with the belief of his sons by the contradiction of his own example, and, having become a Christian from a sense of duty, remains a Christian out of affection.

Thus, without noise or éclat, by a latent process whose results alone are discernible, faith diffuses and propagates itself. Certain it must be that its ranks are swelling, and that the rising generations, in furnishing their respective contingents, more than fill the vacancies caused by death, for almost all churches in large cities are becoming too small for the assembled worshippers. Without speaking of the holydays, of the solemn occasions, the spectacular character of which attracts perhaps as many idlers as they do believers, and confining ourselves to the consideration of the gatherings at ordinary services, can you deny that year after year the attendances are larger and that the attention paid is more zealous? Do you not observe, also, how many men mingle with the women? At the commencement of this century the appearance of a man in church was an event. Now it is not even a subject of astonishment; and certainly we note no mediocre triumph of faith over human respect when we record the return of men to the asylum of prayer. Many other novel incidents of similar purport seem no less extraordinary, such as students in our schools and soldiers in our camps publicly asserting their faith; practical Christians having a majority in the councils of large cities and in faculties of physicians, this latter instance being a most exceptional occurrence. If there were aught to be gained nowadays by passing for a Christian, if men were living in the age of the Restoration and had some chance of bringing themselves into notice, and being of good service to their family by proclaiming their piety, we might not take into account either this increase of apparent fervor, or the crowded houses of worship, or the numerous communions. Such, however, is not the case; and is it not now a better policy, if one wish to obtain advancement, to become a Free-Mason, in preference to committing one's self by figuring in some conference of a St. Vincent de Paul's Society? That there are still hypocrites and false devotees, we all are agreed. Such there always will be; but hypocrisy and feigned piety are not fashionable vices. In our time, to enter a church one must really experience a desire to pray. We challenge the most sceptical, giving them the privilege of broadly criticising and pruning as they please, not to recognize as genuine the progress, limited no doubt, but, nevertheless, incontrovertible, of modern Christianity. Besides, there can be applied a test that will dispel all doubts on the subject: of the three divine virtues, the most difficult of imitation is that which depletes our purse and compels us to be generous. Inquire of the clergy, the treasurers of the poor, what charity is at present; ask if it slumber or decay; or rather, if day after day it gain not new powers of existence in proportion as, in certain classes of society, Christian sentiments are awakening. Ask of the clergy if these tokens of largesse are only entrusted to it for reasons of vanity, and if the most modest are not those who give most liberally, an evident sign that the source whence the gifts come is a Christian one. No doubt, men can bestow much in charity without believing—the former act is easier of performance than the latter; but true charity is, as it were, inseparable from the two virtues whose sister it is: he who gives liberally, hopes and believes.

Be ye, then, reassured, for Christian faith still endures. It lives, labors, and wins over souls; it has not forgotten its old secrets, and can once again become youthful and associate itself with the destinies of the world. All that is needed is to give it time. If there be hesitation on its part to accept modern ideas, it is not owing to lack or indolence of spirit. The fault is first to be ascribed to the age itself, whose explanations are so obscure and whose aspirations are so unintelligibly expressed. "The principles of 1789" are most elastic words. What sense can be given them? How can they be applied? Does the century intend to belong to liberty and its severe duties, to the caprices of demagogues, or would it be fired by the military spirit? The second day of December, that period of inaction in our apprenticeship to free institutions, complicated events and added to the perplexity and uncertainty of religious minds. What were the intentions of the new empire? Was it to follow the example set by its predecessor, and was the world to behold for the second time the papacy closely guarded by gens d'armes? Was it not rather the traditions of Charlemagne it proposed to conform with, and was it not to prove a veritable Eldorado for Christian beliefs? This latter intention had been so definitely announced, that most men were deceived by the promise. But the horizon is now becoming clearer; there is neither hope nor gratitude to burden the faithful and render them incredulous as to the blessings of liberty. Awhile longer and there will be light. If, as we must believe, the true destiny of the age, made apparent to all, be conciliated with the great principles constituting Christianity; if it mark new progress in the advance of humanity, fear not. Christianity will not rebel, but will promote the movement. If it still live, and otherwise but nominally—and we have had proof that life was not wanting—it will not lack intelligence.

Know you the true cause of alarm, the true peril? It is that Christianity does not progress alone. It certainly marches on and labors; its advance is apparent; and more apparent, perhaps, are the conquests, the ardor, and the faith of those who struggle. By a strange contradiction, visible in the case of the two opposing forces, when one should gain what the other loses, the strength of neither is affected. On both sides the numbers increase and the armies proceed onward. Which shall win the victory? whose gains are the most genuine? Despite this seeming equality, we do not entertain the slightest doubt but that the Christians, if they will, are the masters of the future. But how are they to secure their triumph? Concerning that we must speak candidly.

Ere we come to this, however, let us, with M. Guizot, enter the anti-christian camp, estimate the forces of the enemy, and examine the formidable host we are called upon to defeat.

The distinctive trait nowadays of the war waged against Christianity is the number and the diversity of the opposing doctrines. Formerly its adversaries confined themselves to seeking to destroy it: now they are more ambitious; they attempt to provide for it a substitute. Hence the multitude of systems, each of which, in more or less vague or contradictory terms, is intended to elucidate the great natural problems that humanity, since its birth, has evolved, and that Christianity has explained with such simplicity, completeness, and clearness. These systems do not claim to be religious; they merely flatter themselves that they will become satisfactory guides for man; that they will read to him the enigma of this world, and supply all the wants of his heart and mind. As they exact neither sanction, practice, nor responsibility, as they are indulgent in the matter of human weaknesses, their popularity can be easily understood. They have believers, adepts, and, we may say, devotees of their own. One of the characteristics of modern incredulity is that it denies and affirms simultaneously. Nothing is rarer in these times than a true unbeliever, placing credence in literally nothing, combating the faith of others, and wholly devoid of faith himself. The unbelievers of the age all believe something: besides the antipathy they have sworn to entertain for Christianity—an antipathy constituting a common faith—each has a belief of his own; some acknowledge pantheism, others rationalism, positivism, materialism, or the countless ramifications of these principal doctrines, each of which has its faithful adherents. We do not mean to advance that all antichristians have espoused the doctrines of philosophy, that each has a sect, a banner, or a credo of his own. We shall even be convinced very shortly that the most dangerous opponents are those who do not dabble in philosophy, and who stand up against the progress of holy truths by indifference and indolence; but the simultaneous birth of all these antichristian systems is nevertheless a strange fact, and one deserving of attention. Taken apart, they can pass by unheeded their fundamental principles are neither novel nor consistent! When seen together, however, theirs is a battle array of a rather imposing magnitude. We understand, therefore, all the more readily, that M. Guizot, wishing to estimate the strength of the antichristian forces, should have taken these systems one by one, and submitted each to a careful examination. We would, however, misconstrue, we apprehend, his most obvious intention, if we were to look upon his sketches as regular refutations and ex professo treatises. He has only proposed to give the measurement of their different systems by comparison with the measuring-rod of common sense. To enter into more thorough discussions would have been unnecessary; better work was left undone, and M. Guizot's preface has clearly expressed his views on that point. It matters little, after all, how these systems are criticised; the result is the same, whether one examine them superficially, master their secrets, or fathom their scientific mysteries. There can be little difference of opinion in regard to their value. It is to their advantage if they be only glanced at. The more searching the investigation, the more conclusive the proof as to the frailty of their formations and deficiencies, pettiness, impotence, and vanity. We repeat what we said, that we have little to dread on this score. A few minds may be won over, but the contagion, in this country, cannot spread. The darkness of pantheism, the dreams of idealism, the dryness of positivism, or the coarseness of materialism will never seduce the mass of French minds. The alarm is greater than the real danger; yet, when gathered together, these systems, however discordant among themselves, however much opposed to each other, constitute, from the very fact that all are equally hostile to Christianity, a power which must be taken into account. They form a fasces; theirs is a coalition, a league that belongs only to our age.

Is it to be supposed that we assert that Christianity has ever lacked enemies, and enemies acting in concert in their attacks? Without looking far back into its history, was not the concentration of all the wits of the age clustered under the leadership of Voltaire for the purpose of freeing the world from religious superstition, an anti-christian league, if ever there was one? Perhaps even the movement of the eighteenth century seemed, at first, more violently antichristian than that undertaken in our days. Its determination was more evident; it proceeded direct to the objective point. Its weapons were light, but they were ever in use, and there was no truce to the warfare. It was a sharp fire of irony, a shower of sarcasm; nothing could withstand it, no one could retort; the dread of ridicule silenced the boldest; the panic was followed by a general rout, and terror was engendered by laughter. And what sad results! what a disaster! The altars were overthrown, religion was annihilated, the clergy scattered, hunted down, or put to death, a whole nation left without temples, without pastors, without any perceptible connecting link with heaven! Was not this enough? What more was desired?

There can certainly be extant no wish to do better; but it is intended that the work shall endure, that the invalid shall be finally disposed of, and that any chance of cure or resurrection shall be done away with. Even as after 1848 the fiery demagogues, who had thought an excellent opportunity had arrived to demolish society, found consolation for their failure by proclaiming aloud that, should a similar series of events ever occur, they would know better how to act, and would not again be unsuccessful in the accomplishment of their purpose, so the destroyers of religion take great care not to imitate the example of their fathers, whose work, they say, was only half done. Mockery and irony are worn-out weapons that wound but do not kill; they are useful in commencing a war, but other and more destructive engines are needed to end it. Besides, within the past sixty years the character and habits of the public have undergone a decided change. The community has become, by lessons taught it at its own expense, of a more reflective and sober turn of mind; it is less easy to provoke its laughter, and it does not always consider a jest an argument. Moreover, deriding all things excites its suspicion, and, in lieu of being won over, it often comes near being shocked. Its new mood must be complied with, the public's foibles must be consulted, and its present foible is, that it shall be treated as a man, and not as a child.

Science is the great agency! Science is the only guide, the only authority whose aid modern minds willingly accept. This can be readily comprehended; each day science works so many miracles, lavishes upon humanity such genuine gifts, opens to mankind so vast a future, and confirms in so incontestable a manner its right of sovereignty over this world, that men, in return, must bow to its decrees, and do it all honor without blushing at the homage rendered it. But, in the hands of those who would keep mankind separate from any other belief, who would prevent the recognition of any higher authority and of the invisible might of the Creator, how terrible a weapon is a faith in science! Therefore it is that nowadays to rank honorably with the adversaries of Christian belief, to play an important part, to act upon the minds and disturb consciences, it is not sufficient merely to possess some talent and a graceful and caustic style. It is necessary to be erudite, or, at least, to be held as such, the latter alternative being less difficult to achieve, less rare, and for that very reason, much more dangerous. For, if Christianity had to deal with truly learned and truly great men only, she and science would never be in absolute opposition to each other. The so-called contradictions, the irreconcilable facts 'disappear, when the disputants attain a certain height, as soon as words being no longer taken in their literal sense, their spirit is understood, and when analysis is brought to bear upon the starting-point of the misunderstanding. Science, when applied to such ends, is not only inoffensive to Christianity and the Scriptures, but comes to their aid and proffers testimony in their favor, sometimes giving to certain facts of fabulous appearance an almost historical character. Thus it came that Cuvier confirmed by a most rigorous process of inductive reasoning based upon irrefutable facts, some Biblical narratives which believers only had, until then, accepted out of motives of pure obedience, and which indifferent persons viewed with suspicion, and the great doctors of the eighteenth century laughed to scorn. Evil fortune, however, wills it, that for every one of these conciliatory, because clairvoyant minds, for a Cuvier, a Kepler, a Leibnitz, and a Newton, there are thousands of men who see the outward semblance only, who stumble over inconsistencies, and who, often without ill-will, make use of their small share of knowledge in accomplishing the ruin of the holy truths. Indeed, they enjoy the credit of the masses as much as, and perhaps more than, the real masters; the public is continually brought into contact with them; they are numerous, ubiquitous, and have associates in all professions; the race of half-learned men is the foundation of humanity, without taking into account the more skilful persons who, seeking to win success at any cost, and even at the risk of scandal, borrow from science the varnish required to give popularity to their productions. These stratagems constitute a new fashion of checkmating Christianity, a method rejuvenating the traditions of Voltaire. Those whose intentions are worthiest are deceived by it; the lure thrown out is that which they need, a sensible lure; their reason alone is appealed to, and they fancy that they are surrendering to proven evidence. What would you have them do? They are not entertained with mere stories and epigrams, they are not made the objects of jests or hoaxes; the facts submitted to them are palpable. So much the worse for Christian beliefs if these facts annihilate them! Can the laws of science be denounced as forgeries? Is not science truth?

Such are modern tactics; neither mockery nor impatience, and great apparent impartiality; it is no longer a skirmish, a sudden attack, but a siege in accordance with all the rules of war; the citadel is surrounded, the enemy advances, with the authority and under the protection of science. This is not all. The experience of the past century has suggested other precautionary measures, other strategic movements. It is now recognized that our poor human nature has not made sufficient progress, not even in France, to feel happy and proud because of a belief in absolutely nothing. This is a weakness for which time will work a cure, but one which must be taken into due consideration. For instance, can it be brought about that most women's hearts will not yield to the necessity of praying and believing? Does not man himself, when bowed down by great affliction, feel that a woman's heart is being born and awakening within him? When death separates him from those he loves, when he survives and suffers, can it be that he will not seek, with eyes upturned to heaven, a little strength in hope? These inclinations and instincts may seem strange and absurd, if you will; but they are indestructible, and to think of doing away with them is a sheer loss of time. This is known in our age, and the skilful profit by their knowledge. To make havoc for a second time, to tear down the altars, and persecute the priests, would be to enact the parts and do the work of dupes! Such a course would prepare an inevitable reaction, and a certain resurrection of all it was proposed to destroy. There are none but a few madmen, a few lost children who would resort to such superannuated measures. Instead of attacking openly the need for belief, better to conquer it by flattery and the tender of fascinating compromises. Why these onslaughts on Christianity? Why overtly batter its walls? To please the libertines? Is it not quite certain that they will side with the antichristians? It is urgent to please the simple-hearted Christians only.

Instead of exhibiting the slightest after-thought of opposition to Christianity, better to dwell upon its beauties, to draw an admirable portrait of its Founder, to recognize him as the model of all the virtues, as the type of all perfection, to speak of him in impassioned and eloquent tones, and in exchange for these gentle concessions to ask—what? A trifling sacrifice, a modest erratum to the text of the Evangels, a simple change of the value of a word, or rather the politic and reasonable yielding up of a valueless title, a worn-out parchment, a purely nominal letter of nobility, the so-called divinity of that admirable man? Why cling to that fiction? Renounce it, and we shall all be agreed. Reason will have nothing more to say on the subject. With yourselves we will do homage to that wonderful mortal, and, if you will, call him divine without attaching too much importance to the condescension. We will overlook the epithet if you concede us the dogma.

Thus, with skill and a certain commingling of philosophic scepticism, mystic reveries, and a feigned zeal for Christian ideas, men hope nowadays to undermine Christianity. The plan of action is by no means novel. In that very year during which Constantine, by his omnipotence, seemed to have ensured the peace and security of the church, in that very year one single man, with a few words, threw the church into far greater perils than were indicated by the lictors and executioners of its fiercest persecutors. He, too, pretended he only waged war against Jesus Christ out of love for his doctrine, and despoiled him of his divinity to guarantee his triumph, propagate his blessings, and, while rendering faith less difficult to acquire, to satisfy reason. The compromise was the same as that which is now put forward. And such is the power of these enervating doctrines that, even in the days when faith was still young and full of life, the world fell a victim to the deception. Scarcely half a century had gone by since the death of Arius and the contagion had extended throughout the Orient, spread over a part of the west, and reached, beyond the limits of the Roman empire of old, all the recently converted barbarian nations. Look back to that hour of crisis when the destiny of the world was at stake; seek to guess what was to happen. After a consultation of human laws, after a calculation of probabilities, did not Christianity appear doomed? Its adversary had won for himself Constantine's favor, the ardent adhesion of the emperor's son, the support of all the forces of the empire, all the powers that still governed the world. To preserve faith, to save from shipwreck the divinity of Jesus Christ, a miracle, a new revelation, another preaching of St. Paul were needed. The miracle was performed; what a man had done a man undid; Athanasius conquered Arius. But Christianity had, nevertheless, seemed about to perish, and modern Arianism can well flatter itself that it will now have better fortune, and that an Athanasius, a Basil, a Gregory, or a Jerome will not ever be at hand to crush its arguments and conquer the world for the benefit of truth. Its threats, its sinister predictions are not, then, mere boasts; the danger is genuine; modern heresy has auxiliary aids that double its might. It no longer stands in the arena, face to face with orthodoxy, and uses purely theological weapons; the struggle is general; everybody participates in it; all weapons are effective. A formidable coalition attacks faith most persistently; the natural sciences when half understood, the metaphysical sciences conducted with pride, historic criticism skilfully romanticized, are forces that unite for the benefit of the new Arianism. Can it not be readily seen that the league is far more powerful and inflicts more serious wounds than the ironical frivolities brought into play in the last century? The progress made is not only evidenced in the tactics and armament; the ground of the struggle itself has changed, to the enemy's advantage. From a Christian stand-point, it may be said that Christianity is now dismantled. Of all the places of shelter, of all the positions which belonged to Christianity a hundred years ago, in the state, in the institutions and customs, of all the means of credit, influence, and legitimate resistance won for it by a right of ages, and of which its adversaries, while deriding its belief, had no thought of robbing it, nothing remains. The levelling power of the times has passed over them. The attack must now be withstood in an open field. If under such circumstances and in presence of such perils Christians opened not their eyes, if an instinct of self-preservation did not induce them to come to an understanding upon the essential points of their faith, if they sought to oppose so many joint efforts while divided and disagreeing, we say, without hyperbole, that we would have to bow our heads and consider this world at an end, and civilization, despite its apparent triumphs and proud hopes, stricken to the heart and menaced with a prompt decline. But have we reached that point? No, a hundred times no, if our will be against it, and if we understand the magnitude of the danger, its real novelty, and the novelty and youth needed to conquer it.

And at the outset let there be no misunderstanding between Christians. Do not believe that Catholicism is alone involved, and the sole excitant of anger and object of the warfare. It is Christianity itself, Christian faith in its entirety, and in every shape, that it is intended to annihilate. Any Protestant sect that accepts the Evangels, without reserve or restrictions, is at least as open to suspicion as pure Catholicism. Tolerance and amnesty are withheld, save from that Christianity which believes not in Jesus Christ, and in which certain pastors, from evangelical pulpits, now profess a belief. Enlightened and sincere Protestants entertain no longer any doubts on that point. They have progressed since the sixteenth century: without being less zealous or less ardent in their belief, they no longer proclaim that Antichrist and the Catholic Church are one and the same thing. In our age the Antichrist is the common foe; if you would resist its onslaughts, close up the ranks; this is no time for discord among brethren. The Protestants who are friendly to the Evangels, however numerous they may be in certain states of Europe, know what they lack as regards cohesion and unity; they feel that that powerful church so persistently attacked nowadays, will ever be the true rampart. While all the blows dealt fall upon her, they breathe freely, for she protects them; if her walls were overthrown, they would be left defenceless. Hence arises among the more farseeing that solicitude which is felt for all Christian interests without distinction, and that defensive alliance which seems to be suggested in the minds of those whose convictions as to the essence of things are identical. Unfortunately, this wholly modern blessing, one of the few conquests which, in the moral order of affairs, might do honor to our age, is not yet very widely disseminated. Even in the opinion of the persons who are horror-stricken at the antichristian coalition, the idea of helping each other, of forming an alliance, of postponing intestine strife and lending a helping hand to each other, wakes but little headway. Habit, prejudices, and a sectarian spirit are so powerful! If some men cast off their yoke, if a chosen few who see events from a higher stand-point take delight in putting into practice these tolerant ideas, do the masses follow an their footsteps? and do the chosen few themselves always set generous examples only? If it were only among Catholics that the tendency to exclusion, the aversion to schism carried to a forgetfulness of the actual interests of faith, were observable, many persons would confess that they were less surprised than grieved; for excuse can ever be found for the Catholic, in whose defence it can be argued that, if he went too far in that direction, it was because he may have believed that, by holding aloof and avoiding the contact of error, he exhibited his obedience and rendered himself more acceptable unto God! But for the Protestant, what apology can be offered? He who asserts so boldly his right to believe what he thinks cannot take offence because his neighbor does likewise. The same intolerance that, in the one case saddens us without causing astonishment, shocks us in the other. Can you understand how it is that an educated, an erudite Protestant, good-hearted, endowed with sound sense, glorying in generous principles, and carrying to very energy his love and respect for right, as soon as it is suggested that he concede to Catholics that which he believes to be just and true for all humanity, the privilege to worship with the liberty and the surroundings their mode of worship requires, cries out in dismay, appeals to brute force, admits unhesitatingly that it decides all similar questions, and sanctions and renders legitimate in advance all sentences which maybe passed? Though his views are sensible on all other points, on this subject they are devoid of reason, and the man speaks of the Catholic Church in the nineteenth century as an inquisitor of the sixteenth would have spoken of heresy! What a strange spectacle, and how humiliating a lesson! Does there exist a more overwhelming proof of the poverty of our intellect?

Yet the part to be taken by a modern Protestant, who would serve Christianity and combat its true enemies, is a glorious one! All things unite to give him influence; everything is in readiness to bestow upon his words an increase, as it were, of authority. He would ignore and forget all petty passions and jealousy. He would seek to bring about the triumph of the divine word, to demonstrate its eternal truth, its transmission through centuries. Why attempt to wrest from the Catholic Church the rights to which she lays claim? Why beset her with invidious questions and excite captious quarrels? Instead of giving vitality to these endless suits, would it not be better to seek to ascertain on what points an agreement subsists, what dogmas have escaped all controversy and survived all strife? He would become attached to these same dogmas; in his eyes they would be the heart, the basis of a Christianity of peace and concord, which no true Christian can avoid defending, since necessarily he must profess allegiance to its doctrines. Because there was alarm for the existence of the Reformation three centuries ago, because the Reformation was the spur which, to save faith, was to rouse the church from slumber, does it follow that now, the times having changed, actions should be the same? Must it be that, to preserve in the present that same Christian faith, a Christian, because he chances to be a Protestant, must espouse his fathers' hates, fight only against the men and ideas with which they strove, and remain idle when beholding the outbreak of the conflagration which threatens Christianity, for the sole reason that Catholicism appears to be especially imperilled by the flames? Let him repudiate that absurd inheritance, let him break with such routine views. Not only must he abstain from attacking, even indirectly, the Catholic Church, and feel no bitterness toward her, for the simple reason that he undertakes a campaign in cooperation with her, and because we must not fire upon one's allies; he owes her still more, more than respect, more than mere courtesies; he must do her full justice. His duty be it to give prominence with frankness and loyalty to the great features, the beauties, the splendor of the traditions from which he stands apart. Strictures and reservations will be mingled with his praises; better still, for his testimony will be all the more valuable. Whether he recall the services rendered or refute vigorously all calumny, by telling the unalloyed truth, even if it be attenuated, he will do more for Catholicism than a professional panegyrist.

This is not all: to keep the false philosopher spirit at bay, no position could be better than that which he holds. He has not to struggle against the antipathy engendered by a supposed obedience to the principle of authority; and when he confesses unreservedly his belief in supernatural facts, his words are fraught with far more importance than if he who uttered them were not trammelled in the matter of free investigation. How different, too, the case when to this superiority are added personal advantages, when the Protestant is a man of powerful mind, accustomed to deal with the most weighty matters, and retaining, in the autumn of life, besides the treasures garnered by experience and learning, the fecund ardor of youth. This explains the characteristic trait of M. Guizot's Meditations; it is not a religious work like so many others. The best priests, the most eloquent preachers, the profoundest theologians are afflicted with a disability for which there is no remedy; they are professional defenders of religion; the truths they affirm seem to constitute their patrimony, and, while pleading the holiest of suits, they seem to argue in their own behalf; while a historian, a philosopher, a statesman, and, above all, a free and independent mind, who, after ripe examination and prolonged reflection, and not without a struggle and an effort, has become a Christian, and who proves in broad daylight that neither his intellect nor his reasoning powers have suffered in the least, and that the thinker and Christian live within him in perfect concord, by his testimony gives courage to many men, dispels many doubts, and inspires the faltering with firmness; his example is the best of sermons and the most reliable mode of propagating faith.

Be assured, nevertheless, that remarks of disapproval will be heard amid the kindly greetings. There will be opposition manifested from the very first, and principally by the reformed worshippers. The broad views and extreme tolerance of the author will not be acceptable to all. The writer will be told, You forsake us; you are a Catholic in spirit and intention, why not be wholly a Catholic? A poor quarrel, indeed, a singular fashion of returning thanks for the most faithful devotedness and the most signal services! In the matter of ingratitude, the sectarian spirit stands in the foremost rank. There is, therefore, no cause for surprise that the Protestants of Paris, when occasionally gathered about the ballot-box, should not always care to express to M. Guizot, by a unanimous vote, their just and respectful pride at numbering him among their forces. But then, let us not forget that, if in the opinion of a few Protestants these Meditations are a trifle too Catholic, certain Catholics would have them still less Protestant. We do not assert that the Catholics, even the most exclusive, are not at heart filled with esteem and gratitude for a work of such evident usefulness to the cause of Christianity; the esteem and gratitude exhibited are, however, wrested from them. They praise aloud the intentions and courage of the author; as for the work itself, they do not restrict themselves to prudently leaving in obscurity the points in discussion, but involuntarily allow inopportune objections to arise. We venture to state that in doing this they do not appreciate the circumstances surrounding us, and the greatness of the need of alliance and concord forced upon Christianity by the formidable war waged against it. That in ordinary times, when the only struggle in progress concerns the form and not the foundation of things, believers should resolve only to accept and extol the productions resonant with the pure and faithful echo of their faith, nothing can be better; in such times each citizen of the Christian republic may be permitted to be watchful of the interests of his province rather than of those of his country; but, when an invasion is imminent, other emergencies are to be looked to: the common safety is the first law. Then is the time to welcome recruits, whoever they are, provided their reinforcement will be productive of good results. Do not deceive yourselves; the Christian community, even if united and agreed on all points, will only just be equal to the task: for its members must not only repel the assailants a merely defensive attitude would be equivalent to a partial defeat but must advance and invade, and subjugate souls. The world is to be reconquered, and a more giddy, frivolous, and somniferous world, perhaps, than the world of nineteen centuries ago. Again, we say that we have not to be alarmed at the antichristian war. Its horde of systems, its dreams and chimeras, its wily contrivances and philosophic disorder do not frighten us. The spectacle is a sad one, but it is not a state of slumber. Upon feverish activity you can bring to bear a healthful action; your very adversaries favor your cause and deaden the weight of the blows they would deal you. What timidity underlies their audacity! How they retreat before the most direct and inevitable consequences of their doctrines! How they complain of misrepresentation when shown a mirror reflecting the deformity of their doctrines! Let them continue to speak and write, they but call forth overwhelming replies; let them alter history and the Scriptures, for they but alter their own authority and credentials: they fall into the pit themselves have digged. All things that agitate and startle men's minds, and awaken even in irritating them, aid the triumph of truth; indifference, torpor, the numbness of souls only are profitable to error, and constitute the true malady of the age. Let us not seek to conceal it, its ravages are too plainly discernible. While impiety, properly speaking, despite its apparent progress and the brazen boasts of its cynicism, makes but few proselytes in our midst, indifference increases, extends, and becomes acclimatized. It is a contagion; whosoever is affected leads a mere earthly life, and is engrossed by nothing save mundane cares, business, and pleasure; the great problems of our destiny, the wondrous mysteries constituting our torment and our honor, exist not for him; he only recognizes and cultivates his coarse and frivolous instincts; the divine portion of his being is in a state of utter lethargy. Here and there, among the indifferent, you meet a few agitated hearts and perplexed spirits. Perplexity is to indifference as twilight to darkness, an uncertain light that struggles with the gloom, sometimes conquering and sometimes conquered. Nothing can be less decisive than a victory won over such a spirit. The escape of perplexed minds is effected as quickly as was accomplished their capture. Never mind; would to God that even such a condition of souls were the greater evil! It is toward indifference, that is to say, toward nothingness and death, that all things incline our footsteps.

Inquiry was made, a short time since, as to the present condition of Christianity in France. Number those who occupy the two hostile camps in which a remnant of life still asserts itself, in one camp for the purpose of attacking, in the other for the purpose of defending, Christian faith; then, beyond the limits of the two, behold, what remains? There, are gathered crowds unnumbered, inert, inanimate, forming, as it were, a great desert, a Dead Sea uninhabited by any living thing. There lies the world to be reconquered; such are the men who are to be reclaimed. How act upon them? how move their hearts? how gain mastery over them? In these questions lies the secret of the future.

Seek, then, and try to ascertain the most reliable means of acting upon these thoughtless mortals. Is the work to be accomplished by practices of high piety and by productions intended for the edification of skilled believers? Think you that at once you will change them into thoroughly faithful Christians? that you will instantly inspire them with a holy fervor? Only to speak the language of pure devoutness, to keep in unison with the utterances of the vestry-room, is to waste time. Climb the heights, display the brilliancy of those universal truths in whose presence every being gifted with reason and accessible to reflection feels compelled to bend the knee. It is by exhibiting in all their grandeur, in all their primitive beauty, the bases of our faith, that souls can be attracted to seek them for shelter. The work to which we allude excels in this respect. M. Guizot's Meditations throw light upon the mysterious summits which, in the eyes of the torpid, appear overhung by thick and impenetrable fogs. They give these men a desire to examine them more closely. In a word, though the work may not satisfy simultaneously, in each communion, all who are possessed of a definite belief, it is endowed with a more precious virtue upon the excellence of which we can dwell the more conscientiously, as having viewed its effects: it moves the indifferent.

More than this, however, must be done. However powerful in style and thought a book may be, it can only, in the present crisis, clear the road. To make greater headway, to effect a more decisive advance, to act upon the masses and rouse them from their slumber, other agencies than books are necessary, and deeds, examples, striking evidence, and incontestable proofs of abnegation, devotedness, charity, and sacrifices are required. These are the sermons that awaken souls; these the weapons that triumph over the world, however careless, frivolous, and hardened it may be. In days by-gone, they conquered the men who wore the Roman toga and the rough habits of the barbarians; in this century, they are still the only means of conquest.—What do we ask? What are we thinking of? Preaching by deeds! The apostleship of the early ages! Real apostles, heroic confessors, if needed, martyrs! In our times! Is it possible?—Why not? What contradiction and surprise but can be looked for nowadays? Is it not the destiny of the age to carry everything to extremes, to be zealous for evil and even for good, to be swayed in turn or simultaneously by all currents, and to subscribe to the most irreconcilable principles? Just because the world appears to have fallen almost to the lowest degree of depression, just because it sinks more deeply from day to day, there is a chance that a sublime and immediate reaction may occur. Was imperial Rome less corrupt, less effeminate, less docile while the avengers and restorers of human dignity, the future masters of the world, were at work beneath her foundations? Be reassured, even in these days of doubt and egotism, a true and great resurrection of Christianity in France is not a Utopian vision. Not only is such a miracle possible, but we may declare it necessary.

Either we must suppose that we are nearing the last phase of the development of humanity; that the now commencing decadence will be the last; that, unlike so many declines that have preceded it, this latest decline will have no place of stoppage, no new birth; that an unbroken slope is leading irresistibly to the ruin and debasement of our race, or we must without delay find means of restituting to the masses religious faith. What has democracy gained by triumphing and being about to become the sovereign mistress of the whole world, if it cannot maintain and hold sway over its conquest simply because it cannot rule and govern itself? Democracy, without the brake of religion, without other protection than that afforded by independent morality, is a swollen torrent, anarchy, despotism, and a return to barbarism. But when the brake is old and shattered, how replace it? No one can create a religious faith, it were folly to attempt it. Such chimerically created things could never be aught but impotent parodies. But why seek so far that which is near at hand? The new faith whose advent is awaited, and hoped, and called for with such eagerness is here; we possess it; it is Christianity itself, ever novel if we but know how to comprehend its eternal light, and if we know ourselves how to be novel. It is not the object of the belief that is to be remodelled, but the routine of believers. Christianity, in itself, is as youthful as at its birth; that which is superannuated is that which does not belong to it, that earthly rust with which it has been incrusted by its interpreters, its ministers, and its servants in all ages. Of this it must be rid; its original appearance and power must be restored. By what process? By using for its reestablishment the means which were formerly employed with success to lay its foundation. The determination is a violent one, yet there must be no half measures; an attempt in any other direction would be illusory and vain. To proceed halfway, to spare abuses, flatter habit, and improve the surface of things only, would be to make Christianity one of those edifices which are kept standing by props and by cementing the cracks in the walls: it would be as well to let it totter and fall to the ground at once. To give it back true power, true stability, that it may defy the shocks of a long series of years, there is but one course to adopt: to begin the work anew.

Let the church, then, be courageous; let her begin again, even as she commenced, and with the same modesty and holiness; let her be chaste, austere, laborious, learned, intelligent, and free; without taste for honors, without care for wealth; lavish of her pains, her blood, and her tears; as independent toward the mighty as she is indulgent and tender for the weak. Let her advance, thus armed, step by step, approaching souls, and souls only, and the world will again be hers. There is no miscalculation to be feared, the same causes will have identical effects; but hasten, lose not an hour, the moment is a solemn one. Let the cry, "The church is beginning anew," be not a vain word, and let not its results be tardy. Think not of honoring God by raising to the heavens proud cupolas, and making for him a dwelling in palaces glittering with gold and marble; it is around the manger, in the grotto of Bethlehem, that the pastors should be convoked. Let all true Christians, all sons of the church, know and proclaim it: on them everything depends, through them all things are possible, upon them all things rest; in their hands lies not only the fate of their beloved and venerated belief, but the future of the civilized world.

---