The Right Path found through the Great Snow.
The drifting, wide-spread snowstorm of January 17th, 1867, will live in the memory of the "oldest inhabitant" among the strange things of that eventful year. It confirmed in its depth and fulness the weird stories of our grandsires, which our later years had come to look upon as myths; of benighted travellers buried in drifts that covered houses; of common roads only made passable by archways cut through the white heaps; of houses where the only egress was by the upper windows, or perhaps the chimneys. Among the multitudes who found themselves snow-bound on that memorable Thursday aforesaid, I was shut up to the cold comfort of a country inn, in a bleak, mountainous district, where I had arrived the previous evening with the intention of spending only a night and day; less, if the business that brought me could be transacted in a shorter time. I had engaged the parlor and bed-room adjoining, that I might occupy myself with necessary writing uninterrupted by any chance arrival. The dimensions of my suite of apartments were small, and the furniture of the plainest kind; a dingy carpet covered the floor, and green and yellow paper adorned the walls. The brilliancy of the tout ensemble was heightened by a series of coarse, highly-colored plates, representing the life of the prodigal son in all its phases, and an equally radiant "family tree," laden with what was intended to represent tropical fruits, in red and yellow, the oranges bearing the names and dates of the female members of the family, and the lemons those of the males; a very suggestive picture certainly, and one that told some queer tales of my landlord's family, Fox's Book of Martyrs and an almanac for '66 were the only books the room furnished. The chairs were of the stiffest pattern, arranged in funereal order around the sides of the apartment, with a notable exception in a large stuffed arm-chair, of the olden times, which I drew before the open grate piled with blazing peat.
That fire was a comfort indeed. A sight almost lost in these days in New England; it helped me to forget, in its beautiful variations, the dashing appearance of the youth pictured on the walls, and the cruel plates and malicious lies of the "English martyrologist."
Little did I dream, as I arranged my plans for the next day, of the change that would come over the outer world while I slept, although there were already signs of a coming storm. I looked from my windows in the morning, through the large elms, heavy with the accumulating weight, across the road and opposite fields which the snow had swept into one broad expanse of whiteness, obscuring landmarks and obliterating fences, and which the furious wind was now lashing into billows, all dead white, save where
"Some dark ravine
Took shadow, or the sombre green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black
Against the whiteness at their back."
To be "snow-bound" may be very nice in a large, well-ordered household; but in solitude, with neither books nor companions, and with the remembrance of a family far away, who perchance may just then need your stout arm to release them from a like imprisonment, it is not a cheerful position; and I could not repress a sigh as I gazed over the trackless way, remembering that I was five miles from a railroad station, in a small upland village, not famous for the enterprise of the inhabitants. The sigh was scarcely breathed when, on the confines of the opposite meadow, I espied two figures struggling against the elements, evidently intent on working their way to the inn through the terrible drifts. It was weary work; for they fell and arose again often, during the short time I watched them before hastening to the old landlord, who was smoking his pipe where was once the barroom, and dreaming over the visions of his long-gone youth. As soon as the purpose of my call was known, he summoned three stout laborers from the kitchen, where they were rejoicing with the maids over the prospect of an idle day, and bade them go at once to the relief of the travellers. I grew impatient with the long delay of the servants, the more as but one of the two men was to be seen breasting the storm; the other must have fallen. Forgetting my delicate lungs and small physique, I donned my overcoat and hat, and, fortified with a flask of brandy, hastened to the rescue, reflecting that brains are often as useful as muscle in an emergency. The more successful traveller, a stout son of "green Erin," was quite exhausted when we reached him; but he found breath to articulate, in answer to our inquiries for his companion: "Indeed, he fell near the big tree. Oh! he be's a real gintleman." The informer was conveyed to the house by two of the men, while with what seemed to me supernatural strength, I made my way with the third toward the aforesaid "big tree," walking on the drifts where the stouter man went down, and though the strong, keen northwest wind nearly took away my breath, and the sleet almost blinded me, I was first on the spot. It seemed to me two hours, though it was less than half that time, from the moment when I lifted the head of the fallen man and succeeded in pouring into his mouth a spoonful of brandy, till we landed with our burden at the door of the inn.
There was something in my first glance upon that cold, handsome face that came to me like a dream of early days—something that claimed kindred with the associations of my youth. By the motherly solicitude of the landlady I knew that he would be speedily resuscitated, and, prostrated by my exertions, I was leaving him in her care, when I stooped to reach the hat of the gentleman from the floor where it had been thrown, when I saw the name "Redwood R. Hood," written in the crown. Immediately I knew why I had been impressed with his face, and turning to that form over which strangers were bending with curious gaze I said peremptorily, "Take the gentleman to my room; he is a friend of mine; and, Mrs. S——," I added to the landlady, who looked incredulous, "with your help we can very soon restore the circulation, and he will have more quiet there than here." I will not enter into the process of resuscitation; let it suffice that by evening my friend was the occupant of the large arm-chair before the piles of burning peat, and we had gone over the years intervening between us, with the circumstances of our meeting again in a summary manner, and we now sat in the early twilight quietly looking at one another.
"The 'wolf' snow came near devouring little 'Red Riding Hood' this time," I said, bursting into a laugh again at the joyous memories that name recalled.
"Even so," replied the pale figure opposite, "and I owe my life to you, William Dewey, the 'billet doux' of early days. Happy hours of our youth!" he added, almost regretfully. "Yes, they were happy," I responded, "even with all their drawbacks; yet what do you think now of the sermons of two hours in length filled with the strong meat of total depravity, election, inability, foreordination, and reprobation, to which we were under bonds to listen and to give a rehash at home, and the tedious prayers which we were obliged to take all standing; a much more respectful attitude, however, than the lounging, sitting posture of the present generation of the so-called orthodox?"
"Do you remember," he said, a smile spreading all over his face, "when we were at Parson Freewill's school in L——, in the old meeting-house with the square pews, with seats that lifted when the congregation arose for prayer, and the vigorous slam we gave the covers when we reseated ourselves? I think that powerful stroke rather compensated for the length of the prayer; it was something to look forward to. But my most fearful remembrance is the hour after supper devoted to the Assembly's Catechism. I can see my poor aunt now, shaking her grey curls over the old family Bible, from which she was endeavoring to prove to me the words of the Catechism which said I had lost all communion with God, was under his wrath and curse, and so made liable to all the miseries of this life and the pains of hell for ever, and that through no fault of mine; but that such was the corruption of my nature that I was utterly indisposed and made opposite unto all that is spiritually good, and wholly inclined to evil, and that continually!" (Vide Catechism of Westminster Assembly.)
"How is it possible you have your catechism at your tongue's end even at this date?" I replied. "Really I doubt if I could repeat an answer correctly; but I thank God who has brought me out of such terrible darkness."
"Then you have escaped?" he inquired, putting out his hand to grasp mine; "you, a deacon's son, brought up in the very midst of 'Brimstone Corner'! Well, well! I must believe the age of miracles has not passed, for this cannot be anything less than a miracle!"
"Yes, a miracle indeed," I replied gravely. "A double miracle, that I escaped, and am at last anchored."
"Anchored!" he exclaimed incredulously, "do tell me where you can find bottom after such uprooting."
"Where you will perhaps despise me more than if I had been content to walk the Calvinistic rut through life," was my reply, as I gave into his hand my prayer-book. He examined it with curiosity and surprise. "A Catholic! a Roman Catholic!" he exclaimed at length, with a shade of what I thought savored of contempt in the tone of his voice; "you, William Dewey, son of Deacon Norman Dewey, of the puritanical city of Boston, you a Papist! Excuse me if I cannot help saying, it seems to me, 'out of the frying-pan into the fire.'"
"And pray, may I ask where you find yourself religiously?" I said; "men of our years, after the fifties, ought to be fixed somewhere."
"On the other pole from yourself," he replied quickly; "I believe in no creed, no church, no—"
"No God?" I questioned, a little satirically.
"A great first cause, certainly," he said slowly. "Yes, the God in everything, 'Jehovah, Jove, or Lord,' the true Shekinah is man. But let us not mar this pleasant reunion with discussions. With your fixed faith, you can have no sympathy religiously with one the pride of whose creed is, that it is changing daily, wholly unfixed and afloat."
"There you mistake," I replied earnestly. "I can and do most heartily sympathize with you; for I floated for years on that same waste of waters—that shoreless sea of doubt."
"Is it possible! and came at last where you are? I know nothing about the Catholic faith, I must own, from actual study, and from what I have heard I did not think it would bear examination; but there must be something in it if it has caught you, and, if you like, it would give me pleasure to hear the process: but perhaps you will object?"
"Not at all," I replied, "but it would take me all night to tell you the course I run in this matter, and fatigue you after your misadventure to listen."
"I think it would do me good," he said more earnestly than he had yet spoken; "I am really impressed with a desire to know how such a transformation could take place, and you come to embrace what you were brought up to hate. As to my strength and ability to listen, I am about as well as usual, but miss my tobacco sadly. My meerschaum probably lies in the drift that had nearly been my winding-sheet." I went to the hall and despatched a servant, who soon returned with a box of clay pipes and tobacco in one hand, and the missing meerschaum in the other.
"We must be in a remarkably primitive region to find this again, and without reward," he cried, looking tenderly at the old friend. "Now go on," he added, after the first puff; "begin at the beginning, where you used to be flogged about every Sunday for going reluctantly to catechism. Oh! if there is any one thing more than another that upset that old cross-grained theology of our childhood, it was those dreaded Sundays; when, after two sessions of Sunday-school, two long sermons, and an hour's sitting on the Westminster Divines, we were allowed some spiritual sugar-plums in the shape of the Memoir of Nathan Dickerman, Life of Mrs. Harriet Newell, or some other questionable saint. Yours was a large family at home, and did not feel what it was to be the sole recipient of the full vials of reprobation. What saved us from being arrant hypocrites or open infidels?"
Though I questioned in my own mind how far my friend's religion was from infidelity, I replied, "The fact that we felt that our teachers' hearts were better than their creed; for surely never did there exist a man more free from every taint of hypocrisy than my honored father, who held tenaciously to the five articles agreed to by the Synod of Dort, which represented most of the Calvinistic churches of Europe, looked upon Calvin's Institutes as binding next to the Bible, and I believe worshipped this terrible God in whom he believed with the most earnest faith."
"And you a Catholic!" he said, striking his hands together. "Excuse me if I repeat what I said. I cannot see how you have bettered the matter, since the Catholic Church holds to total depravity and foreornination, and moreover excludes all from any hope of salvation who do not bow their necks to her yoke."
"Excuse me for flatly contradicting you, but the Catholic Church does not hold the doctrine of the total depravity of the human race; on the contrary, she ever teaches that man did not lose by the Fall the image of God, or his own free will, or the powers of his reason. But you asked me how I became a Catholic. I am more interested in telling you that than in refuting what her enemies say of the church, because that you can find in books any day; but you must allow me to echo your surprise when I see a large, earnest soul like yours satisfied with a simple negation of faith."
"Satisfied! if by satisfaction you mean certainty, I say no; for I do not believe it is to be found. The best, I find, is to follow the light that comes to me," he added, with, I thought, a shade of sadness in his tone; "I broke the fetters of Calvinism with a bound, and when I had started, there was nothing for me to do but to cut loose from everything traditional, and rest solely on reason. But tell me of yourself, for any man who is in earnest, thinking for himself, I respect, be he Mormon or Mohammedan."
"I thank you for my share of the respect," I replied, "though I do not consider it very flattering. I never was a Calvinist; my earliest reason rebelled against the teachings, and many a snubbing did I get in my youth for daring to question—'cavil,' it was called. I went through all the phases of the system, trying to believe as I was taught; for I had large human respect and strong desire to please, with a devout turn of mind, making many a violent effort to be in a condition to become, what my friends wished, 'a professor;' but my conscience was too clamorous to allow me to pretend that I had 'obtained a hope,' or 'experienced religion.' Invariably, after a few weeks of fervor, I settled back into a state of indifference or doubt, although, to please my father, I was a constant attendant on all 'inquiry-meetings' and 'anxious-seats.' When I think of those meetings and the self-constituted teachers, who came there to hear the confessions, and to guide anxious souls in the road to heaven, a flash of indignation passes through my frame. About five years after, we parted as school-mates; you for the South and a stirring business life, I to New-England and the meditative days of a student. I was attracted and fascinated by the specious talk of transcendentalism; it was my first taste of liberty. I read, thought, and dreamed; tried to feed my soul on naturalism, and to renounce everything supernatural; talked very flippantly about the God in everything as the object of my worship; but my hungry soul was unsatisfied; there was a cold, dreary chilliness, and undefined nothingness, a rejoicing in uncertainty, which brought nothing like food to my spirit. This faith (if it deserves the name) flattered my proud heart, giving me the 'genus homo' as an object of worship; but I saw plainly that it could never reach the needs of humanity, and though 'brotherhood' was its watchword and cry, it could never be a religion for the masses. It was only for the refined, the cultivated, the gentle, and the good. Where were the abandoned, the dissolute, the coarse, vulgar herd to find a God in such a snare? I often asked myself this question, and this specious infidelity gave me no answer. Of the Catholic Church, I am ashamed to say, I then knew nothing, except that I had often heard her called 'the mother of harlots,' 'Babylon,' 'the scarlet woman,' and such like attractive names, but it did not once occur to me that I ought to examine her claims; floating as I was, seeking for foothold, she was not presented to my mind as an object to be looked at or feared, only to be despised. At that time I was associated with many of the purest and noblest spirits, longing and feeling after God by the dim light of nature; trying to think him out for themselves; finite minds blinded by vain efforts to comprehend the infinite. The first genuine wave of affliction brought me to a standstill on the brink of the abyss that says there is no God. I lost my mother; she was one of those timid, fearful souls, and had not that 'assurance' of which Calvinists make their boast; the words spoken of my precious mother after her burial nearly drove me wild; they snapped the last cord that bound me to the iron system of opinions which had thrown their shadow over my young life. Three years of rushing into the world to drive away thought followed this terrible blow, and then came a blessing—the best blessing of my life."
"A wife?" questioned my friend, as I paused a moment in my recital; "a wife, yes, I have it," as a smile twinkled in the corners of his clear grey eyes and spread over his handsome face; "I see it, she knocked the transcendentalism out of you with the Catholic hammer."
"Hardly," I replied, joining in the hearty laugh that followed his remark; "being a fearfully high-church woman, and looking upon hers as the only pure branch—the via media—the only barrier against Rome, 'Romanism,' as she sedulously named the Catholic Church, was the only thing her loving soul was bitter against."
"Then you came through the gate of ritualism?" he questioned again; "a very natural sequence."
"You are excellent in jumping at conclusions," I answered; "I could never embrace the Anglican myth, though I was bound by my own creed not to trouble myself about that of other people. I was brought behind the curtain of this household, however, and saw the cruel intestine warfare between high and low church; the vital difference in the teaching of the two classes of clergymen, the 'sacramental' and the 'evangelical;' and I saw within her fold young, earnest hearts becoming partisans in these divisions and calling it zeal for God. I often heard more talk of an evening over the particular shade of an altar-cloth, the size and pattern of book-marks for the altar, the proper position of faldstools, credences, sedilia; the way in which a clergyman read or pronounced, the depth of the genuflection he made in the creed, and so forth, than I have heard the whole ten years I have been in the Catholic Church. I saw, too, that she was eminently the church of the fashionable, 'the most genteel denomination,' as I heard one of her members declare, with much self-satisfaction, containing the 'cream of society;' the poor shut out from her churches, and compensated by mission-chapels for their exclusive use. Of course my wife was very earnest to make me a convert to Episcopacy, and by her repeated solicitations I examined the 'Book of Common Prayer,' as she so often said (what is a truth everywhere) that one must not judge of a religious body by individual members or teachers, but by her standards. I was strongly confirmed, by this examination, in my opinion of the want of conformity to their own rules by many of the clergy, and the helplessness to reach them by discipline, which is the first requisite in a well-ordered household. That the body of the book contradicted the thirty-nine articles was as plain as that 'Protestant' was on the title-page; for while one acknowledged priest, altar, and sacrifice, the other stoutly denied all three."
"And did you make known the result of your investigations to Mrs. Dewey, or did you leave her in ignorance of what you had found?"
"I dreaded to shake her faith, knowing that I had nothing to give her in its place, and I withheld my conclusions, till she insisted so earnestly, assuring me that she could not be moved, that I yielded. I could see that she was moved by what I said; but she was only carried forward, grasping more firmly the fragments of Catholic truth she already held, and growing, as I afterward knew, into a more Catholic spirit. At length I said to her, as she was mourning over the want of unity among her chosen people, and the alarming progress of 'Romanism,' which had just clasped in its embrace one of her dearest friends, 'Suppose, my dear, you and I were to look into this matter; I have no doubt you would be more of an Anglican than ever, and I less in favor of creeds. It is but fair we should give Catholics a hearing; for my part, I know nothing of them except from their enemies.' She was inclined to listen to my proposition; but her spiritual pastor, from whom she hid none of her religious difficulties, put a veto on the examination, by forbidding her to read or to talk with any one on the subject. Indignant at what I then thought his narrow-mindedness, but which I now see was only proper self-preservation, I determined to pursue my investigations alone, though it was the first time in our married life that any subject of interest had not been common with us. I procured such books as were within my reach, and commenced my inquiries. It was a most interesting study, and opened a new world of thought to me; every moment of leisure for six months was given to the search, into which I entered as I would into a question of law, consulting and comparing authorities, examining both sides, questioning and cross-questioning witnesses. But we are touching on the time of sleep," I said, as the hall-clock struck the hour of midnight.
"Oh! no, go on," he replied eagerly, "you don't know how interested I am."
"No," I said firmly, "your experience of to-day requires that you should rest; and as there is no prospect of getting away from here, I shall have ample time to finish my tale to-morrow." I insisted upon his occupying my quarters, being the most comfortable in the house, and as I went to my rest in another apartment, and thought of the eagerness with which he had listened to my recital, I breathed a prayer that God would give him light.
The sun arose clear and bright the following morning, and the wind, that had made such havoc with the snowdrifts the previous day, had died away into a cold calm. I watched from the window the long line of men and boys, with patient oxen, tugging and toiling at the great white heaps. I had Snow Bound in my coat-pocket, and took this opportunity of assuring myself of the truth of the beautiful word-pictures therein painted. It was quite late when my friend appeared from the inner room, and in answer to my inquiry if he had rested well replied, "I have not once wakened since I succeeded in driving our conversation from my mind, which I did after a long process, by repeating the multiplication table over and over till I fell asleep. We cannot get away to-day," he added, going to the window. "I am glad of that, for I am impatient to hear you out." He was uneasy till breakfast was dispatched, our grate and pipes replenished, and we seated again for a talk.
"Now tell me the result of your lawyer-like examination of authorities," he said by way of commencement.
"Yes, it was indeed lawyer-like," I replied; "for prejudice, feeling, early impressions, all went against the decision. But the logical conclusion, from what I read, was this: if (mind I got no further than the if) the Bible is the word of God, it certainly teaches that our Lord established a church, and gave to that one body apostles and teachers, conferring on them wonderful powers, to be continued for all time in some way; for he says, 'I am with you all days, even to the consummation of the world;' with the same breath with which he tells them to preach the Gospel, he bids them to bind and loose, to work miracles and to feed his flock. These are the facts on the face of the Gospel narrative. I tried to explain these things in some other way; I even went to commentators; but the candid examination I had promised forbade my trusting any man's opinion. I went to the early Fathers, (whom, by the way, I had always ignored, as is the fashion;) I found that they reasoned very much like other men; they asked questions, and answered them. I saw that if these powers were given, as the Scripture asserts, to the chosen twelve, these were the men to whom they were transmitted. Without exception they confirmed the teaching of the Bible with regard to the church, and opened still more fully the dogmas of Scripture. I compared them one with another, and found that, without any denial or variation, they declared the authority of the church and the necessity of the sacraments. It was also plain that this church being one and universal, having the same faith and discipline wherever established, until some body of men protested against some received doctrine, no dogma assumed prominence, the faith was one perfect whole. But while, as I told you, I had gone no further than 'if,' my wife, by an entirely different road, was coming to the same gate. Her pastor had given her two very beautiful devotional works, that charmed her beyond anything she had ever seen; but during one of the rare calls of her Catholic friend, (for her guide had advised her to renounce this friendship, but I, with a higher claim on her obedience, had forbidden this sacrifice,) during this call, these books were the subject of discourse, and Miss M—— told her she wished her nothing better to read, as they were both translations of Catholic authors, which she proved by bringing the originals in French at her next visit. My wife saw at once the absurdity of denying her Catholic books, and giving them to her in disguise. This honest guide of souls had also told her that 'Romanists' altered the commandments, leaving out the second entirely, lest it should condemn their idolatry; while her friend gave her the Catechism which is taught to all Catholic children, where the commandments are written as they were spoken on Mount Sinai. I think these two mistakes (I will call them by a mild name) of her pastor shook her faith in him very essentially. From that day we talked freely; I gave her my conclusions, with the 'if,' and she took the Fathers for daily reading. I had gone no further than the if—my pride prevented—when it pleased Almighty God to take from us our eldest son, and to bring my wife to the borders of the grave. What could comfort me, as I looked at my beautiful boy cold and lifeless, and my wife at that point where earthly help is unavailing? The cheerless creed that I had held with so much pride gave me not a glimmer of light. I called reason to my aid, but I called in vain; it was no pleasure to me to think of those I had loved and lost reabsorbed into Deity, never more to be anything to me. How could it satisfy me, yearning for the treasures I was losing, to feel that 'there is no time, no space; we are we know not what, light sparkles in the ether of Deity.' The words which I had used in answer to my wife's questioning, 'if this be true,' followed me continually; now, I needed to know if it were true; I needed something firm to rest me in that weary hour. It was many years since I had knelt in prayer; now I was bowed to the earth, and my whole cry was, 'Lord, give me light.' I am ashamed to tell you of the fearful struggle with my pride, when at last the light of faith came into my bewildered and darkened soul, the many worldly ties that held me back, the loss of position and favor which I feared; I blush for my cowardice, it was unworthy of the name of man made in the image of God. My beloved wife knew not of this strife in my soul; in her extremity she had sent for her pastor, and received all he could give her of the rites of his church; but she was not satisfied. What was my surprise to hear her say, as if the sight of death had given her boldness, 'There is the command of St. James for the comfort and help of the sick and dying; why may I not have it? 'Ah! my child,' he replied, 'that was given for the early ages of the church, and passed away with them.' 'But why do we not need it as well as they?' she questioned, 'It is too much for you to argue in your present state,' was his cold reply, 'but it is sufficient for me, as an obedient son of the church, to submit to the deprivation, since our holy mother has not seen fit to retain it.' I saw the speciousness of the reasoning wherewith he silenced her, and I sat by the patient sufferer after the departure of the divine so faithful to his church, hesitating as to my duty in the matter, when she cried out as if in anguish, 'Oh! if I only knew it was right, only knew—'
"'What was right?' I questioned, holding her trembling hand. 'I want confession, I want absolution, I want the anointing of the sick,' she said eagerly, her dark eyes bent on me imploringly. 'You shall not be denied,' I replied, and, leaving her with the nurse, I went for the nearest Catholic priest. I will not enter into details; let it suffice that, before two hours had passed, my wife was a member of the Catholic Church, improved in physical condition and mental quietness, and I was preparing for baptism."
I paused in my recital; I saw that my friend was much moved, even as I had been, by the memories of the past. After a moment, he gave me his hand cordially, saying, "Thank you heartily, it has done me good;" then, after another pause. "But tell me one thing candidly, have neither of you regretted the step; never wished yourselves back again?"
"Regretted!" I cried indignantly, "wished ourselves back to a region of doubt and uncertainty! Why, I say a Gloria every morning that I am a Catholic; and my wife sings Te Deum all the time."
"And did you suffer all you expected," he asked, "in the way of loss of friends?"
I had nothing in my experience worthy of the name of suffering; but my wife endured much in the way of reproach, withdrawal of friendship, and the cold shoulder socially."
"But let me ask one thing, and don't feel hurt; how do you, with your fastidious tastes, worship in churches crammed to the full with the laboring Irish, before those tawdry altars which I have sometimes seen?" I felt the color rising to my cheek at this question, but I replied calmly, crushing the temptation to be severe, and remembering what this thought was to me before the light of faith illumined my soul, "You can never know what it is to forget distinctions till you believe in that Presence which dwells on Catholic altars. It would ill become sinful man to object to other company he finds in church when Jesus our God condescends to be present for our sake. My wife seeks out the churches frequented by the very poorest; she says she feels nearer God when she has his poor by her side. As to the tawdry altars, you must remember that the love and devotion of an uneducated and unrefined taste is as truly expressed by something common and showy, as your refined delicacy would be by more exquisite adornment. God looketh at the heart; and the poor servant-girl who presents to her favorite altar bouquets of gaudy artificial flowers, for the sake of her dear Lord whom she really believes to be present there, is as acceptable as the lady who sends her lovely blossoms from the hot-house. In the Catholic Church in this country—and may I not say in every country?—the poor are in the majority among her members."
As I spoke, the steam-whistle, the first since the storm, sounded through the air. With a regretful look, Mr. Hood went to the window. "That reminds us," he said, "that the world is moving again."
"You will go to my home with me," I replied; "you must."
"Not now," he answered; "but when the business that brought me to this part of the country is accomplished, I will come and talk with your wife about this matter before I leave for California."
According to promise, he came; and when he left us for his Southern home, we were not without hope that our long talks had had an effect; my wife would not leave him till she had his promise that he would examine for himself, prayerfully, earnestly, and thoroughly, and would write me the result, which I have in a letter by to-day's mail.
San Francisco, Cal., Oct. 24, 1867.
S. Raphael the Archangel.
My Dear Dewey: I was received into the Catholic Church to-day. Laus Deo! I wonder how any one can remain out of it; it is such a joy to have a foothold, to know that one stands on something, and that something firmer than the "everlasting hills." I must give up my business in this publishing house; for I cannot have my name any longer linked with the falsehoods that teem from the press, against Christ's Church. It is a disgrace that American school-books should contain such lies as you find on the pages of the Readers, Geographies, and especially the Histories, which are the text-books of our institutions of learning. May the good God help me to repair the injustice I have done in this matter as a publisher.
I am the wonder and pity of the old transcendental clique here, who, as one of them said to me yesterday, "can't understand how a man can go back to the dark ages for his religion." I told him my faith illumined what he called the "dark ages" till they transcended the nineteenth century in brilliancy. My younger children were baptized with me; I hope in time to see all my dear ones safely housed. Tell Mrs. Dewey, with my kindest remembrance, to sing Te Deum for me, and don't forget me and mine in your prayers, Very sincerely yours in the blessed faith,
Redwood Raphael Hood.
Translated From The Revue Generale, Of Brussels.