The slaves of Adolius went forth on the hill,
And in toiling and talking got half through their day.
The sun was declining; the landscape was still,
As it stretched far beneath. While they delved in the clay,
And uncovered the rocks by command of their master,
Their stories and comments came faster and faster—
"How hot it became about noon!"
"How the olives were prospering greatly!"
That "the figs and the grapes would be plentiful soon—"
And "what changes had happened in Ephesus lately."
They wandered a century back, ay, and more,
To the time when the edict of Decius went out,
As they heard from their fathers. How fiercely it bore
On the Christians! Their blood in the streets flowed about
How the fame of Diana, whose beauty they knew
By description, those martyrs with horror did view!
How the Goth with his merciless torch
From the Euxine had rushed, an invincible foeman,
And spurning the goddess, had fired her high porch,
Despite of the wide-sweeping blade of the Roman.
Then one ceased his work, who was wrinkled and gray,
And, his hand on his mattock, he said: "It appears
Now since Decius did reign, from what wise people say,
To be clear of one hundred and eighty good years.
When his cruelty flourished, I'm told there were seven
Good youths of our city—so long gone to heaven—
Who fled to these parts and were pent
By the emperor's soldiers, who came on a sally,
And built up the cave." To his mattock he bent,
And a rock that he loosened rolled down to the valley.
They found a large rent where the rock had its bed,
Which with eager assault they made larger by delving;
And a cave was disclosed like a home of the dead—
It was horrid and cold, it was rugged and shelving.
The foulness of ages, unused to the light,
Seemed grimly reclaiming its curtain of night.
But look! as the mist grows more clear,
There's a form moving outward—of hell or of heaven—
The slaves did not question, but fled in their fear;
But in truth this was Iamblichus, one of the seven.
He paused at the mouth; placed his hands on his eyes;
Then he looked toward Ephesus, bathèd in light;
And he journeyed in haste, till with speechless surprise
A cross on the grand city gate met his sight.
He wondered, he doubted, he hearkened the din
Of the city; and kissing the symbol, passed in;
This place he so lately had known
Was transformed—had grown foreign, and altered, and cold;
He was famished for bread, and his wishes were shown;
But they liked not his accents, his dress, or his gold.
"Away to the judge with this madman or worse!"
"He has treasure that must be accounted." They went.
"I'm a Christian," he said, "and am wealthy; my purse
I have offered for bread. Should it be your intent
To enroll me a martyr, my life I'll lay down:
Take my life! Take my wealth in exchange for the crown."
Then the judge when he looked and saw clearly
That Decius' head on the coin did appear,
Declared, while he doubted, "this youth must be nearly
Two hundred years older than any one here!"
The bishop was sent for, and Iamblichus spoke:
"Six others and he had but yesterday fled;
They had slept in a cave, and this morning awoke;
And he had been sent to the city for bread."
"True sons," said the bishop, "of God's predilection!
These men are all saints who have found resurrection.
Resurrection indeed but from sleep,
Which the God of all nature prolonging had shed,
Like a life-saving balsam, to guard and to keep
Those whose memory had passed with the ancient and dead."
The city was emptied the emperor came,
The people, the magnates and all, in a throng,
Beat a broad hardened path to that cavern of fame,
Where the young men of Ephesus slumbered so long.
And when Iamblichus shouted, they came at his call;
And the seven stood together amidst of them all.
But nature asserted her sway,
Which a special design had for once set aside;
And they lived but to gaze on the light of the day,
And imparting their blessing, they painlessly died.
Through the wide Roman empire their fame travelled round;
The East and the West have adopted the story;
In Syriac, in Greek, and in Latin 'tis found;
The Romans and Russians agree in their glory
Where Mahomet conquered, they're known unto all,
And are reverenced as saints from Algiers to Bengal.
The cavilling sceptic may doubt;
But sooner shall earth to destruction be hurled,
Than Iamblichus' name be dethroned or die out,
Or the tale of the sleepers depart from the world.
Family, Parish, And Sunday-school Libraries.
It would be trite to say that the press is an extraordinary power for good or for evil. Some have decried it, as if they looked upon it as not merely evil by accident, but bad in itself. We cannot agree with them. We regard the press, in the order of divine providence, as a rapid means of spreading the truth and the morality of the Gospel among mankind. There is an apostleship of the pen as well as of the mouth. The written word often does more than the spoken word; as a proof from Scripture may often tell more forcibly on the mind of an unbeliever, than an argument from tradition.
Printing is a blessing; the press is a boon and a power which the friends of God should know how to use better than his enemies. True, the latter employ it to great effect, What a torrent of bad literature is poured daily over the world! The press is a huge monster, sending forth from its giant jaws poison, that circulates in the blood of society. Infidelity and false theology; immoral, obscene, and useless books are its offspring. Reviews, magazines, weekly and daily papers, issue from it; and are made the vehicles of falsehood and vice. Such is the fact. What are the friends of religion to do, when its enemies are so active? Will it do for us to sit down and express our longings for the good old times when there were no printed books? Hold up our eyes in holy horror, but let our hands hang unemployed by our side? Decry the wickedness of the press; the dishonesty of the authors, and deplore the vitiated taste of the populace, whose minds we see daily devouring the poisoned trash of novels and newspapers; and remain content with uttering an empty sigh? No; we must be up and doing. We must fight the foes of religion with their own weapons. We must use the press against those who abuse it. The old tar who was accustomed to see only wooden ships contend on the ocean; or the veteran of the battle-field who fought for liberty with an antiquated firelock, would be laughed at now for protesting against the use of ironclads or needle-guns in warfare. In vain would he say that what won battles half a century ago ought to win them still. So would it be unreasonable to cling solely to those weapons of spiritual combat which were good enough a century ago, but which to-day are blunt or rusty. We must copper the keels and plate the sides of our wooden vessels with iron; and remodel the ancient shooting-irons of the scholastics to meet the exigencies of modern circumstances. It can hardly be questioned that the amount of bad or useless books published daily is greater than the quantity of good ones. Now, whose fault is this? The fault of the writers? Yes, in part. But they tell us, when asked why they write improper works, that the people will not read any other kind; and that if they were to follow truth, and not to please the passions in their compositions, they would starve. The great cause of bad literature is, therefore, the corrupt taste of the masses. It is at the same time cause and effect; for literary men suit their books to it; and these again help to spread moral diseases farther, and make them sink more deeply into the brains of the community.
The chief means of counteracting the influence of bad books is by writing good ones; by spreading a taste for sound and wholesome reading. In this way can morality be preserved in the soul. To this end should we Catholics direct our energies. We number in this country many millions; and if we were all filled with an ardent zeal for souls, we should think no sacrifice too great, of time, labor, or purse, in order to destroy the pernicious effects of un-Catholic or anti-Catholic books and journals. Men will read. They need food for the mind as well as for the body. Let us give them wholesome food. It was in this sense that Pius IX., in speaking of France, said, "You Frenchmen have planted the tree of science almost everywhere. I do not object to this, provided you do not allow it to become the science of evil; and this will happen, if you do not inundate France with good publications." The words apply to our own country as well as to France.
Write and publish good books then! We do not mean by good books, merely technical, spiritual books. We mean interesting books, in which nothing against faith or morals is found; and in which everything tends to promote good morals. A good novel, or any work of fiction, a pamphlet or brochure, a newspaper article—anything and everything, from a dear folio to a one cent tract, provided it be moral in aim and method, comes under the class of "good publications." We prefer small, cheap books to large and expensive ones. The people cannot understand learned works, but they can comprehend a tract, a magazine, or a small book, like those published in Paris, and scattered among the population by the zealous Abbé Mullois and his fervent associates of the French clergy and laity. Books for general and popular reading should be written and dressed in a popular style. Small works of fiction and anecdote, or an allegory containing a wholesome truth, will do more than a dry sermon. Horace tells us that the old schoolmasters used to give their pupils cakes, to incite them to learn:
"—ut pueris olim dant crustula blandi
Doctores, elementa velint ut discere prima."
We too, laughing, may tell the truth, and sugar-coat the pill so as to make its bitterness less sensible. It is astonishing to learn how much good has been done among the lower classes in France by the good priests and laymen just mentioned. The Abbé Mullois gives us instances of conversions effected, of wicked men reclaimed, of virtues instilled into minds almost brutal, by the casual perusal of some little book or tract. These small publications are put in a valise or trunk, and read in the cars, in the work-shop, at home, or in the house of a friend, and they leave a lasting impression behind them. Thus we quote the good Abbé's words:
"There was a poor widow with many children. The eldest, who alone could help her, was a very hard case. Instead of bringing anything home, he often stole the money necessary for the support of the family. His poor mother suffered, prayed, and wept in vain. But one day this young man being at home, had no money with which to go on a spree. He began to amuse himself with looking over a collection of old books on the chimney. He takes up one, reads it, becomes interested and is moved by it. He even weeps; he leaves the book reluctantly, but returns to its perusal next day. His mother observed a great change in his person; even his figure was transformed; but she was more surprised when her son, awaiting an opportunity to find her alone, addressed her as follows: 'My dear mother, I have made you suffer much; I am a wretch; I have seen it in a book. I shall never be able by work to aid you enough or pay all that I owe you. I have found a means of assisting you till my brothers and sisters grow up. I am going to enlist; you will receive a large bounty. This is the only way in which I can atone for my neglect of you.' And he immediately after joined the army."