the landholder, pointing with his staff towards the fast-fading brightness of the western sky.
‘Probus,’ said he, in a low, melancholy voice, ‘as I looked on that sunset I thought on the condition of the Church.’
‘I see little in the Church to think of, or in the sunset to observe,’ replied his companion.
‘How pure, how vivid,’ murmured the other, scarcely heeding the landholder’s remark, ‘was the light which that sun cast upon this earth at our feet! How nobly for a time its brightness triumphed over the shadows around; and yet, in spite of the promise of that radiance, how swiftly did it fade ere long in its conflict with the gloom — how thoroughly, even now, has it departed from the earth, and withdrawn the beauty of its glory from the heavens! Already the shadows are lengthening around us, and shrouding in their darkness every object in the Place. But a short hour hence, and — should no moon arise — the gloom of night will stretch unresisted over Rome!’
‘To what purpose do you tell me this?’
‘Are you not reminded, by what we have observed, of the course of the worship which it is our privilege to profess? Does not that first beautiful light denote its pure and perfect rise; that short conflict between the radiance and the gloom, its successful preservation, by the Apostles and the Fathers; that rapid fading of the radiance, its desecration in later times; and the gloom which now surrounds us, the destruction which has encompassed it in this age we live in? — a destruction which nothing can avert but a return to that pure first faith that should now be the hope of our religion, as the moon is the hope of night!’
‘How should we reform? Do people who have no liberties care about a religion? Who is to teach them?’
‘I have — I will. It is the purpose of my life to restore to them the holiness of the ancient Church; to rescue them from the snare of traitors to the faith, whom men call priests. They shall learn through me that the Church knew no adornment once, but the presence of the pure; that the priest craved no finer vestment than his holiness; that the Gospel, which once taught humility and now raises dispute, was in former days the rule of faith — sufficient for all wants, powerful over all difficulties. Through me they shall know that in times past it was the guardian of the heart; through me they shall see that in times present it is the plaything of the proud; through me they shall fear that in times future it may become the exile of the Church! To this task I have vowed myself; to overthrow this idolatry — which, like another paganism, rises among us with its images, its relics, its jewels, and its gold — I will devote my child, my life, my energies, and my possessions. From this attempt I will never turn aside — from this determination I will never flinch. While I have a breath of life in me, I will persevere in restoring to this abandoned city the true worship of the Most High!’
He ceased abruptly. The intensity of his agitation seemed suddenly to deny to him the faculty of speech. Every muscle in the frame of that stern, melancholy man quivered at the immortal promptings of the soul within him. There was something almost feminine in his universal susceptibility to the influence of one solitary emotion. Even the rough, desperate landholder felt awed by the enthusiasm of the being before him, and forgot his wrongs, terrible as they were — and his misery, poignant as it was — as he gazed upon his companion’s face.
For some minutes neither of the men said more. Soon, however, the last speaker calmed his agitation with the facility of a man accustomed to stifle the emotions that he cannot crush, and advancing to the landholder, took him sorrowfully by the hand.
‘I see, Probus, that I have amazed you,’ said he; ‘but the Church is the only subject on which I have no discretion. In all other matters I have conquered the rashness of my early
‘Probus,’ said he, in a low, melancholy voice, ‘as I looked on that sunset I thought on the condition of the Church.’
‘I see little in the Church to think of, or in the sunset to observe,’ replied his companion.
‘How pure, how vivid,’ murmured the other, scarcely heeding the landholder’s remark, ‘was the light which that sun cast upon this earth at our feet! How nobly for a time its brightness triumphed over the shadows around; and yet, in spite of the promise of that radiance, how swiftly did it fade ere long in its conflict with the gloom — how thoroughly, even now, has it departed from the earth, and withdrawn the beauty of its glory from the heavens! Already the shadows are lengthening around us, and shrouding in their darkness every object in the Place. But a short hour hence, and — should no moon arise — the gloom of night will stretch unresisted over Rome!’
‘To what purpose do you tell me this?’
‘Are you not reminded, by what we have observed, of the course of the worship which it is our privilege to profess? Does not that first beautiful light denote its pure and perfect rise; that short conflict between the radiance and the gloom, its successful preservation, by the Apostles and the Fathers; that rapid fading of the radiance, its desecration in later times; and the gloom which now surrounds us, the destruction which has encompassed it in this age we live in? — a destruction which nothing can avert but a return to that pure first faith that should now be the hope of our religion, as the moon is the hope of night!’
‘How should we reform? Do people who have no liberties care about a religion? Who is to teach them?’
‘I have — I will. It is the purpose of my life to restore to them the holiness of the ancient Church; to rescue them from the snare of traitors to the faith, whom men call priests. They shall learn through me that the Church knew no adornment once, but the presence of the pure; that the priest craved no finer vestment than his holiness; that the Gospel, which once taught humility and now raises dispute, was in former days the rule of faith — sufficient for all wants, powerful over all difficulties. Through me they shall know that in times past it was the guardian of the heart; through me they shall see that in times present it is the plaything of the proud; through me they shall fear that in times future it may become the exile of the Church! To this task I have vowed myself; to overthrow this idolatry — which, like another paganism, rises among us with its images, its relics, its jewels, and its gold — I will devote my child, my life, my energies, and my possessions. From this attempt I will never turn aside — from this determination I will never flinch. While I have a breath of life in me, I will persevere in restoring to this abandoned city the true worship of the Most High!’
He ceased abruptly. The intensity of his agitation seemed suddenly to deny to him the faculty of speech. Every muscle in the frame of that stern, melancholy man quivered at the immortal promptings of the soul within him. There was something almost feminine in his universal susceptibility to the influence of one solitary emotion. Even the rough, desperate landholder felt awed by the enthusiasm of the being before him, and forgot his wrongs, terrible as they were — and his misery, poignant as it was — as he gazed upon his companion’s face.
For some minutes neither of the men said more. Soon, however, the last speaker calmed his agitation with the facility of a man accustomed to stifle the emotions that he cannot crush, and advancing to the landholder, took him sorrowfully by the hand.
‘I see, Probus, that I have amazed you,’ said he; ‘but the Church is the only subject on which I have no discretion. In all other matters I have conquered the rashness of my early
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