! they were fascinating realities, and, as he read, his whole soul was seized with an intense desire to become a hero of the same class. Accordingly, when he recovered, he renounced the world, and, after the Catholic idea, became a saint. His heart was set upon the Virgin Mary; he visited her shrine in Catalonia. Upon her altar he suspended his arms and vowed to devote himself to her as her faithful knight. He passed one year of his life among the poor in a hospital, himself being, if possible, the poorest of them all. Having obtained the blessing of the Pope he set forth, as a pilgrim, for the Holy Land. After encountering various and great difficulties he went to Rome, and, by concerting with the leaders of the Church, there instituted such plans as it was anticipated might, if they were efficiently prosecuted, restore to it a portion, at least, of its lost splendor. At the first only seven persons could be persuaded to become his followers, and after a time ten rallied around him. Few, however, as their numbers were, they made up for their deficiency in their fiery zeal. Their enthusiasm was unbounded. They traversed the country, and by their words and actions kindled in the hearts of many a corresponding blaze to that which flamed in their own. Success attended these efforts, and their numbers rapidly augmented. The every-day observation of life will teach us that fanaticism is closely allied to insanity. Loyola was a striking exemplification of this fact. His excessive egotism and wild imagination led him to regard himself as an especial favorite of the Almighty. He believed himself to be inspired. The Virgin Mary looked upon him, as he conjectured, with great admiration. His eyes had beheld her, and words of tenderness had been exchanged between him and the sainted lady. Her Son had appeared to him. They had looked upon each other face to face. He believed himself commissioned to affirm the truthfulness of the doctrine of transubstantiation, for he had seen in the sacrifice of the mass the consecrated elements change into the actual body and blood of Christ. He knew the doctrine of the Trinity to be a verity; for as he stood praying on the steps of St. Dominic he saw the Trinity in unity. With such a leader to direct-a leader stimulated by a frenzied enthusiasm, combined with an indomitable will, and at the same time held responsible to no earthly power save the Popewith such a leader those who became his followers would obey his commands as though they were the commands of God himself. Under his rule they were obligated to believe whatever was required of them, no matter how absurd in the estimation of others, or contrary to the evidence of the senses. Faith was every thing; reason was nothing. This was to be set at defiance by that. So implicit must be their obedience to the behests of their general that they must know no will but his. At his bidding they were to go to any portion of the wide world, whether civilized or savage. They were to brave every danger, being alike regardless of heat or cold, shipwreck, pestilence, famine, or torture. Every means were to be regarded as justifiable that might secure success. Conscience was to be with them a word having scarcely a meaning. To accomplish their purpose they might vow allegiance to foreign potentates or ally themselves to insurrectionists. They might, if considered necessary, scatter the seeds of heresy around them, or dispute against the Pope, or bring railing accusations against their own order. The general, under certain limitations, held his office for life. He might indeed be styled absolute monarch of the order. His authority extended to all the business as well as persons connected with it, and that authority was unlimited by any extraneous power or control. The different regions were divided into different prov inces, and over each was appointed a provincial. The power this officer exercised over those under him was as absolute as that of the head. All the houses of his province were open to his inspection. From every section monthly returns were to be made to him of all that was transacted, learned, or contemplated. Every three months these returns were to be presented to the general. The work of training and inspecting was continually going on. Every member of the order was thus always known and observed. To cease to be obedient, to divulge the secrets, or fail in fidelity, were regarded as offenses so enormous as to doom the offender to the most fearful pains and penalties. The secrecy maintained was so complete that, whatever instructions might be sent to the provincials, or agents, or any member of the order, they were entirely unknown to any others whomsoever. Among the mysteries of the society were recognized the rules and plans of operation by which the members were to seek to advance | the interests of their order. It is a fact that may well be regarded as remarkable, that no follower of Loyola ever divulged any of these rules or plans. Some years ago, however, a copy of them was found in the Jesuits' college at Paderborn, and another copy was obtained from a ship bound to the East Indies, and which was captured by the Dutch. the Jesuits have, with steady pertinacity, denied But their genuineness. The deceit and base hypocrisy which are in these documents exhibited, show the order to have well merited the severe denunciations of their opponents; for it is asserted that nothing could be more crafty and void of all fixed moral principle than the general course of the Jesuits. Such, as we have presented it, was the system that sprang from the brain of Loyola; a system that can not fail to excite the indignation of every lover of honesty and truth. And yet it was this system, carried out, that effectually checked the progress of the Reformation and gave stability to the tottering throne of the Pontiff. Spreading themselves over the face of the earth, and fired with the intensest zeal, its adherents succeeded in bringing back many who had gone from Romanism, and in steadying the nations that were wavering. In the spirit of bold determination they took the field against all opponents. For a long time and almost alone they maintained what, at first, seemed a most unequal contest. But they were fertile in expedients and unscrupulous in their conduct. Before long it became apparent that they stood unequaled in "subtilty, impudence, and invective." The Reformers had inculcated the importance of a life of devotion, and some of the Catholic fraternities professed a regard for the principles of morality. The Jesuits, however, laid no especial stress on these. Their standard of morality was of meager proportions. They taught that though a person might be extremely wicked, yet if there was experienced a fear of the divine indignation and a ceasing from the grosser criminalities, such need entertain no fears of losing heaven. They likewise taught that if any one could present argument or urge authority for sins committed, the sins might be practiced in safety. They also taught that when lust and passion had blunted the sensibilities and blinded the mind, no matter how debased or villainous the character, these excesses were not to be considered at the judgment of God; they would be regarded simply as the acts of the insane. These, together with other and corresponding doctrines, as inculcated by these teachers, were received with readiness by the multitude; and they therefore became the favorite confessors with all classes. Their untiring perseverance, together with their moral laxity, constituted elements of strength; and their success was, at the first, and is at this day, contemplated with amazement. HAPPINESS is like the statue of Isis, whose vail no mortal ever raised. THE BELLS. BY WALTON W. BATTERSHALL. WHY that deep and solemn moaning, Dirges for the dead and dying, Whence that choir of joyous singing To the living Christ's sweet story, As the bells my heart is tolling O'er the dead loves it hath known; Life's fond dream is disenchanted; As the bells my heart is chiming, Tender bloom the hope immortal, UNHEARD MUSIC. BY PAMELIA S. VINING. You have marked a lonely river, On whose waveless bosom lay Some deep mountain-shadow, ever Dark'ning e'en the ripple's play; Did you deem it had no murmur Of soft music, though unheard Deep beneath the tranquil surface That the waters never stirred? You have marked the quiet forest Where the moonbeams slept at night, And the elm and drooping willow Sorrowed in the misty light; Did you deem those depths so silent Held no fount of tender song, That awoke to hallowed utt'rance As the hushed hours swept along? Thus the heart hath unheard music Deep within its chambers lone, Very passionate and tender, Never shaped to human tone. Think not that its depths are silent, Though thou ne'er hast paused to hear, Haply even thence some music Floats to the all-hearing Ear. MOUNTAINS-THEIR MORAL USE. BY REV. R. H. HOWARD. O the native mountaineer no prospect could well appear more dreary than that of a country altogether uninhabited by high mountains. It was in daily communion with their mighty forms that he was reared. His home was hedged in by them. Whenever he looked away into the blue of the far sky his vision was bounded by them. All the lessons of grandeur or sublimity which it was ever his fortune to have addressed to him were read to him and indelibly impressed upon his nature by those grand old piles, "Unwasting, deathless, sublime." ever been proverbial as a nursing-spot of freedom, because it is so of those virtues in which freedom must have its basis, and from which it must derive its strength. The bandit and the brigand may, it is true, lurk for a season, or take temporary refuge among its wild glens, but it were extremely doubtful whether they can ever feel at home, much less thrive there. I am sure that every thing they see, not less than every sound they hear, from the "cathedral music" of the storm to the stillest voice that whispers through those solemn recesses, must remind them that they are interlopers-unwelcome intruders. Difficult, indeed, must it be for a rascal, a villain, one whose heart is in no way in harmony with the mind and laws of the Creator, to enjoy the society of the hills, to become fairly acclimated to them, or naturalized in their midst. For my own part, indeed, I am fully of the opinion that for a dissolute and licentious people to become intrenched among the mountains were quite impossible, simply because quite unnatural. The It is, indeed, a matter of no surprise to me, that those who have been thus nurtured among mountains; who, so to speak, have become personally acquainted with every peak visible from the old home, should feel a strong attachment to them, and not only so, but should experience among high hills any where more of a home-history of the race, in all its varieties, attests like feeling than on the boundless level plain. Then, again, their quietness, immovability, and gigantic proportions give one a feeling of rest, of security, of strength. Their rocky ramparts, piled high in ponderous strata, like courses of Cyclopean masonry, on every side, rise as impregnable barriers about him, to constitute, as it were, his cot a fastness, and defend him against all outstanding harm. One can hardly have been a close and accurate observer of all the influences which operate as conservative of morals without having discovered the favorable tendency of mountain scenery in its effects upon the heart and life. Its influence is unquestionably to develop and foster the virtues-particularly sentiments of a domestic or patriotic nature. It is true that the necessity of incessant toil, and the vigor of the climate to which the inhabitants of our mountain districts are subjected, as well as their remoteness from the seductive influences of "fashionable life," may, in part, account for that high type of character, in many respects, which seems so indigenous with them. Yet there is unquestionably something about high, heaven-pointing mountains which, by perpetually inspiring one with sentiments of veneration; by aiding his aspirations to climb up to that excellence which is ever above us, and finally to scale the very mount of God itself, till he stands, as it were, in the personal presence of that great Being, awakens in his soul the instinct of moral responsibility, and with this all the elements of a true manhoodconscientiousness, self-respect, love of country, and love of home. Thus a mountain-land has that a rugged virtue, tireless energy, an uncon- How finely is that instinct, so universal in the I call to you, I hold my hands to you, I rush to you as though I could embrace you." Once more. Of all natural objects mountains are the finest symbols of generous attainment. By virtue of some secret provision of our nature the grandest exercise of our faculties seems to be that of looking upward. Hence, by the common consent of all languages, what is noblest and best is placed above us. Excellence is a hight. Greatness is figured as an elevation. Virtues in character are measured according to their loftiness. Prayer, we say, goes up. When we improve, we ascend. Heaven is arched over our heads. In a word, the divinest motions of our spirits are aspiration and veneration-both looking upward. Those objects, then, obviously which most impel us to look away from our own plane, above, beyond it, are the best incentives to high moral endeavor and all generous attainment. What can be better calculated to answer this purpose than lofty mountains? What truly-lofty soul or thoughtful mind-in a word, what man, whose spiritual state is right, but will find his largest satisfaction, not simply in surveying the hills themselves, however great, but in letting the kindled and devout imagination travel up their glorious peaks into that infinitude and mystery beyond them whither their summits point? Finally, gentle reader, it may some time be your fortune to place your foot on the crown of some "tall cliff," whose "Awful form Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm." You will doubtless richly enjoy sending the eye arrogantly down into the conquered plains, looking off alone over the vast billows of rock and forest that stretch, like a stiffened sea below, or yet up into the sky, which seems no nearer but infinitely more immeasurable. Yet let me say to you, if you are prepared to experience only a eertain vague, æsthetic, and transient stimulus of the finer sentiments; if you carry with you to that august and impressive ritual none of the hallowing associations connected with the relig ion of Jesus-a faith in Christ; if, in a word, your exalted stand-point seem to bring you no nearer to God, you must miss, after all, the grandest lesson your circumstances was calculated to teach, the more exalted sentiments and profitable reflections the occasion was calculated to inspire. Only when you shall have felt your heart touched by the finger of Him at whose command the rooted mountains forever stood fast; when you shall have received the great idea of redemption as your theory of the universe, as well as the principle of practical ethics, will the works of God possess for you their grandest significance, by serving to exercise the mind upon some of the grandest conceptions that have ever occupied the mind of man. Then will those torn rocks and ragged hights-evidences of the convulsive agony of nature at some primitive period-naturally carry your mind, not only away from the sublime scene about you to the tides of human life rolling far off their dark elements of remorse for sin, of pain, of grief, and penitence, and hopeless love, and sighing slaves, and baffled aspiration-tides which, though indeed sending no sound up into that cold solitude, the mortal breast you have brought with you tells you are still chafing and surging on; but especially up to that Christ who looks down with pitying eye on all this, and then forward to that day when this hardened humanity shall give way to one redeemed and washed in the blood of the Lamb. Yes, then will those upheaved and tangled rifts of rocks, plowed only by volcanic revolutions and the wearing weather, remind you how the whole creation groaneth together for the manifestation of the sons of God; then will all the broken pillars of the hills become so many prophets of the second coming of the Son of man; then from every jagged monument of ancient change may Christian hope run forward to "Christ's new heavens and new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness." WILLIE ASLEEP. BY MRS. H. C. GARDNER. He is smiling in his slumbers At some sweet dream of joy; The unscen angels share his bliss, His rosy lips they softly kiss, And bless our baby boy. We can not trace the vision The tiny train of thought, So pure and peaceful in its flowSo lovely in its roseate glow, So delicately wrought. But well we know our darling The little clasping fingers, The yielding velvet cheek, The half-transparent lids that close, So softly o'er the eyes' repose, Of innocence all speak. God bless thee, little sleeper! His grace to thee be given! O may we train thee for the skies, Ic A NATION OF THE FUTURE. BY J. D. BELL. [T is reasonable to suppose that the Maker has made nothing without intending to bring it into his service. The fulfillment of his intention was to be by and by, if not immediately; at last, if never before. The eccentric comet of the sky, the wild meteor gleaming along the limits of the mundane atmosphere, the solitary mountain covered with perpetual snow, the low lagoon breathing its malaria, the noisome insect, the venomous serpent, the dull Esquimaux who eats whale's fat in the frozen north, the red man, the yellow man, the black man, China, Japan, India, Africa-these all shall presently, or long hence, or finally become sources of glory to the omnipotent Maker. "He must increase, but I must decrease." The time in which error, vice, disease, and desolation prevail, and are rampant on a certain portion of the world's surface, can not be supposed a long time to the Master of the universe. To him our millenniums are as moments, our centuries as points. "He appears," says Bishop Butler, "deliberate in all his operations." In his protracted delays men may suppose him to decrease; but through all the periods of moral darkness and human decline his hand is ever on the world, and he would no longer move it on its axis than it were destined to glorify him. How can yonder vast uncivilized continent, with its neglected species of men, not less than four thousand years old; and with all the demons from the infernal realm that may be conceived to haunt it-how can benighted, mournful Africa, with her countless difficulties, so hinder the increase of the Maker, that at no point of the future he will be honored in her enlightenment and civilization? Nothing shall prevent the increase of Jesus! All normal philosophy readily assents to the prediction of the devout bard, that He shall reign "Where'er the sun It is not, therefore, a question with us, whether such a being, such a species of beings, or such a continent was made with a purpose to glorify the Maker. Every thinking person would take the affirmative. The sublime cry of "rapt Isaiah" is passing through the ages: "For thus saith the Lord that created the heavens; God himself that formed the earth and made it; he hath established it; he created it not in vain; he formed it to be inhabited: I am the Lord, and there is none else." But we may and should inquire concerning such a part of the race or concerning such a land, how and when it is likely to become a tributary to the eternal-flowing stream of divine joy. Intelligent minds are frequently engaged in such inquiries. The supreme Constructor gave to every great division of our earth its existing soil, rivers, forests, lakes, mountains, water-sheds, and table-lands, intending that human beings should inhabit it, and should adorn it with the beauties of civilization. Even if you should set aside the Scriptures you could not, in the light of geology and astronomy, conclude otherwise. The argument is from adaptation to occupation. The supposition would surely be monstrously absurd, that the Maker would spend ages in covering the African continent with fertile alluvium, intending that this vast expanse of fine land should never sustain any thing better than wild vegetation, wild animals, and wild negroes. Do you not believe that when Columbus, on one beautiful morning, in the year fourteen hundred and ninety-two, landed from the ocean at the south-east corner of America, so delighted, as history tells us, that he threw himself on the ground and passionately kissed it—he was, then, quite ready to exclaim, "This great country must have been made for a higher end than to grow timber and Indians!" When intelligent men first looked on the prairies of the wide west, and sounded the depth of their inexhaustible soil, were they not prepared to predict the time of magnificent cities on those fertile plains? Suppose yourself, my reader, to stand this day where Dr. Livingstone, the illustrious explorer, stood a few years ago, amid the gorgeous vegetation which adorns the banks of the Lecambye, in interior Africa; your ears enchanted by the music of the myriads of birds which throng in the far-reaching Barotse valley; your eyes taking in the diversified landscape, with its elephants and antelopes, lions and buffaloes, cattle and zebras, geese and ducks; your feet in contact with a soil enriched by the deposits of unnumbered inundations of a river whose water is almost as fresh and clear as that of the famed Nile itself. Now, suppose yourself to behold, from your standpoint, the human population of the same fair valley, ignorant as they are of science and the Bible, possessing no written literature, debased by polygamy and superstitious worship to a condition almost as low as that of the beasts which graze and roar around them. Could you, having these two scenes before you, make yourself believe that this ill-cultivated but fertile soil, on one hand, and this untutored but susceptible people, on the other, will never be civilized? Could you conclude that these interior lands will never |