into the largest bulk, and become, in other respects and for other ends, not of them the most spiritual, the most influential or controlling? Nothing, however, in all this acknowledged zeal, necessarily looks to the truth in its own broad wholeness as the inspiring object of it. True, it does involve the truth, but only as they hold it, a small fragment abstracted from the general sum, and thereby changed as to its original nature, meaning and end, and arrayed against all other truth equally divine. Would they otherwise have this zeal for it? Is not this miserably narrow eclecticism in a region so immense, and where all carries on its face the same stamp of divinity and speaks with the same authoritative tones, not manifestly fatal to the vaunted boast of special zeal for "the truth" on the part of the sects? Clearly, this is neither the attitude nor the method by which to find "the truth.”

There is a reason for this lying in the moral constitution of those who seek in this partial way after the truth. Why take one part and reject the other? Whatever this reason may be, it must have regard to that portion of the truth itself which such persons reject. But the part they desire to embrace is, if seen properly, of the same nature and tenor as that which they do not wish to embrace. How, if the part, in the act of culling it from the whole, were not changed to some other nature, or made to wear some other aspect for them, could they make this difference? Clearly, this is neither honestly to desire either the whole or a part of the truth. In some form or other the end, in fact, is always error, with which it is sought in this fragmentary way to connect the truth, in order to give the error a more open field and greater force. How can it be otherwise? All such effort after the truth, instead of leading to the full, broad light of day, can only conduct to the denser darkness of moral night; for all the parts of the truth are, in themselves, and must of necessity be of the same nature, arising as they do from a common centre, and to be worthily sought for must, therefore, be loved, as already said, for their own sake. And this they will be, if, in fact, they are all equally regarded as truth. Where this is so actually, no one part can be thus preferred to another, and certainly never to the rejection of the other; for the rejection of the one part conclusively shows that the other part is held not in the spirit of truth, but in that of "unrighteousness." This spirit is itself an absolute disqualification for finding the truth.

Moreover, truth of every description and in every form, has, in some shape, a keeper, or, in other words, it becomes embodied, by which means it is preserved and perpetuated in its own proper character. Natural truth has the various forms of nature; historical truth has history; civil truth has the state; domestic truth has the family, and legal truth, the forms of jurisprudence. Truth

lying in the region of the fine arts assumes the forms of poetry, painting, sculpture, and music. So we may travel all through the various forms of mundane truth, and in the case of each we will find that it has crystallized itself in some outward visible form or institution, which becomes in turn its keeper or preserver, by means of which it is continued in its own proper character. Now, can it be supposed that spiritual truth, which is infinitely more important than all these combined, forms an exception to this otherwise universal fact? Surely it cannot. But what, precisely, is the keeper of this truth? Prior to Christianity, as will be generally conceded, this keeper was the Jewish Church. To it were the divine oracles given. The Jewish people were raised up for this special purpose; and in order that they might be able to carry it out more effectually, they were not only specially blessed with extraordinary gifts, but were also carefully separated from all other surrounding peoples and nations. Upon them all other tribes were dependent for the truth. Jewish history, in connection with the Bible itself, makes it too clear to leave any doubt with regard to this general fact.

But what became the keeper of the truth when Judaism faded away, or dissolved into Christianity? Did this truth, at this point and all at once, become independent of a keeper, and has it been allowed, from this time on, to float loosely and vaguely in the mind of all succeeding nations? Surely no one would be willing to take such a position. If not, what was its keeper? Were any of the Protestant sects on hand at this time to take this office? What institution other than the Catholic Church, which, by divine authority itself, is said to be the "ground and pillar of the truth," could be this keeper? Upon her the burden passed from the Jewish Church, which itself became merged into her broad bosom, with the command from the Almighty, made only tenfold more solemn, because the revelation itself is more precious, "Keep my truth." The keeper here was, as to its nature, as we can readily see, in full harmony with the truth itself. If the truth was divine, so was the Church; if the first was supernatural, so was the second. The truth, being infinitely broad and high, the Church, to be its competent keeper, was Catholic, which involves both attributes, and approximately commensurate. If the truth was inspired, and, therefore, fixed and unchangeable, the Church was infallible, and constantly the same through all the ages. The last, therefore, was meet to be the keeper of the first. In her is the written word just as it was penned in the beginning, and here also is the spoken word, which, if it had been written, would have filled the world with books; and these, in perfect accord and harmony with each other, are but the two different forms of the same grand, whole system. Acting as this keeper, the Catholic Church, feeling the sacredness

of its obligation, carefully selected the genuine from the spurious productions claiming to be inspired, and formed the Canon of Sacred Scripture; and but for this, where would be the Bible now in the hands of our Protestant friends, and of which separately they so zealously boast? Could any of the sects have the attributes above enumerated, corresponding with the truth itself, fitting it or them to be this keeper of the truth?

Besides all this, the Catholic Church has the truth embodied in still another way. It has one altar, which, when properly understood, is rich in this view, beyond all power of imagination; a priesthood, who, in their persons and various robes, impressively symbolize much of the most sacred truth connected with Christ himself and his atoning work; images and paintings, bearing vividly to the eye almost the whole circle of practical truth essential to salvation. In a word, the whole Church, including its architectural structure, outside as well as within, with its music and its ritual growing out of the real presence, is, in every particular and throughout, the striking symbol for the eye and ear of the grand truth of God, which, besides, it proclaims daily throughout all the world, with the unerring voice of infallibility.

But our purpose is accomplished. We can go no further. We have reached not the mount that "burneth with fire, and a whirlwind, and darkness, and storm;" but we are come to "Mount Sion, and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and the company of the many thousands of angels, and to the Church of the first born, who are written in heaven, and to God the Judge of all, and to the spirits of the just made perfect, and to Jesus the Mediator of the New Testament, and to the sprinkling of blood which speaketh better things than that of Abel." Bowing at her altar we deeply realize that though the physical eye sees it not, yet to the eye of faith the transfigured glory of the scene enacted eighteen centuries ago on Mount Tabor still glows with undiminished brightness. Amidst the condensed rays of the whole truth thus streaming directly upon us, we come to know what is meant by "not apprehending," but "being apprehended," by the truth. Hitherto, and on the outside, the movement in searching the truth was from the human side aided by the divine; now and here, it is from the divine side aided by the co-operation of the human. This is not only to find the truth, but to be found by it; not only to have the truth in us, but for the truth to have us in it, which is much richer, deeper, and grander. It is for the single individual to be centrally in the whole, and not for a mere ray of this truth to be separately in the individual. Here also is the truth in its own certainty, for here still sounds the great commission: "Go ye into all the world and preach my gospel to every creature," and preach

it, not as something doubtful or uncertain, or that cannot certainly be known, but as the absolute verity of God. So I am with you all days, even to the consummation of the world." "He that heareth you, heareth Me, and he that despiseth you, despiseth Me."

There are many still on the outside who have more than a dim inkling of all this. Still they allow themselves to be tossed about by endless and angry controversies, hoping that something hereafter may be developed which will bring to them the truth in its wholeness without the necessity and humiliation on their part of going to the Catholic altar for it. Longingly they are looking forward to a coming Church, which they call the "Church of the future," which, as they hope, may be the union of all. Vain hope! Can it be supposed by the rational mind that God would set aside his own wonderful creation, the Catholic Church, which is so perfectly adapted to, and commensurate with, the nature and requirements of the truth itself, for the purpose of making room for another? And what other could be greater and broader, and endowed with grander gifts? And can the imagination conceive anything more capable of comprehending all kindreds and nations, than the Church Catholic? What such persons need, in addition to their present conviction, is the divine grace of faith, and with this the equally divine gift of moral courage, by which they may be able to sacrifice pride of intellect, worldly position and consideration, and realize that in the truth, and through the truth, only, can anything be of real good. Having this, we have all things; without this, what have we?

NOTES ON SPAIN.

(CONCLUSION.)

ULL ninety out of every hundred travellers who visit Spain will

when they come to look back upon their past wanderings, its snowy mountains and fruitful plains, its picturesque ruins, its babbling streams, and its refreshing glades, will stand out on the field. of memory as pleasurably as vividly. Nor is it only its charm for ear and eye that should be noted, but also the invigorating, health-giving action of its mountain air-its elevation equals that of the summit of Skiddaw! In spite of a bedroom much like a prison cell, with tiled floor and straw mattress, a refreshing sleep was enjoyed the first night, and in the morning my companion had lost all those unpleasant symptoms which the damp and heavy atmosphere of Seville had induced. The house we stayed in was the "Fonda de los Siete Suelos," which takes its name from an adjacent tower of the Alhambra, called the "Torre de los Siete Suelos," or the Tower of the Seven Floors. It, and the Washington Irving Hotel opposite it, are situated in the so-called "gardens" of the Alhambra, which are, in fact, not gardens in our sense of the word, but extensive plantations of elm trees, through which steep roads wind in various directions. The hotel charges are sufficiently moderate, i. e., eight shillings and nine pence a day for a bedroom on the second floor, with meals and attendance. The other hotels are down in the city, and should be made use of by those who care more for convenient access to the churches and other monuments of Granada than for the Alhambra with its purer atmosphere.

Although it was the second of November, the trees still preserved their leaves, which showed, however, the tinge of autumn. The sun was hot enough to make us gladly seek the ample shade, while butterflies were numerous and lizards darted over the walls or hid amongst the multitude of arums which clothed the ground. Scarcely any rain had fallen here during the recent duluge at Seville. Yet the air was perfectly transparent and the distant mountains stood out in perfect distinctness against the blue sky, which was for the most part cloudless, though black clouds and pouring rain could be seen far off to the northwest.

Granada is built upon three hills on the outskirts of the mighty mountain chain called the Sierra Nevada, from its cap of perpetual snow-now of wide extent. Beneath is the fertile plain, the Vega (still kept fruitful by that irrigation from the mountain streams