ith the Judgment-Day ever before us?" said
Aubrey; "how can we be joyful" (and here a dark shade crossed his
countenance, and his lip trembled with emotion) "while the deadly
passions of this world plead and rankle at the heart? Oh, none but they
who have known the full blessedness of a commune with Heaven can dream
of the whole anguish and agony of the conscience, when it feels itself
sullied by the mire and crushed by the load of earth!" Aubrey paused,
and his words, his tone, his look, made upon me a powerful impression. I
was about to answer, when, interrupting me, he said, "Let us talk not of
these matters; speak to me on more worldly topics."

"I sought you," said I; "that I might do so," and I proceeded to detail
to Aubrey as much of my private intercourse with the Abbe as I deemed
necessary in order to warn him from too close a confidence in the wily
ecclesiastic. Aubrey listened to me with earnest attention: the affair
of the letter; the gross falsehood of the priest in denying the mention
of my name, in his epistle, evidently dismayed him. "But," said he,
after a long silence,--"but it is not for us, Morton,--weak, ignorant,
inexperienced as we are,--to judge prematurely of our spiritual pastors.
To them also is given a far greater license of conduct than to us, and
ways enveloped in what to our eyes are mystery and shade; nay, I know
not whether it be much less impious to question the paths of God's
chosen than to scrutinize those of the Deity Himself."

"Aubrey, Aubrey, this is childish!" said I, somewhat moved to anger.
"Mystery is always the trick of imposture: God's chosen should be
distinguished from their flock only by superior virtue, and not by a
superior privilege in deceit."

"But," said Aubrey, pointing to a passage in the book before him, "see
what a preacher of the word has said!" and Aubrey recited one of the
most dangerous maxims in priestcraft, as reverently as if he were
quoting from the Scripture itself. "'The nakedness of truth should never
be too openly exposed to the eyes of the vulgar. It was wisely feigned
by the ancients that Truth did lie concealed in a well!'"

"Yes," said I, with enthusiasm, "but that well is like the holy stream
at Dodona, which has the gift of enlightening those who seek it, and the
power of illumining every torch which touches the surface of its water!"

Whatever answer Aubrey might have made was interrupted by my uncle, who
appeared approaching towards us wi