Let us have in this free country, where all religions to an uncommon degree are placed on an equal footing, a fair and honest discussion, avoiding unsupported assertions, refuted charges, and all bigotry. Whichever religion is worsted in such an encounter by fair and honest blows, why, let it die. If the free-religionists can clear the whole field from Christianity, as they appear to think, and invent instead a better religion, as some fancy, let them do so and come on with their new religion. Give it a fair chance, and, if their new religion proves to be a better one, let it have a joyful greeting. Until then the Catholic Church is in possession of the field, and in the congress of intelligent men holds its high place; for all thoroughly-instructed minds see clearly the impossibility of entertaining honorable ideas of God without being Christians, and of being Christians and not becoming Catholics. The real issue, if the free-religionists can be induced to look at it, is between Catholicity and nihilism. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SMOKE-BOUND. O cool east wind! so moist of breath, With strength blow from the sea, Loosen the smoky chains that curb Our proud hills’ sovereignty; Wake in the silent mountain glens, Where streams grow dumb with drought, The clamor of your lowland home— The sea-waves’ battle-shout. Sweep onward with your pennon clouds, Marshal your spears of rain, Sound in the pines your bugle-call— Set free our hills again! Hide them for days, if so you will, In cloudy depths of storm; Wrestle, as human soul should win Its strong, immortal form. We shall not grieve in such dark veil To lose our valley’s crown, That gaineth so from your pure breath But mightier renown. Our hearts shall greet the slanting rain, Like blessèd water flung; Your voice shall the _Asperges_ sing The cross-boughed firs among. Like sin unshriven these earth-fires Hold heart and mountain fast, Each day a stronger link is forged, A drearier light is cast. All day the smoky shadow flings Its dream of heaven’s blue, Its mockery of summer’s smile, Its vision all untrue,— Winning, at eve, the sun to spin Dull shadow into gold— Bright meshes of enchanter’s web O’er hill and valley rolled;