The books of the priests here, relating to Phœnician, Sabæan, Persian, and Chaldean ceremonies (for the learning of the Egyptians seems to embrace a knowledge of books of all countries), relate that Tammuz was a "certain idolatrous prophet of the Sabæan Fire-worshippers, who called upon King Ossynœces, our remote ancestor, and commanded him to worship the Seven Planets and the Twelve Signs of the constellations. The king, in reply, ordered him to be put to death. On the same night on which he was slain," continues the book from which I write, "a great gathering of all the images of the gods of the whole earth was held at the palace, where the huge golden image of the sun was suspended; whereupon this image of the sun related what had happened to his prophet, weeping and mourning as he spoke to them. Then all the lesser gods present likewise commenced weeping and mourning, which they continued until daylight, when they all departed through the air, returning to their respective temples in the most distant regions of the earth." Such, dear mother, is the tradition here of the origin of the weeping for Tammuz, the observance of which now forms so important a feature in our Phœnician worship, although introduced, as it was, from the Sabæans themselves. But the more I have conversed with the wise and virtuous Prince Remeses, the more I feel the gross nature of our mythology, O mother, and that images and myths, such as form the ground and expression of our national worship, and that rest wholly in the material figure itself, are unworthy the reverence of an intelligent mind. It is true, we can look at them, and honor that which they represent,--as I daily look at your picture, which I wear over my heart, and kissing it from love for thee, do not worship and adore the ivory, and the colors that mark upon its surface a sweet reflection of your beloved and beautiful countenance. Oh, no! It is you far away I think of, kiss, love, and in a manner adore. Yet an Egyptian of the lowest order, seeing me almost worshipping your picture, would believe I was adoring an effigy of my tutelar goddess. And he would be right, so far as my heart and thought, and you are concerned, my mother. In this representative way, I am now sure that Remeses regards all images, looking through and beyond them up to the Supreme Infinite. I also have imbibed his lofty spirit of worship, and have come to adore the statues as I worship your picture. But _where_, O mother, is the Infinite? When I think of you, I can send my soul towards you, on wings that bear me to your feet, either in your private chamber at needle-work, or with your royal scribe as you are dictating laws for the realm, or upon your throne giving judgment. In memory and imagination, I can instantly send my thoughts out to you, and behold you as you are. But the Infinite, whom Remeses calls GOD, in contradistinction to lesser gods, where does He hide Himself? Why, if He _is_, does He not reveal