It seems that this illustrious emperor, in a fit of passion, ordered the slaughter of the people of Thessalonica, because they had arisen and killed some half-a-dozen of the officers of the government, in a sedition, on account of the imprisonment of a favorite circus-rider.  The wrath of Theodosius knew no bounds.  He had once before forgiven the people of Antioch for a more outrageous insult to imperial authority; but he would not pardon the people of Thessalonica, and caused some seven thousand of them to be executed,—­an outrageous vengeance, a crime against humanity.  The severity of this punishment filled the whole Empire with consternation.  Ambrose himself was so overwhelmed with grief and indignation that he retired into the country in order to avoid all intercourse with his sovereign.  And there he remained, until the emperor came to himself and comprehended the enormity of his crime.  But Ambrose wrote a letter to the emperor, in which he insisted on his repentance and expiation.  The emperor was so touched by the fidelity and eloquence of the prelate that he came to the cathedral to offer up his customary oblations.  But the bishop, in his episcopal robes, met him at the porch and forbade his entrance.  “Do not think, O Emperor, to atone for the enormity of your offence by merely presenting yourself in the church.  Dream not of entering these sacred precincts with your hands stained with blood.  Receive with submission the sentence of the Church.”  Then Theodosius attempted to justify himself by the example of David.  “But,” retorted the bishop, “if you imitate David in his crime, imitate David in his repentance.  Insult not the Church by a double crime.”  So the emperor, in spite of his elevated rank and power, was obliged to return.  The festival of Christmas approached, the great holiday of the Church, and then was seen one of the rarest spectacles which history records.  The great emperor, now with undivided authority, penetrated with grief and shame and penitence, again approached the sacred edifice, and openly made a full confession of his sins; and not till then was he received into the communion of the Church.

I think this scene is grand; worthy of a great painter,—­of a painter who knows history as well as art, which so few painters do know; yet ought to know if they would produce immortal pictures.  Nor do I know which to admire the more,—­the penitent emperor offering public penance for his abuse of imperial authority, or the brave and conscientious prelate who dared to rebuke his sin.  When has such a thing happened in modern times?  Bossuet had the courage to dictate, in the royal chapel, the duties of a king, and Bourdaloue once ventured to reprove his royal hearer for an outrageous scandal.  These instances of priestly boldness and fidelity are cited as remarkable.  And they were remarkable, when we consider what an egotistical, haughty, exacting, voluptuous monarch Louis XIV. was,—­a monarch who killed Racine