{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_20755/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_20755","id":"gutenberg_20755","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20755","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: History - Other","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","English essays","English literature","History","Religion -- Biography"],"text":"Produced by Suzanne Lybarger and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by The\nInternet Archive/Canadian Libraries)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                              SHORT STUDIES\n                                   ON\n                             GREAT SUBJECTS.\n\n\n\n\n\n                                 LONDON\n                     PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO.\n                            NEW-STREET SQUARE\n\n\n\n\n\n                              SHORT STUDIES\n                                   ON\n                             GREAT SUBJECTS.\n\n                                   BY\n\n                         JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE, M.A.\n\n                  LATE FELLOW OF EXETER COLLEGE, OXFORD.\n\n\n                            _SECOND EDITION._\n\n\n\n                                 LONDON:\n                         LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.\n                                  1867.\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n                                                           PAGE\n\nTHE SCIENCE OF HISTORY                                        1\n\nTIMES OF ERASMUS AND LUTHER:\n    Lecture I                                                26\n    Lecture II                                               50\n    Lecture III                                              75\n\nTHE INFLUENCE OF THE REFORMATION ON THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER  102\n\nTHE PHILOSOPHY OF CATHOLICISM                               124\n\nA PLEA FOR THE FREE DISCUSSION OF THEOLOGICAL DIFFICULTIES  133\n\nCRITICISM AND THE GOSPEL HISTORY                            159\n\nTHE BOOK OF JOB                                             185\n\nSPINOZA                                                     223\n\nTHE DISSOLUTION OF THE MONASTERIES                          265\n\nENGLAND'S FORGOTTEN WORTHIES                                294\n\nHOMER                                                       334\n\nTHE LIVES OF THE SAINTS                                     363\n\nREPRESENTATIVE MEN                                          384\n\nREYNARD THE FOX                                             401\n\nTHE CAT'S PILGRIMAGE:\n    Part I                                                  419\n    Part II                                                 422\n    Part III                                                427\n    Part IV                                                 430\n\nFABLES:\n     I. The Lions and the Oxen                              433\n    II. The Farmer and the Fox                              434\n\nPARABLE OF THE BREAD-FRUIT TREE                             436\n\nCOMPENSATION                                                439\n\n\n\n\nTHE SCIENCE OF HISTORY:\n\nA LECTURE DELIVERED AT THE ROYAL INSTITUTION\n\nFEBRUARY 5, 1864.\n\n\nLadies and Gentlemen,--I have undertaken to speak to you this evening on\nwhat is called the Science of History. I fear it is a dry subject; and\nthere seems, indeed, something incongruous in the very connection of\nsuch words as Science and History. It is as if we were to talk of the\ncolour of sound, or the longitude of the rule-of-three. Where it is so\ndifficult to make out the truth on the commonest disputed fact in\nmatters passing under our very eyes, how can we talk of a science in\nthings long past, which come to us only through books? It often seems to\nme as if History was like a child's box of letters, with which we can\nspell any word we please. We have only to pick out such letters as we\nwant, arrange them as we like, and say nothing about those which do not\nsuit our purpose.\n\nI will try to make the thing intelligible, and I will try not to weary\nyou; but I am doubtful of my success either way. First, however, I wish\nto say a word or two about the eminent person whose name is connected\nwith this way of looking at History, and whose premature death struck us\nall with such a sudden sorrow. Many of you, perhaps, recollect Mr.\nBuckle as he stood not so long ago in this place. He spoke more than an\nhour without a note--never repeating himself, never wasting words;\nlaying out his matter as easily and as pleasantly as if he had been\ntalking to us at his own fireside. We might think what we pleased of Mr.\nBuckle's views, but it was plain enough that he was a man of uncommon\npower; and he had qualities also--qualities to which he, perhaps,\nhimself attached little value, as rare as they were admirable.\n\nMost of us, when we have hit on something which we are pleased to think\nimportant and original, feel as if we should burst with it. We come out\ninto the book-market with our wares in hand, and ask for thanks and\nrecognition. Mr. Buckle, at an early age, conceived the thought which\nmade him famous, but he took the measure of his abilities. He knew that\nwhenever he pleased he could command personal distinction, but he cared\nmore for his subject than for himself. He was contented to work with\npatient reticence, unknown and unheard of, for twenty years; and then,\nat middle life, he produced a work which was translated at once into\nFrench and German, and, of all places in the world, fluttered the\ndovecotes of the Imperial Academy of St. Petersburg.\n\nGoethe says somewhere, that as soon as a man has done anything\nremarkable, there seems to be a general conspiracy to prevent him from\ndoing it again. He is feasted, feted, caressed; his time is stolen from\nhim by breakfasts, dinners, societies, idle businesses of a thousand\nkinds. Mr. Buckle had his share of all this; but there are also more\ndangerous enemies that wait upon success like his. He had scarcely won\nfor himself the place which he deserved, than his health was found\nshattered by his labours. He had but time to show us how large a man he\nwas--time just to sketch the outlines of his philosophy, and he passed\naway as suddenly as he appeared. He went abroad to recover strength for\nhis work, but his work was done with and over. He died of a fever at\nDamascus, vexed only that he was compelled to leave it uncompleted.\nAlmost his last conscious words were, 'My book, my book! I shall never\nfinish my book!' He went away as he had lived, nobly careless of\nhimself, and thinking only of the thing which he had undertaken to do.\n\nBut his labour had not been thrown away. Disagree with him as we might,\nthe effect which he had already produced was unmistakable, and it is not\nlikely to pass away. What he said was not essentially new. Some such\ninterpretation of human things is as early as the beginning of thought.\nBut Mr. Buckle, on the one hand, had the art which belongs to men of\ngenius; he could present his opinions with peculiar distinctness; and,\non the other hand, there is much in the mode of speculation at present\ncurrent among us for which those opinions have an unusual fascination.\nThey do not please us, but they excite and irritate us. We are angry\nwith them; and we betray, in being so, an uneasy misgiving that there\nmay be more truth in those opinions than we like to allow.\n\nMr. Buckle's general theory was something of this kind: When human\ncreatures began first to look about them in the world they lived in,\nthere seemed to be no order in anything. Days and nights were not the\nsame length. The air was sometimes hot and sometimes cold. Some of the\nstars rose and set like the sun; some were almost motionless in the sky;\nsome described circles round a central star above the north horizon. The\nplanets went on principles of their own; and in the elements there\nseemed nothing but caprice. Sun and moon would at times go out in\neclipse. Sometimes the earth itself would shake under men's feet; and\nthey could only suppose that earth and air and sky and water were\ninhabited and managed by creatures as wayward as themselves.\n\nTime went on, and the disorder began to arrange itself. Certain\ninfluences seemed beneficent to men, others malignant and destructive,\nand the world was supposed to be animated by good spirits and evil\nspirits, who were continually fighting against each other, in outward\nnature and in human creatures themselves. Finally, as men observed more\nand imagined less, these interpretations gave way also. Phenomena the\nmost opposite in effect were seen to be the result of the same natural\nlaw. The fire did not burn the house down if the owners of it were\ncareful, but remained on the hearth and boiled the pot; nor did it seem\nmore inclined to burn a bad man's house down than a good man's, provided\nthe badness did not take the form of negligence. The phenomena of nature\nwere found for the most part to proceed in an orderly, regular way, and\ntheir variations to be such as could be counted upon. From observing the\norder of things, the step was easy to cause and effect. An eclipse,\ninstead of being a sign of the anger of Heaven, was found to be the\nnecessary and innocent result of the relative position of sun, moon, and\nearth. The comets became bodies in space, unrelated to the beings who\nhad imagined that all creation was watching them and their doings. By\ndegrees, caprice, volition, all symptoms of arbitrary action,\ndisappeared out of the universe; and almost every phenomenon in earth\nor heaven was found attributable to some law, either understood or\nperceived to exist. Thus nature was reclaimed from the imagination. The\nfirst fantastic conception of things gave way before the moral; the\nmoral in turn gave way before the natural; and at last there was left\nbut one small tract of jungle where the theory of law had failed to\npenetrate--the doings and characters of human creatures themselves.\n\nThere, and only there, amidst the conflicts of reason and emotion,\nconscience and desire, spiritual forces were still conceived to exist.\nCause and effect were not traceable when there was a free volition to\ndisturb the connection. In all other things, from a given set of\nconditions, the consequences necessarily followed. With man, the word\nlaw changed its meaning; and instead of a fixed order, which he could\nnot choose but follow, it became a moral precept, which he might disobey\nif he dared.\n\nThis it was which Mr. Buckle disbelieved. The economy which prevailed\nthroughout nature, he thought it very unlikely should admit of this\nexception. He considered that human beings acted necessarily from the\nimpulse of outward circumstances upon their mental and bodily condition\nat any given moment. Every man, he said, acted from a motive; and his\nconduct was determined by the motive which affected him most powerfully.\nEvery man naturally desires what he supposes to be good for him; but to\ndo well, he must know well. He will eat poison, so long as he does not\nknow that it is poison. Let him see that it will kill him, and he will\nnot touch it. The question was not of moral right and wrong. Once let\nhim be thoroughly made to feel that the thing is destructive, and he\nwill leave it alone by the law of his nature. His virtues are the result\nof knowledge; his faults, the necessary consequence of the want of it. A\nboy desires to draw. He knows nothing about it: he draws men like trees\nor houses, with their centre of gravity anywhere. He makes mistakes,\nbecause he knows no better. We do not blame him. Till he is better\ntaught he cannot help it. But his instruction begins. He arrives at\nstraight lines; then at solids; then at curves. He learns perspective,\nand light and shade. He observes more accurately the forms which he\nwishes to represent. He perceives effects, and he perceives the means by\nwhich they are produced. He has learned what to do; and, in part, he\nhas learned how to do it. His after-progress will depend on the amount\nof force which his nature possesses; but all this is as natural as the\ngrowth of an acorn. You do not preach to the acorn that it is its duty\nto become a large tree; you do not preach to the art-pupil that it is\nhis duty to become a Holbein. You plant your acorn in favourable soil,\nwhere it can have light and air, and be sheltered from the wind; you\nremove the superfluous branches, you train the strength into the leading\nshoots. The acorn will then become as fine a tree as it has vital force\nto become. The difference between men and other things is only in the\nlargeness and variety of man's capacities; and in this special capacity,\nthat he alone has the power of observing the circumstances favourable to\nhis own growth, and can apply them for himself. Yet, again, with this\ncondition,--that he is not, as is commonly supposed, free to choose\nwhether he will make use of these appliances or not. When he knows what\nis good for him, he will choose it; and he will judge what is good for\nhim by the circumstances which have made him what he is.\n\nAnd what he would do, Mr. Buckle supposed that he always had done. His\nhistory had been a natural growth as much as the growth of the acorn.\nHis improvement had followed the progress of his knowledge; and, by a\ncomparison of his outward circumstances with the condition of his mind,\nhis whole proceedings on this planet, his creeds and constitutions, his\ngood deeds and his bad, his arts and his sciences, his empires and his\nrevolutions, would be found all to arrange themselves into clear\nrelations of cause and effect.\n\nIf, when Mr. Buckle pressed his conclusions, we objected the difficulty\nof finding what the truth about past times really was, he would admit it\ncandidly as far as concerned individuals; but there was not the same\ndifficulty, he said, with masses of men. We might disagree about the\ncharacters of Julius or Tiberius Caesar, but we could know well enough\nthe Romans of the Empire. We had their literature to tell us how they\nthought; we had their laws to tell us how they governed; we had the\nbroad face of the world, the huge mountainous outline of their general\ndoings upon it, to tell us how they acted. He believed it was all\nreducible to laws, and could be made as intelligible as the growth of\nthe chalk cliffs or the coal measures.\n\nAnd thus consistently Mr. Buckle cared little for individuals. He did\nnot believe (as some one has said) that the history of mankind is the\nhistory of its great men. Great men with him were but larger atoms,\nobeying the same impulses with the rest, only perhaps a trifle more\nerratic. With them or without them, the course of things would have been\nmuch the same.\n\nAs an illustration of the truth of his view, he would point to the new\nscience of Political Economy. Here already was a large area of human\nactivity in which natural laws were found to act unerringly. Men had\ngone on for centuries trying to regulate trade on moral principles. They\nwould fix wages according to some imaginary rule of fairness; they would\nfix prices by what they considered things ought to cost; they encouraged\none trade or discouraged another, for moral reasons. They might as well\nhave tried to work a steam-engine on moral reasons. The great statesmen\nwhose names were connected with these enterprises might have as well\nlegislated that water should run up-hill. There were natural laws, fixed\nin the conditions of things: and to contend against them was the old\nbattle of the Titans against the gods.\n\nAs it was with political economy, so it was with all other forms of\nhuman activity; and as the true laws of political economy explained the\ntroubles which people fell into in old times, because they were ignorant\nof them, so the true laws of human nature, as soon as we knew them,\nwould explain their mistakes in more serious matters, and enable us to\nmanage better for the future. Geographical position, climate, air, soil,\nand the like, had their several influences. The northern nations are\nhardy and industrious, because they must till the earth if they would\neat the fruits of it, and because the temperature is too low to make an\nidle life enjoyable. In the south, the soil is more productive, while\nless food is wanted and fewer clothes; and in the exquisite air,\nexertion is not needed to make the sense of existence delightful.\nTherefore, in the south we find men lazy and indolent.\n\nTrue, there are difficulties in these views; the home of the languid\nItalian was the home also of the sternest race of whom the story of\nmankind retains a record. And again, when we are told that the Spaniards\nare superstitious, because Spain is a country of earthquakes, we\nremember Japan, the spot in all the world where earthquakes are most\nfrequent, and where at the same time there is the most serene disbelief\nin any supernatural agency whatsoever.\n\nMoreover, if men grow into what they are by natural laws, they cannot\nhelp being what they are; and if they cannot help being what they are, a\ngood deal will have to be altered in our general view of human\nobligations and responsibilities.\n\nThat, however, in these theories there is a great deal of truth is quite\ncertain; were there but a hope that those who maintain them would be\ncontented with that admission. A man born in a Mahometan country grows\nup a Mahometan; in a Catholic country, a Catholic; in a Protestant\ncountry, a Protestant. His opinions are like his language; he learns to\nthink as he learns to speak; and it is absurd to suppose him responsible\nfor being what nature makes him. We take pains to educate children.\nThere is a good education and a bad education; there are rules well\nascertained by which characters are influenced, and, clearly enough, it\nis no mere matter for a boy's free will whether he turns out well or\nill. We try to train him into good habits; we keep him out of the way of\ntemptations; we see that he is well taught; we mix kindness and\nstrictness; we surround him with every good influence we can command.\nThese are what are termed the advantages of a good education: and if we\nfail to provide those under our care with it, and if they go wrong, the\nresponsibility we feel is as much ours as theirs. This is at once an\nadmission of the power over us of outward circumstances.\n\nIn the same way, we allow for the strength of temptations, and the like.\n\nIn general, it is perfectly obvious that men do necessarily absorb, out\nof the influences in which they grow up, something which gives a\ncomplexion to their whole after-character.\n\nWhen historians have to relate great social or speculative changes, the\noverthrow of a monarchy or the establishment of a creed, they do but\nhalf their duty if they merely relate the events. In an account, for\ninstance, of the rise of Mahometanism, it is not enough to describe the\ncharacter of the Prophet, the ends which he set before him, the means\nwhich he made use of, and the effect which he produced; the historian\nmust show what there was in the condition of the Eastern races which\nenabled Mahomet to act upon them so powerfully; their existing beliefs,\ntheir existing moral and political condition.\n\nIn our estimate of the past, and in our calculations of the future--in\nthe judgments which we pass upon one another, we measure responsibility,\nnot by the thing done, but by the opportunities which people have had of\nknowing better or worse. In the efforts which we make to keep our\nchildren from bad associations or friends we admit that external\ncircumstances have a powerful effect in making men what they are.\n\nBut are circumstances everything? That is the whole question. A science\nof history, if it is more than a misleading name, implies that the\nrelation between cause and effect holds in human things as completely as\nin all others, that the origin of human actions is not to be looked for\nin mysterious properties of the mind, but in influences which are\npalpable and ponderable.\n\nWhen natural causes are liable to be set aside and neutralised by what\nis called volition, the word Science is out of place. If it is free to a\nman to choose what he will do or not do, there is no adequate science of\nhim. If there is a science of him, there is no free choice, and the\npraise or blame with which we regard one another are impertinent and out\nof place.\n\nI am trespassing upon these ethical grounds because, unless I do, the\nsubject cannot be made intelligible. Mankind are but an aggregate of\nindividuals--History is but the record of individual action; and what is\ntrue of the part, is true of the whole.\n\nWe feel keenly about such things, and when the logic becomes perplexing,\nwe are apt to grow rhetorical about them. But rhetoric is only\nmisleading. Whatever the truth may be, it is best that we should know\nit; and for truth of any kind we should keep our heads and hearts as\ncool as we can.\n\nI will say at once, that if we had the whole case before us--if we were\ntaken, like Leibnitz's Tarquin, into the council chamber of nature, and\nwere shown what we really were, where we came from, and where we were\ngoing, however unpleasant it might be for some of us to find ourselves,\nlike Tarquin, made into villains, from the subtle necessities of 'the\nbest of all possible worlds;' nevertheless, some such theory as Mr.\nBuckle's might possibly turn out to be true. Likely enough, there is\nsome great 'equation of the universe' where the value of the unknown\nquantities can be determined. But we must treat things in relation to\nour own powers and position; and the question is, whether the sweep of\nthose vast curves can be measured by the intellect of creatures of a day\nlike ourselves.\n\nThe 'Faust' of Goethe, tired of the barren round of earthly knowledge,\ncalls magic to his aid. He desires, first, to see the spirit of the\nMacrocosmos, but his heart fails him before he ventures that tremendous\nexperiment, and he summons before him, instead, the spirit of his own\nrace. There he feels himself at home. The stream of life and the storm\nof action, the everlasting ocean of existence, the web and the woof, and\nthe roaring loom of time--he gazes upon them all, and in passionate\nexultation claims fellowship with the awful thing before him. But the\nmajestic vision fades, and a voice comes to him--'Thou art fellow with\nthe spirits which thy mind can grasp--not with me.'\n\nHad Mr. Buckle tried to follow his principles into detail, it might have\nfared no better with him than with 'Faust.'\n\nWhat are the conditions of a science? and when may any subject be said\nto enter the scientific stage? I suppose when the facts of it begin to\nresolve themselves into groups; when phenomena are no longer isolated\nexperiences, but appear in connection and order; when, after certain\nantecedents, certain consequences are uniformly seen to follow; when\nfacts enough have been collected to furnish a basis for conjectural\nexplanation, and when conjectures have so far ceased to be utterly\nvague, that it is possible in some degree to foresee the future by the\nhelp of them.\n\nTill a subject has advanced as far as this, to speak of a science of it\nis an abuse of language. It is not enough to say that there must be a\nscience of human things, because there is a science of all other things.\nThis is like saying the planets must be inhabited, because the only\nplanet of which we have any experience is inhabited. It may or may not\nbe true, but it is not a practical question; it does not affect the\npractical treatment of the matter in hand.\n\nLet us look at the history of Astronomy.\n\nSo long as sun, moon, and planets were supposed to be gods or angels; so\nlong as the sword of Orion was not a metaphor, but a fact, and the\ngroups of stars which inlaid the floor of heaven were the glittering\ntrophies of the loves and wars of the Pantheon, so long there was no\nscience of Astronomy. There was fancy, imagination, poetry, perhaps\nreverence, but no science. As soon, however, as it was observed that the\nstars retained their relative places--that the times of their rising and\nsetting varied with the seasons--that sun, moon, and planets moved among\nthem in a plane, and the belt of the Zodiac was marked out and divided,\nthen a new order of things began. Traces of the earlier stage remained\nin the names of the signs and constellations, just as the Scandinavian\nmythology survives now in the names of the days of the week: but for all\nthat, the understanding was now at work on the thing; Science had begun,\nand the first triumph of it was the power of foretelling the future.\nEclipses were perceived to recur in cycles of nineteen years, and\nphilosophers were able to say when an eclipse was to be looked for. The\nperiods of the planets were determined. Theories were invented to\naccount for their eccentricities; and, false as those theories might be,\nthe position of the planets could be calculated with moderate certainty\nby them. The very first result of the science, in its most imperfect\nstage, was a power of foresight; and this was possible before any one\ntrue astronomical law had been discovered.\n\nWe should not therefore question the possibility of a science of\nhistory, because the explanations of its phenomena were rudimentary or\nimperfect: that they might be, and might long continue to be, and yet\nenough might be done to show that there was such a thing, and that it\nwas not entirely without use. But how was it that in those rude days,\nwith small knowledge of mathematics, and with no better instruments than\nflat walls and dial plates, those first astronomers made progress so\nconsiderable? Because, I suppose, the phenomena which they were\nobserving recurred, for the most part, within moderate intervals; so\nthat they could collect large experience within the compass of their\nnatural lives: because days and months and years were measurable\nperiods, and within them the more simple phenomena perpetually repeated\nthemselves.\n\nBut how would it have been if, instead of turning on its axis once in\ntwenty-four hours, the earth had taken a year about it; if the year had\nbeen nearly four hundred years; if man's life had been no longer than it\nis, and for the initial steps of astronomy there had been nothing to\ndepend upon except observations recorded in history? How many ages would\nhave passed, had this been our condition, before it would have occurred\nto any one, that, in what they saw night after night, there was any kind\nof order at all?\n\nWe can see to some extent how it would have been, by the present state\nof those parts of the science which in fact depend on remote recorded\nobservations. The movements of the comets are still extremely uncertain.\nThe times of their return can be calculated only with the greatest\nvagueness.\n\nAnd yet such a hypothesis as I have suggested would but inadequately\nexpress the position in which we are in fact placed towards history.\nThere the phenomena never repeat themselves. There we are dependent\nwholly on the record of things said to have happened once, but which\nnever happen or can happen a second time. There no experiment is\npossible; we can watch for no recurring fact to test the worth of our\nconjectures. It has been suggested, fancifully, that if we consider the\nuniverse to be infinite, time is the same as eternity, and the past is\nperpetually present. Light takes nine years to come to us from Sirius;\nthose rays which we may see to-night when we leave this place, left\nSirius nine years ago; and could the inhabitants of Sirius see the earth\nat this moment, they would see the English army in the trenches before\nSebastopol; Florence Nightingale watching at Scutari over the wounded at\nInkermann; and the peace of England undisturbed by 'Essays and Reviews.'\n\nAs the stars recede into distance, so time recedes with them, and there\nmay be, and probably are, stars from which Noah might be seen stepping\ninto the ark, Eve listening to the temptation of the serpent, or that\nolder race, eating the oysters and leaving the shell-heaps behind them,\nwhen the Baltic was an open sea.\n\nCould we but compare notes, something might be done; but of this there\nis no present hope, and without it there will be no science of history.\nEclipses, recorded in ancient books, can be verified by calculation, and\nlost dates can be recovered by them, and we can foresee by the laws\nwhich they follow when there will be eclipses again. Will a time ever\nbe when the lost secret of the foundation of Rome can be recovered by\nhistoric laws? If not, where is our science? It may be said that this is\na particular fact, that we can deal satisfactorily with general\nphenomena affecting eras and cycles. Well, then, let us take some\ngeneral phenomenon. Mahometanism, for instance, or Buddhism. Those are\nlarge enough. Can you imagine a science which would have[A] _foretold_\nsuch movements as those? The state of things out of which they rose is\nobscure; but suppose it not obscure, can you conceive that, with any\namount of historical insight into the old Oriental beliefs, you could\nhave seen that they were about to transform themselves into those\nparticular forms and no other?\n\nIt is not enough to say, that, after the fact, you can understand\npartially how Mahometanism came to be. All historians worth the name\nhave told us something about that. But when we talk of science, we mean\nsomething with more ambitious pretences, we mean something which can\nforesee as well as explain; and, thus looked at, to state the problem is\nto show its absurdity. As little could the wisest man have foreseen this\nmighty revolution, as thirty years ago such a thing as Mormonism could\nhave been anticipated in America; as little as it could have been\nforeseen that table-turning and spirit-rapping would have been an\noutcome of the scientific culture of England in the nineteenth century.\n\nThe greatest of Roman thinkers, gazing mournfully at the seething mass\nof moral putrefaction round him, detected and deigned to notice among\nits elements a certain detestable superstition, so he called it, rising\nup amidst the offscouring of the Jews, which was named Christianity.\nCould Tacitus have looked forward nine centuries to the Rome of Gregory\nVII., could he have beheld the representative of the majesty of the\nCaesars holding the stirrup of the Pontiff of that vile and execrated\nsect, the spectacle would scarcely have appeared to him the fulfilment\nof a rational expectation, or an intelligible result of the causes in\noperation round him. Tacitus, indeed, was born before the science of\nhistory; but would M. Comte have seen any more clearly?\n\nNor is the case much better if we are less hard upon our philosophy; if\nwe content ourselves with the past, and require only a scientific\nexplanation of that.\n\nFirst, for the facts themselves. They come to us through the minds of\nthose who recorded them, neither machines nor angels, but fallible\ncreatures, with human passions and prejudices. Tacitus and Thucydides\nwere perhaps the ablest men who ever gave themselves to writing history;\nthe ablest, and also the most incapable of conscious falsehood. Yet even\nnow, after all these centuries, the truth of what they relate is called\nin question. Good reasons can be given to show that neither of them can\nbe confidently trusted. If we doubt with these, whom are we to believe?\n\nOr again, let the facts be granted. To revert to my simile of the box of\nletters, you have but to select such facts as suit you, you have but to\nleave alone those which do not suit you, and let your theory of history\nbe what it will, you can find no difficulty in providing facts to prove\nit.\n\nYou may have your Hegel's philosophy of history, or you may have your\nSchlegel's philosophy of history; you may prove from history that the\nworld is governed in detail by a special Providence; you may prove that\nthere is no sign of any moral agent in the universe, except man; you may\nbelieve, if you like it, in the old theory of the wisdom of antiquity;\nyou may speak, as was the fashion in the fifteenth century, of 'our\nfathers, who had more wit and wisdom than we;' or you may talk of 'our\nbarbarian ancestors,' and describe their wars as the scuffling of kites\nand crows.\n\nYou may maintain that the evolution of humanity has been an unbroken\nprogress towards perfection; you may maintain that there has been no\nprogress at all, and that man remains the same poor creature that he\never was; or, lastly, you may say with the author of the 'Contrat\nSocial,' that men were purest and best in primeval simplicity--\n\n    When wild in woods the noble savage ran.\n\nIn all, or any of these views, history will stand your friend. History,\nin its passive irony, will make no objection. Like Jarno, in Goethe's\nnovel, it will not condescend to argue with you, and will provide you\nwith abundant illustrations of anything which you may wish to believe.\n\n'What is history,' said Napoleon, 'but a fiction agreed upon?' 'My\nfriend,' said Faust to the student, who was growing enthusiastic about\nthe spirit of past ages; 'my friend, the times which are gone are a book\nwith seven seals; and what you call the spirit of past ages is but the\nspirit of this or that worthy gentleman in whose mind those ages are\nreflected.'\n\nOne lesson, and only one, history may be said to repeat with\ndistinctness; that the world is built somehow on moral foundations;\nthat, in the long run, it is well with the good; in the long run, it is\nill with the wicked. But this is no science; it is no more than the old\ndoctrine taught long ago by the Hebrew prophets. The theories of M.\nComte and his disciples advance us, after all, not a step beyond the\ntrodden and familiar ground. If men are not entirely animals, they are\nat least half animals, and are subject in this aspect of them to the\nconditions of animals. So far as those parts of man's doings are\nconcerned, which neither have, nor need have, anything moral about them,\nso far the laws of him are calculable. There are laws for his digestion,\nand laws of the means by which his digestive organs are supplied with\nmatter. But pass beyond them, and where are we? In a world where it\nwould be as easy to calculate men's actions by laws like those of\npositive philosophy as to measure the orbit of Neptune with a foot-rule,\nor weigh Sirius in a grocer's scale.\n\nAnd it is not difficult to see why this should be. The first principle\non which the theory of a science of history can be plausibly argued, is\nthat all actions whatsoever arise from self-interest. It may be\nenlightened self-interest; it may be unenlightened; but it is assumed as\nan axiom, that every man, in whatever he does, is aiming at something\nwhich he considers will promote his happiness. His conduct is not\ndetermined by his will; it is determined by the object of his desire.\nAdam Smith, in laying the foundations of political economy, expressly\neliminates every other motive. He does not say that men never act on\nother motives; still less, that they never ought to act on other\nmotives. He asserts merely that, as far as the arts of production are\nconcerned, and of buying and selling, the action of self-interest may be\ncounted upon as uniform. What Adam Smith says of political economy, Mr.\nBuckle would extend over the whole circle of human activity.\n\nNow, that which especially distinguishes a high order of man from a low\norder of man--that which constitutes human goodness, human greatness,\nhuman nobleness--is surely not the degree of enlightenment with which\nmen pursue their own advantage; but it is self-forgetfulness--it is\nself-sacrifice--it is the disregard of personal pleasure, personal\nindulgence, personal advantages remote or present, because some other\nline of conduct is more right.\n\nWe are sometimes told that this is but another way of expressing the\nsame thing; that when a man prefers doing what is right, it is only\nbecause to do right gives him a higher satisfaction. It appears to me,\non the contrary, to be a difference in the very heart and nature of\nthings. The martyr goes to the stake, the patriot to the scaffold, not\nwith a view to any future reward to themselves, but because it is a\nglory to fling away their lives for truth and freedom. And so through\nall phases of existence, to the smallest details of common life, the\nbeautiful character is the unselfish character. Those whom we most love\nand admire are those to whom the thought of self seems never to occur;\nwho do simply and with no ulterior aim--with no thought whether it will\nbe pleasant to themselves or unpleasant--that which is good, and right,\nand generous.\n\nIs this still selfishness, only more enlightened? I do not think so. The\nessence of true nobility is neglect of self. Let the thought of self\npass in, and the beauty of a great action is gone--like the bloom from a\nsoiled flower. Surely it is a paradox to speak of the self-interest of a\nmartyr who dies for a cause, the triumph of which he will never enjoy;\nand the greatest of that great company in all ages would have done what\nthey did, had their personal prospects closed with the grave. Nay, there\nhave been those so zealous for some glorious principle, as to wish\nthemselves blotted out of the book of Heaven if the cause of Heaven\ncould succeed.\n\nAnd out of this mysterious quality, whatever it be, arise the higher\nrelations of human life, the higher modes of human obligation. Kant, the\nphilosopher, used to say that there were two things which overwhelmed\nhim with awe as he thought of them. One was the star-sown deep of space,\nwithout limit and without end; the other was, right and wrong. Right,\nthe sacrifice of self to good; wrong, the sacrifice of good to\nself;--not graduated objects of desire, to which we are determined by\nthe degrees of our knowledge, but wide asunder as pole and pole, as\nlight and darkness--one, the object of infinite love; the other, the\nobject of infinite detestation and scorn. It is in this marvellous power\nin men to do wrong (it is an old story, but none the less true for\nthat)--it is in this power to do wrong--wrong or right, as it lies\nsomehow with ourselves to choose--that the impossibility stands of\nforming scientific calculations of what men will do before the fact, or\nscientific explanations of what they have done after the fact. If men\nwere consistently selfish, you might analyse their motives; if they were\nconsistently noble, they would express in their conduct the laws of the\nhighest perfection. But so long as two natures are mixed together, and\nthe strange creature which results from the combination is now under one\ninfluence and now under another, so long you will make nothing of him\nexcept from the old-fashioned moral--or, if you please,\nimaginative--point of view.\n\nEven the laws of political economy itself cease to guide us when they\ntouch moral government. So long as labour is a chattel to be bought and\nsold, so long, like other commodities, it follows the condition of\nsupply and demand. But if, for his misfortune, an employer considers\nthat he stands in human relations towards his workmen; if he believes,\nrightly or wrongly, that he is responsible for them; that in return for\ntheir labour he is bound to see that their children are decently taught,\nand they and their families decently fed and clothed and lodged; that he\nought to care for them in sickness and in old age; then political\neconomy will no longer direct him, and the relations between himself and\nhis dependents will have to be arranged on quite other principles.\n\nSo long as he considers only his own material profit, so long supply and\ndemand will settle every difficulty; but the introduction of a new\nfactor spoils the equation.\n\nAnd it is precisely in this debatable ground of low motives and noble\nemotions--in the struggle, ever failing, yet ever renewed, to carry\ntruth and justice into the administration of human society; in the\nestablishment of states and in the overthrow of tyrannies; in the rise\nand fall of creeds; in the world of ideas; in the character and deeds of\nthe great actors in the drama of life; where good and evil fight out\ntheir everlasting battle, now ranged in opposite camps, now and more\noften in the heart, both of them, of each living man--that the true\nhuman interest of history resides. The progress of industries, the\ngrowth of material and mechanical civilisation, are interesting, but\nthey are not the most interesting. They have their reward in the\nincrease of material comforts; but, unless we are mistaken about our\nnature, they do not highly concern us after all.\n\nOnce more; not only is there in men this baffling duality of principle,\nbut there is something else in us which still more defies scientific\nanalysis.\n\nMr. Buckle would deliver himself from the eccentricities of this and\nthat individual by a doctrine of averages. Though he cannot tell whether\nA, B, or C will cut his throat, he may assure himself that one man in\nevery fifty thousand, or thereabout (I forget the exact proportion),\nwill cut his throat, and with this he consoles himself. No doubt it is a\ncomforting discovery. Unfortunately, the average of one generation need\nnot be the average of the next. We may be converted by the Japanese, for\nall that we know, and the Japanese methods of taking leave of life may\nbecome fashionable among us. Nay, did not Novalis suggest that the whole\nrace of men would at last become so disgusted with their impotence, that\nthey would extinguish themselves by a simultaneous act of suicide, and\nmake room for a better order of beings? Anyhow, the fountain out of\nwhich the race is flowing perpetually changes--no two generations are\nalike. Whether there is a change in the organisation itself, we cannot\ntell; but this is certain, that as the planet varies with the atmosphere\nwhich surrounds it, so each new generation varies from the last, because\nit inhales as its atmosphere the accumulated experience and knowledge of\nthe whole past of the world. These things form the spiritual air which\nwe breathe as we grow; and in the infinite multiplicity of elements of\nwhich that air is now composed, it is for ever matter of conjecture what\nthe minds will be like which expand under its influence.\n\nFrom the England of Fielding and Richardson to the England of Miss\nAusten--from the England of Miss Austen to the England of Railways and\nFree-trade, how vast the change; yet perhaps Sir Charles Grandison would\nnot seem so strange to us now, as one of ourselves will seem to our\ngreat-grandchildren. The world moves faster and faster; and the\ndifference will probably be considerably greater.\n\nThe temper of each new generation is a continual surprise. The fates\ndelight to contradict our most confident expectations. Gibbon believed\nthat the era of conquerors was at an end. Had he lived out the full life\nof man, he would have seen Europe at the feet of Napoleon. But a few\nyears ago we believed the world had grown too civilised for war, and the\nCrystal Palace in Hyde Park was to be the inauguration of a new era.\nBattles, bloody as Napoleon's, are now the familiar tale of every day;\nand the arts which have made greatest progress are the arts of\ndestruction. What next? We may strain our eyes into the future which\nlies beyond this waning century; but never was conjecture more at fault.\nIt is blank darkness, which even the imagination fails to people.\n\nWhat then is the use of History? and what are its lessons? If it can\ntell us little of the past, and nothing of the future, why waste our\ntime over so barren a study?\n\nFirst, it is a voice for ever sounding across the centuries the laws of\nright and wrong. Opinions alter, manners change, creeds rise and fall,\nbut the moral law is written on the tablets of eternity. For every false\nword or unrighteous deed, for cruelty and oppression, for lust or\nvanity, the price has to be paid at last: not always by the chief\noffenders, but paid by some one. Justice and truth alone endure and\nlive. Injustice and falsehood may be long-lived, but doomsday comes at\nlast to them, in French revolutions and other terrible ways.\n\nThat is one lesson of History. Another is, that we should draw no\nhoroscopes; that we should expect little, for what we expect will not\ncome to pass. Revolutions, reformations--those vast movements into which\nheroes and saints have flung themselves, in the belief that they were\nthe dawn of the millennium--have not borne the fruit which they looked\nfor. Millenniums are still far away. These great convulsions leave the\nworld changed--perhaps improved,--but not improved as the actors in them\nhoped it would be. Luther would have gone to work with less heart, could\nhe have foreseen the Thirty Years' War, and in the distance the theology\nof Tubingen. Washington might have hesitated to draw the sword against\nEngland, could he have seen the country which he made as we see it\nnow.[B]\n\nThe most reasonable anticipations fail us--antecedents the most apposite\nmislead us; because the conditions of human problems never repeat\nthemselves. Some new feature alters everything--some element which we\ndetect only in its after-operation.\n\nBut this, it may be said, is but a meagre outcome. Can the long records\nof humanity, with all its joys and sorrows, its sufferings and its\nconquests, teach us no more than this? Let us approach the subject from\nanother side.\n\nIf you were asked to point out the special features in which\nShakespeare's plays are so transcendently excellent, you would mention,\nperhaps, among others, this, that his stories are not put together, and\nhis characters are not conceived, to illustrate any particular law or\nprinciple. They teach many lessons, but not any one prominent above\nanother; and when we have drawn from them all the direct instruction\nwhich they contain, there remains still something unresolved--something\nwhich the artist gives, and which the philosopher cannot give.\n\nIt is in this characteristic that we are accustomed to say Shakespeare's\nsupreme _truth_ lies. He represents real life. His dramas teach as life\nteaches--neither less nor more. He builds his fabrics as nature does, on\nright and wrong; but he does not struggle to make nature more systematic\nthan she is. In the subtle interflow of good and evil--in the unmerited\nsufferings of innocence--in the disproportion of penalties to desert--in\nthe seeming blindness with which justice, in attempting to assert\nitself, overwhelms innocent and guilty in a common ruin--Shakespeare is\ntrue to real experience. The mystery of life he leaves as he finds it;\nand, in his most tremendous positions, he is addressing rather the\nintellectual emotions than the understanding,--knowing well that the\nunderstanding in such things is at fault, and the sage as ignorant as\nthe child.\n\nOnly the highest order of genius can represent nature thus. An inferior\nartist produces either something entirely immoral, where good and evil\nare names, and nobility of disposition is supposed to show itself in the\nabsolute disregard of them--or else, if he is a better kind of man, he\nwill force on nature a didactic purpose; he composes what are called\nmoral tales, which may edify the conscience, but only mislead the\nintellect.\n\nThe finest work of this kind produced in modern times is Lessing's play\nof 'Nathan the Wise.' The object of it is to teach religious toleration.\nThe doctrine is admirable--the mode in which it is enforced is\ninteresting; but it has the fatal fault, that it is not true. Nature\ndoes not teach religious toleration by any such direct method; and the\nresult is--no one knew it better than Lessing himself--that the play is\nnot poetry, but only splendid manufacture. Shakespeare is eternal;\nLessing's 'Nathan' will pass away with the mode of thought which gave it\nbirth. One is based on fact; the other, on human theory about fact. The\ntheory seems at first sight to contain the most immediate instruction;\nbut it is not really so.\n\nCibber and others, as you know, wanted to alter Shakespeare. The French\nking, in 'Lear,' was to be got rid of; Cordelia was to marry Edgar, and\nLear himself was to be rewarded for his sufferings by a golden old age.\nThey could not bear that Hamlet should suffer for the sins of Claudius.\nThe wicked king was to die, and the wicked mother; and Hamlet and\nOphelia were to make a match of it, and live happily ever after. A\ncommon novelist would have arranged it thus; and you would have had your\ncomfortable moral that wickedness was fitly punished, and virtue had its\ndue reward, and all would have been well. But Shakespeare would not have\nit so. Shakespeare knew that crime was not so simple in its\nconsequences, or Providence so paternal. He was contented to take the\ntruth from life; and the effect upon the mind of the most correct theory\nof what life ought to be, compared to the effect of the life itself, is\ninfinitesimal in comparison.\n\nAgain, let us compare the popular historical treatment of remarkable\nincidents with Shakespeare's treatment of them. Look at 'Macbeth.' You\nmay derive abundant instruction from it--instruction of many kinds.\nThere is a moral lesson of profound interest in the steps by which a\nnoble nature glides to perdition. In more modern fashion you may\nspeculate, if you like, on the political conditions represented there,\nand the temptation presented in absolute monarchies to unscrupulous\nambition; you may say, like Dr. Slop, these things could not have\nhappened under a constitutional government; or, again, you may take up\nyour parable against superstition--you may dilate on the frightful\nconsequences of a belief in witches, and reflect on the superior\nadvantages of an age of schools and newspapers. If the bare facts of the\nstory had come down to us from a chronicler, and an ordinary writer of\nthe nineteenth century had undertaken to relate them, his account, we\nmay depend upon it, would have been put together upon one or other of\nthese principles. Yet, by the side of that unfolding of the secrets of\nthe prison-house of the soul, what lean and shrivelled anatomies the\nbest of such descriptions would seem!\n\nShakespeare himself, I suppose, could not have given us a theory of what\nhe meant--he gave us the thing itself, on which we might make whatever\ntheories we pleased.\n\nOr again, look at Homer.\n\nThe 'Iliad' is from two to three thousand years older than 'Macbeth,'\nand yet it is as fresh as if it had been written yesterday. We have\nthere no lessons save in the emotions which rise in us as we read. Homer\nhad no philosophy; he never struggles to impress upon us his views about\nthis or that; you can scarcely tell indeed whether his sympathies are\nGreek or Trojan; but he represents to us faithfully the men and women\namong whom he lived. He sang the Tale of Troy, he touched his lyre, he\ndrained the golden beaker in the halls of men like those on whom he was\nconferring immortality. And thus, although no Agamemnon, king of men,\never led a Grecian fleet to Ilium; though no Priam sought the midnight\ntent of Achilles; though Ulysses and Diomed and Nestor were but names,\nand Helen but a dream, yet, through Homer's power of representing men\nand women, those old Greeks will still stand out from amidst the\ndarkness of the ancient world with a sharpness of outline which belongs\nto no period of history except the most recent. For the mere hard\npurposes of history, the 'Iliad' and 'Odyssey' are the most effective\nbooks which ever were written. We see the Hall of Menelaus, we see the\ngarden of Alcinous, we see Nausicaa among her maidens on the shore, we\nsee the mellow monarch sitting with ivory sceptre in the Marketplace\ndealing out genial justice. Or again, when the wild mood is on, we can\nhear the crash of the spears, the rattle of the armour as the heroes\nfall, and the plunging of the horses among the slain. Could we enter the\npalace of an old Ionian lord, we know what we should see there; we know\nthe words in which he would address us. We could meet Hector as a\nfriend. If we could choose a companion to spend an evening with over a\nfireside, it would be the man of many counsels, the husband of Penelope.\n\nI am not going into the vexed question whether History or Poetry is the\nmore true. It has been sometimes said that Poetry is the more true,\nbecause it can make things more like what our moral sense would prefer\nthey should be. We hear of poetic justice and the like, as if nature and\nfact were not just enough.\n\nI entirely dissent from that view. So far as Poetry attempts to improve\non truth in that way, so far it abandons truth, and is false to itself.\nEven literal facts, exactly as they were, a great poet will prefer\nwhenever he can get them. Shakespeare in the historical plays is\nstudious, wherever possible, to give the very words which he finds to\nhave been used; and it shows how wisely he was guided in this, that\nthose magnificent speeches of Wolsey are taken exactly, with no more\nchange than the metre makes necessary, from Cavendish's Life.\nMarlborough read Shakespeare for English history, and read nothing else.\nThe poet only is not bound, when it is inconvenient, to what may be\ncalled the accidents of facts. It was enough for Shakespeare to know\nthat Prince Hal in his youth had lived among loose companions, and the\ntavern in Eastcheap came in to fill out his picture; although Mrs.\nQuickly and Falstaff, and Poins and Bardolph were more likely to have\nbeen fallen in with by Shakespeare himself at the Mermaid, than to have\nbeen comrades of the true Prince Henry. It was enough for Shakespeare to\ndraw real men, and the situation, whatever it might be, would sit easy\non them. In this sense only it is that Poetry is truer than History,\nthat it can make a picture more complete. It may take liberties with\ntime and space, and give the action distinctness by throwing it into\nmore manageable compass.\n\nBut it may not alter the real conditions of things, or represent life as\nother than it is. The greatness of the poet depends on his being true to\nnature, without insisting that nature shall theorise with him, without\nmaking her more just, more philosophical, more moral than reality; and,\nin difficult matters, leaving much to reflection which cannot be\nexplained.\n\nAnd if this be true of Poetry--if Homer and Shakespeare are what they\nare, from the absence of everything didactic about them--may we not\nthus learn something of what History should be, and in what sense it\nshould aspire to teach?\n\nIf Poetry must not theorise, much less should the historian theorise,\nwhose obligations to be true to fact are even greater than the poet's.\nIf the drama is grandest when the action is least explicable by laws,\nbecause then it best resembles life, then history will be grandest also\nunder the same conditions. 'Macbeth,' were it literally true, would be\nperfect history; and so far as the historian can approach to that kind\nof model, so far as he can let his story tell itself in the deeds and\nwords of those who act it out, so far is he most successful. His work is\nno longer the vapour of his own brain, which a breath will scatter; it\nis the thing itself, which will have interest for all time. A thousand\ntheories may be formed about it--spiritual theories, Pantheistic\ntheories, cause and effect theories; but each age will have its own\nphilosophy of history, and all these in turn will fail and die. Hegel\nfalls out of date, Schlegel falls out of date, and Comte in good time\nwill fall out of date; the thought about the thing must change as we\nchange; but the thing itself can never change; and a history is durable\nor perishable as it contains more or least of the writer's own\nspeculations. The splendid intellect of Gibbon for the most part kept\nhim true to the right course in this; yet the philosophical chapters for\nwhich he has been most admired or censured may hereafter be thought the\nleast interesting in his work. The time has been when they would not\nhave been comprehended: the time may come when they will seem\ncommonplace.\n\nIt may be said, that in requiring history to be written like a drama, we\nrequire an impossibility.\n\nFor history to be written with the complete form of a drama, doubtless\nis impossible; but there are periods, and these the periods, for the\nmost part, of greatest interest to mankind, the history of which may be\nso written that the actors shall reveal their characters in their own\nwords; where mind can be seen matched against mind, and the great\npassions of the epoch not simply be described as existing, but be\nexhibited at their white heat in the souls and hearts possessed by them.\nThere are all the elements of drama--drama of the highest order--where\nthe huge forces of the times are as the Grecian destiny, and the power\nof the man is seen either stemming the stream till it overwhelms him,\nor ruling while he seems to yield to it.\n\nIt is Nature's drama--not Shakespeare's--but a drama none the less.\n\nSo at least it seems to me. Wherever possible, let us not be told\n_about_ this man or that. Let us hear the man himself speak; let us see\nhim act, and let us be left to form our own opinions about him. The\nhistorian, we are told, must not leave his readers to themselves. He\nmust not only lay the facts before them--he must tell them what he\nhimself thinks about those facts. In my opinion, this is precisely what\nhe ought not to do. Bishop Butler says somewhere, that the best book\nwhich could be written would be a book consisting only of premises, from\nwhich the readers should draw conclusions for themselves. The highest\npoetry is the very thing which Butler requires, and the highest history\nought to be. We should no more ask for a theory of this or that period\nof history, than we should ask for a theory of 'Macbeth' or 'Hamlet.'\nPhilosophies of history, sciences of history--all these, there will\ncontinue to be; the fashions of them will change, as our habits of\nthought will change; each new philosopher will find his chief employment\nin showing that before him no one understood anything; but the drama of\nhistory is imperishable, and, the lessons of it will be like what we\nlearn from Homer or Shakespeare--lessons for which we have no words.\n\nThe address of history is less to the understanding than to the higher\nemotions. We learn in it to sympathise with what is great and good; we\nlearn to hate what is base. In the anomalies of fortune we feel the\nmystery of our mortal existence, and in the companionship of the\nillustrious natures who have shaped the fortunes of the world, we escape\nfrom the littlenesses which cling to the round of common life, and our\nminds are tuned in a higher and nobler key.\n\nFor the rest, and for those large questions which I touched in\nconnection with Mr. Buckle, we live in times of disintegration, and none\ncan tell what will be after us. What opinions--what convictions--the\ninfant of to-day will find prevailing on the earth, if he and it live\nout together to the middle of another century, only a very bold man\nwould undertake to conjecture! 'The time will come,' said Lichtenberg,\nin scorn at the materialising tendencies of modern thought; 'the time\nwill come when the belief in God will be as the tales with which old\nwomen frighten children; when the world will be a machine, the ether a\ngas, and God will be a force.' Mankind, if they last long enough on the\nearth, may develope strange things out of themselves; and the growth of\nwhat is called the Positive Philosophy is a curious commentary on\nLichtenberg's prophecy. But whether the end be seventy years hence, or\nseven hundred--be the close of the mortal history of humanity as far\ndistant in the future as its shadowy beginnings seem now to lie behind\nus--this only we may foretell with confidence--that the riddle of man's\nnature will remain unsolved. There will be that in him yet which\nphysical laws will fail to explain--that something, whatever it be, in\nhimself and in the world, which science cannot fathom, and which\nsuggests the unknown possibilities of his origin and his destiny. There\nwill remain yet\n\n    Those obstinate questionings\n    Of sense and outward things;\n    Falling from us, vanishings--\n    Blank misgivings of a creature\n    Moving about in worlds not realised--\n    High instincts, before which our mortal nature\n    Doth tremble like a guilty thing surprised.\n\nThere will remain\n\n    Those first affections--\n    Those shadowy recollections--\n    Which, be they what they may,\n    Are yet the fountain-light of all our day--\n    Are yet the master-light of all our seeing--\n    Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make\n    Our noisy years seem moments in the being\n            Of the Eternal Silence.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[A] It is objected that Geology is a science: yet that Geology cannot\nforetell the future changes of the earth's surface. Geology is not a\ncentury old, and its periods are measured by millions of years. Yet, if\nGeology cannot foretell future facts, it enabled Sir Roderick Murchison\nto foretell the discovery of Australian gold.\n\n[B] February 1864.\n\n\n\n\nTIMES OF ERASMUS AND LUTHER:\n\nTHREE LECTURES\n\nDELIVERED AT NEWCASTLE, 1867.\n\n\nLECTURE I.\n\nLadies and Gentlemen,--I do not know whether I have made a very wise\nselection in the subject which I have chosen for these Lectures. There\nwas a time--a time which, measured by the years of our national life,\nwas not so very long ago--when the serious thoughts of mankind were\noccupied exclusively by religion and politics. The small knowledge which\nthey possessed of other things was tinctured by their speculative\nopinions on the relations of heaven and earth; and, down to the\nsixteenth century, art, science, scarcely even literature, existed in\nthis country, except as, in some way or other, subordinate to theology.\nPhilosophers--such philosophers as there were--obtained and half\ndeserved the reputation of quacks and conjurors. Astronomy was confused\nwith astrology. The physician's medicines were supposed to be powerless,\nunless the priests said prayers over them. The great lawyers, the\nambassadors, the chief ministers of state, were generally bishops; even\nthe fighting business was not entirely secular. Half-a-dozen Scotch\nprelates were killed at Flodden; and, late in the reign of Henry the\nEighth, no fitter person could be found than Rowland Lee, Bishop of\nCoventry, to take command of the Welsh Marches, and harry the\nfreebooters of Llangollen.\n\nEvery single department of intellectual or practical life was penetrated\nwith the beliefs, or was interwoven with the interests, of the clergy;\nand thus it was that, when differences of religious opinion arose, they\nsplit society to its foundations. The lines of cleavage penetrated\neverywhere, and there were no subjects whatever in which those who\ndisagreed in theology possessed any common concern. When men\nquarrelled, they quarrelled altogether. The disturbers of settled\nbeliefs were regarded as public enemies who had placed themselves beyond\nthe pale of humanity, and were considered fit only to be destroyed like\nwild beasts, or trampled out like the seed of a contagion.\n\nThree centuries have passed over our heads since the time of which I am\nspeaking, and the world is so changed that we can hardly recognise it as\nthe same.\n\nThe secrets of nature have been opened out to us on a thousand lines;\nand men of science of all creeds can pursue side by side their common\ninvestigations. Catholics, Anglicans, Presbyterians, Lutherans,\nCalvinists, contend with each other in honourable rivalry in arts, and\nliterature, and commerce, and industry. They read the same books. They\nstudy at the same academies. They have seats in the same senates. They\npreside together on the judicial bench, and carry on, without jar or\ndifference, the ordinary business of the country.\n\nThose who share the same pursuits are drawn in spite of themselves into\nsympathy and good-will. When they are in harmony in so large a part of\ntheir occupations, the points of remaining difference lose their venom.\nThose who thought they hated each other, unconsciously find themselves\nfriends; and as far as it affects the world at large, the acrimony of\ncontroversy has almost disappeared.\n\nImagine, if you can, a person being now put to death for a speculative\ntheological opinion. You feel at once, that in the most bigoted country\nin the world such a thing has become impossible; and the impossibility\nis the measure of the alteration which we have all undergone. The\nformulas remain as they were on either side--the very same formulas\nwhich were once supposed to require these detestable murders. But we\nhave learnt to know each other better. The cords which bind together the\nbrotherhood of mankind are woven of a thousand strands. We do not any\nmore fly apart or become enemies, because, here and there, in one strand\nout of so many, there are still unsound places.\n\nIf I were asked for a distinct proof that Europe was improving and not\nretrograding, I should find it in this phenomenon. It has not been\nbrought about by controversy. Men are fighting still over the same\nquestions which they began to fight about at the Reformation. Protestant\ndivines have not driven Catholics out of the field, nor Catholics,\nProtestants. Each polemic writes for his own partisans, and makes no\nimpression on his adversary.\n\nControversy has kept alive a certain quantity of bitterness; and that, I\nsuspect, is all that it would accomplish if it continued till the day of\njudgment. I sometimes, in impatient moments, wish the laity in Europe\nwould treat their controversial divines as two gentlemen once treated\ntheir seconds, when they found themselves forced into a duel without\nknowing what they were quarrelling about.\n\nAs the principals were being led up to their places, one of them\nwhispered to the other, 'If you will shoot your second, I will shoot\nmine.'\n\nThe reconciliation of parties, if I may use such a word, is no\ntinkered-up truce, or convenient Interim. It is the healthy, silent,\nspontaneous growth of a nobler order of conviction, which has conquered\nour prejudices even before we knew that they were assailed. This better\nspirit especially is represented in institutions like this, which\nacknowledge no differences of creed--which are constructed on the\nbroadest principles of toleration--and which, therefore, as a rule, are\nwisely protected from the intrusion of discordant subjects.\n\nThey exist, as I understand, to draw men together, not to divide\nthem--to enable us to share together in those topics of universal\ninterest and instruction which all can take pleasure in, and which give\noffence to none.\n\nIf you ask me, then, why I am myself departing from a practice which I\nadmit to be so excellent, I fear that I shall give you rather a lame\nanswer. I might say that I know more about the history of the sixteenth\ncentury than I know about anything else. I have spent the best years of\nmy life in reading and writing about it; and if I have anything to tell\nyou worth your hearing, it is probably on that subject.\n\nOr, again, I might say--which is indeed most true--that to the\nReformation we can trace, indirectly, the best of those very influences\nwhich I have been describing. The Reformation broke the theological\nshackles in which men's minds were fettered. It set them thinking, and\nso gave birth to science. The Reformers also, without knowing what they\nwere about, taught the lesson of religious toleration. They attempted to\nsupersede one set of dogmas by another. They succeeded with half the\nworld--they failed with the other half. In a little while it became\napparent that good men--without ceasing to be good--could think\ndifferently about theology, and that goodness, therefore, depended on\nsomething else than the holding orthodox opinions.\n\nIt is not, however, for either of these reasons that I am going to talk\nto you about Martin Luther; nor is toleration of differences of opinion,\nhowever excellent it be, the point on which I shall dwell in these\nLectures.\n\nWere the Reformation a question merely of opinion, I for one should not\nhave meddled with it, either here or anywhere. I hold that, on the\nobscure mysteries of faith, every one should be allowed to believe\naccording to his conscience, and that arguments on such matters are\neither impertinent or useless.\n\nBut the Reformation, gentlemen, beyond the region of opinions, was a\nhistorical fact--an objective something which may be studied like any of\nthe facts of nature. The Reformers were men of note and distinction, who\nplayed a great part for good or evil on the stage of the world. If we\nexcept the Apostles, no body of human beings ever printed so deep a mark\ninto the organisation of society; and if there be any value or meaning\nin history at all, the lives, the actions, the characters of such men as\nthese can be matters of indifference to none of us.\n\nWe have not to do with a story which is buried in obscure antiquity. The\nfacts admit of being learnt. The truth, whatever it was, concerns us all\nequally. If the divisions created by that great convulsion are ever to\nbe obliterated, it will be when we have learnt, each of us, to see the\nthing as it really was, and not rather some mythical or imaginative\nversion of the thing--such as from our own point of view we like to\nthink it was. Fiction in such matters may be convenient for our\nimmediate theories, but it is certain to avenge itself in the end. We\nmay make our own opinions, but facts were made for us; and if we evade\nor deny them, it will be the worse for us.\n\nUnfortunately, the mythical version at present very largely\npreponderates. Open a Protestant history of the Reformation, and you\nwill find a picture of the world given over to a lying tyranny--the\nChristian population of Europe enslaved by a corrupt and degraded\npriesthood, and the Reformers, with the Bible in their hands, coming to\nthe rescue like angels of light. All is black on one side--all is fair\nand beautiful on the other.\n\nTurn to a Catholic history of the same events and the same men, and we\nhave before us the Church of the Saints fulfilling quietly its blessed\nmission in the saving of human souls. Satan a second time enters into\nParadise, and a second time with fatal success tempts miserable man to\nhis ruin. He disbelieves his appointed teachers, he aspires after\nforbidden knowledge, and at once anarchy breaks loose. The seamless robe\nof the Saviour is rent in pieces, and the earth becomes the habitation\nof fiends.\n\nEach side tells the story as it prefers to have it; facts, characters,\ncircumstances, are melted in the theological crucible, and cast in\nmoulds diametrically opposite. Nothing remains the same except the names\nand dates. Each side chooses its own witnesses. Everything is credible\nwhich makes for what it calls the truth. Everything is made false which\nwill not fit into its place. 'Blasphemous fables' is the usual\nexpression in Protestant controversial books for the accounts given by\nCatholics. 'Protestant tradition,' says an eminent modern Catholic, 'is\nbased on lying--bold, wholesale, unscrupulous lying.'\n\nNow, depend upon it, there is some human account of the matter different\nfrom both these if we could only get at it, and it will be an excellent\nthing for the world when that human account can be made out. I am not so\npresumptuous as to suppose that I can give it to you; still less can you\nexpect me to try to do so within the compass of two or three lectures.\nIf I cannot do everything, however, I believe I can do a little; at any\nrate I can give you a sketch, such as you may place moderate confidence\nin, of the state of the Church as it was before the Reformation began. I\nwill not expose myself more than I can help to the censure of the divine\nwho was so hard on Protestant tradition. Most of what I shall have to\nsay to you this evening will be taken from the admissions of Catholics\nthemselves, or from official records earlier than the outbreak of the\ncontroversy, when there was no temptation to pervert the truth.\n\nHere, obviously, is the first point on which we require accurate\ninformation. If all was going on well, the Reformers really and truly\ntold innumerable lies, and deserve all the reprobation which we can give\nthem. If all was not going on well--if, so far from being well, the\nChurch was so corrupt that Europe could bear with it no longer--then\nclearly a Reformation was necessary of some kind; and we have taken one\nstep towards a fair estimate of the persons concerned in it.\n\nA fair estimate--that, and only that, is what we want. I need hardly\nobserve to you, that opinion in England has been undergoing lately a\nvery considerable alteration about these persons.\n\nTwo generations ago, the leading Reformers were looked upon as little\nless than saints; now a party has risen up who intend, as they frankly\ntell us, to un-Protestantise the Church of England, who detest\nProtestantism as a kind of infidelity, who desire simply to reverse\neverything which the Reformers did.\n\nOne of these gentlemen, a clergyman, writing lately of Luther, called\nhim a heretic, a heretic fit only to be ranked with--whom, do you\nthink?--Joe Smith, the Mormon Prophet. Joe Smith and Luther--that is the\ncombination with which we are now presented.\n\nThe book in which this remarkable statement appeared was presented by\ntwo bishops to the Upper House of Convocation. It was received with\ngracious acknowledgments by the Archbishop of Canterbury, and was placed\nsolemnly in the library of reference, for that learned body to consult.\n\nSo, too, a professor at Oxford, the other day, spoke of Luther as a\nPhilistine--a Philistine meaning an oppressor of the chosen people; the\nenemy of men of culture, of intelligence, such as the professor himself.\n\nOne notices these things, not as of much importance in themselves, but\nas showing which way the stream is running; and, curiously enough, in\nquite another direction we may see the same phenomenon. Our liberal\nphilosophers, men of high literary power and reputation, looking into\nthe history of Luther, and Calvin, and John Knox, and the rest, find\nthem falling far short of the philosophic ideal--wanting sadly in many\nqualities which the liberal mind cannot dispense with. They are\ndiscovered to be intolerant, dogmatic, narrow-minded, inclined to\npersecute Catholics as Catholics had persecuted them; to be, in fact,\nlittle if at all better than the popes and cardinals whom they were\nfighting against.\n\nLord Macaulay can hardly find epithets strong enough to express his\ncontempt for Archbishop Cranmer. Mr. Buckle places Cranmer by the side\nof Bonner, and hesitates which of the two characters is the more\ndetestable.\n\nAn unfavourable estimate of the Reformers, whether just or unjust, is\nunquestionably gaining ground among our advanced thinkers. A greater man\nthan either Macaulay or Buckle--the German poet, Goethe--says of Luther,\nthat he threw back the intellectual progress of mankind for centuries,\nby calling in the passions of the multitude to decide on subjects which\nought to have been left to the learned. Goethe, in saying this, was\nalluding especially to Erasmus. Goethe thought that Erasmus, and men\nlike Erasmus, had struck upon the right track; and if they could have\nretained the direction of the mind of Europe, there would have been more\ntruth, and less falsehood, among us at this present time. The party\nhatreds, the theological rivalries, the persecutions, the civil wars,\nthe religious animosities which have so long distracted us, would have\nbeen all avoided, and the mind of mankind would have expanded gradually\nand equably with the growth of knowledge.\n\nSuch an opinion, coming from so great a man, is not to be lightly passed\nover. It will be my endeavour to show you what kind of man Erasmus was,\nwhat he was aiming at, what he was doing, and how Luther spoilt his\nwork--if spoiling is the word which we are to use for it.\n\nOne caution, however, I must in fairness give you before we proceed\nfurther. It lies upon the face of the story, that the Reformers\nimperfectly understood toleration; but you must keep before you the\nspirit and temper of the men with whom they had to deal. For themselves,\nwhen the movement began, they aimed at nothing but liberty to think and\nspeak their own way. They never dreamt of interfering with others,\nalthough they were quite aware that others, when they could, were likely\nto interfere with them. Lord Macaulay might have remembered that Cranmer\nwas working all his life with the prospect of being burnt alive as his\nreward--and, as we all know, he actually was burnt alive.\n\nWhen the Protestant teaching began first to spread in the\nNetherlands--before one single Catholic had been illtreated there,\nbefore a symptom of a mutinous disposition had shown itself among the\npeople, an edict was issued by the authorities for the suppression of\nthe new opinions.\n\nThe terms of this edict I will briefly describe to you.\n\nThe inhabitants of the United Provinces were informed that they were to\nhold and believe the doctrines of the Holy Roman Catholic Church. 'Men\nand women,' says the edict, 'who disobey this command shall be punished\nas disturbers of public order. Women who have fallen into heresy shall\nbe buried alive. Men, if they recant, shall lose their heads. If they\ncontinue obstinate, they shall be burnt at the stake.\n\n'If man or woman be suspected of heresy, no one shall shelter or protect\nhim or her; and no stranger shall be admitted to lodge in any inn or\ndwelling-house unless he bring with him a testimonial of orthodoxy from\nthe priest of his parish.\n\n'The Inquisition shall enquire into the private opinions of every\nperson, of whatever degree; and all officers of all kinds shall assist\nthe Inquisition at their peril. Those who know where heretics are\nconcealed, shall denounce them, or they shall suffer as heretics\nthemselves. Heretics (observe the malignity of this paragraph)--heretics\nwho will give up other heretics to justice, shall themselves be pardoned\nif they will promise to conform for the future.'\n\nUnder this edict, in the Netherlands alone, more than fifty thousand\nhuman beings, first and last, were deliberately murdered. And,\ngentlemen, I must say that proceedings of this kind explain and go far\nto excuse the subsequent intolerance of Protestants.\n\nIntolerance, Mr. Gibbon tells us, is a greater crime in a Protestant\nthan a Catholic. Criminal intolerance, as I understand it, is the\nintolerance of such an edict as that which I have read to you--the\nunprovoked intolerance of difference of opinion. I conceive that the\nmost enlightened philosopher might have grown hard and narrow-minded if\nhe had suffered under the administration of the Duke of Alva.\n\nDismissing these considerations, I will now go on with my subject.\n\nNever in all their history, in ancient times or modern, never that we\nknow of, have mankind thrown out of themselves anything so grand, so\nuseful, so beautiful, as the Catholic Church once was. In these times of\nours, well-regulated selfishness is the recognised rule of action--every\none of us is expected to look out first for himself, and take care of\nhis own interests. At the time I speak of, the Church ruled the State\nwith the authority of a conscience; and self-interest, as a motive of\naction, was only named to be abhorred. The bishops and clergy were\nregarded freely and simply as the immediate ministers of the Almighty;\nand they seem to me to have really deserved that high estimate of their\ncharacter. It was not for the doctrines which they taught, only or\nchiefly, that they were held in honour. Brave men do not fall down\nbefore their fellow-mortals for the words which they speak, or for the\nrites which they perform. Wisdom, justice, self-denial, nobleness,\npurity, highmindedness,--these are the qualities before which the\nfree-born races of Europe have been contented to bow; and in no order of\nmen were such qualities to be found as they were found six hundred years\nago in the clergy of the Catholic Church. They called themselves the\nsuccessors of the Apostles. They claimed in their Master's name\nuniversal spiritual authority, but they made good their pretensions by\nthe holiness of their own lives. They were allowed to rule because they\ndeserved to rule, and in the fulness of reverence kings and nobles bent\nbefore a power which was nearer to God than their own. Over prince and\nsubject, chieftain and serf, a body of unarmed defenceless men reigned\nsupreme by the magic of sanctity. They tamed the fiery northern warriors\nwho had broken in pieces the Roman Empire. They taught them--they\nbrought them really and truly to believe--that they had immortal souls,\nand that they would one day stand at the awful judgment bar and give\naccount for their lives there. With the brave, the honest, and the\ngood--with those who had not oppressed the poor nor removed their\nneighbour's landmark--with those who had been just in all their\ndealings--with those who had fought against evil, and had tried\nvaliantly to do their Master's will,--at that great day, it would be\nwell. For cowards, for profligates, for those who lived for luxury and\npleasure and self-indulgence, there was the blackness of eternal death.\n\nAn awful conviction of this tremendous kind the clergy had effectually\ninstilled into the mind of Europe. It was not a PERHAPS; it was a\ncertainty. It was not a form of words repeated once a week at church; it\nwas an assurance entertained on all days and in all places, without any\nparticle of doubt. And the effect of such a belief on life and\nconscience was simply immeasurable.\n\nI do not pretend that the clergy were perfect. They were very far from\nperfect at the best of times, and the European nations were never\ncompletely submissive to them. It would not have been well if they had\nbeen. The business of human creatures in this planet is not summed up in\nthe most excellent of priestly catechisms. The world and its concerns\ncontinued to interest men, though priests insisted on their nothingness.\nThey could not prevent kings from quarrelling with each other. They\ncould not hinder disputed successions, and civil feuds, and wars, and\npolitical conspiracies. What they did do was to shelter the weak from\nthe strong. In the eyes of the clergy, the serf and his lord stood on\nthe common level of sinful humanity. Into their ranks high birth was no\npassport. They were themselves for the most part children of the people;\nand the son of the artisan or peasant rose to the mitre and the triple\ncrown, just as nowadays the rail-splitter and the tailor become\nPresidents of the Republic of the West.\n\nThe Church was essentially democratic, while at the same time it had the\nmonopoly of learning; and all the secular power fell to it which\nlearning, combined with sanctity and assisted by superstition, can\nbestow.\n\nThe privileges of the clergy were extraordinary. They were not amenable\nto the common laws of the land. While they governed the laity, the laity\nhad no power over them. From the throne downwards, every secular office\nwas dependent on the Church. No king was a lawful sovereign till the\nChurch placed the crown upon his head: and what the Church bestowed, the\nChurch claimed the right to take away. The disposition of property was\nin their hands. No will could be proved except before the bishop or his\nofficer; and no will was held valid if the testator died out of\ncommunion. There were magistrates and courts of law for the offences of\nthe laity. If a priest committed a crime, he was a sacred person. The\ncivil power could not touch him; he was reserved for his ordinary.\nBishops' commissaries sate in town and city, taking cognizance of the\nmoral conduct of every man and woman. Offences against life and property\nwere tried here in England, as now, by the common law; but the Church\nCourts dealt with sins--sins of word or act. If a man was a profligate\nor a drunkard; if he lied or swore; if he did not come to communion, or\nheld unlawful opinions; if he was idle or unthrifty; if he was unkind\nto his wife or his servants; if a child was disobedient to his father,\nor a father cruel to his child; if a tradesman sold adulterated wares,\nor used false measures or dishonest weights,--the eye of the parish\npriest was everywhere, and the Church Court stood always open to examine\nand to punish.\n\nImagine what a tremendous power this must have been! Yet it existed\ngenerally in Catholic Europe down to the eve of the Reformation. It\ncould never have established itself at all unless at one time it had\nworked beneficially--as the abuse of it was one of the most fatal causes\nof the Church's fall.\n\nI know nothing in English history much more striking than the answer\ngiven by Archbishop Warham to the complaints of the English House of\nCommons after the fall of Cardinal Wolsey. The House of Commons\ncomplained that the clergy made laws in Convocation which the laity were\nexcommunicated if they disobeyed. Yet the laws made by the clergy, the\nCommons said, were often at variance with the laws of the realm.\n\nWhat did Warham reply? He said he was sorry for the alleged discrepancy;\nbut, inasmuch as the laws made by the clergy were always in conformity\nwith the will of God, the laws of the realm had only to be altered and\nthen the difficulty would vanish.\n\nWhat must have been the position of the clergy in the fulness of their\npower, when they could speak thus on the eve of their prostration? You\nhave only to look from a distance at any old-fashioned cathedral city,\nand you will see in a moment the mediaeval relations between Church and\nState. The cathedral _is_ the city. The first object you catch sight of\nas you approach is the spire tapering into the sky, or the huge towers\nholding possession of the centre of the landscape--majestically\nbeautiful--imposing by mere size amidst the large forms of Nature\nherself. As you go nearer, the vastness of the building impresses you\nmore and more. The puny dwelling-place of the citizens creep at its\nfeet, the pinnacles are glittering in the tints of the sunset, when down\nbelow among the streets and lanes the twilight is darkening. And even\nnow, when the towns are thrice their ancient size, and the houses have\nstretched upwards from two stories to five; when the great chimneys are\nvomiting their smoke among the clouds, and the temples of modern\nindustry--the workshops and the factories--spread their long fronts\nbefore the eye, the cathedral is still the governing form in the\npicture--the one object which possesses the imagination and refuses to\nbe eclipsed.\n\nAs that cathedral was to the old town, so was the Church of the middle\nages to the secular institutions of the world. Its very neighbourhood\nwas sacred; and its shadow, like the shadow of the Apostles, was a\nsanctuary. When I look at the new Houses of Parliament in London, I see\nin them a type of the change which has passed over us. The House of\nCommons of the Plantagenets sate in the Chapter House of Westminster\nAbbey. The Parliament of the Reform Bill, five-and-thirty years ago,\ndebated in St. Stephen's Chapel, the Abbey's small dependency. Now, by\nthe side of the enormous pile which has risen out of that chapel's\nashes, the proud Minster itself is dwarfed into insignificance.\n\nLet us turn to another vast feature of the middle ages--I mean the\nmonasteries.\n\nSome person of especial and exceptional holiness has lived or died at a\nparticular spot. He has been distinguished by his wisdom, by his piety,\nby his active benevolence; and in an age when conjurors and witches were\nsupposed to be helped by the devil to do evil, he, on his part, has been\nthought to have possessed in larger measure than common men the favour\nand the grace of heaven. Blessed influences hang about the spot which he\nhas hallowed by his presence. His relics--his household possessions, his\nbooks, his clothes, his bones, retain the shadowy sanctity which they\nreceived in having once belonged to him. We all set a value, not wholly\nunreal, on anything which has been the property of a remarkable man. At\nworst, it is but an exaggeration of natural reverence.\n\nWell, as nowadays we build monuments to great men, so in the middle ages\nthey built shrines or chapels on the spots which saints had made holy,\nand communities of pious people gathered together there--beginning with\nthe personal friends the saint had left behind him--to try to live as he\nhad lived, to do good as he had done good, and to die as he had died.\nThus arose religious fraternities--companies of men who desired to\ndevote themselves to goodness--to give up pleasure, and amusement, and\nself-indulgence, and to spend their lives in prayer and works of\ncharity.\n\nThese houses became centres of pious beneficence. The monks, as the\nbrotherhoods were called, were organised in different orders, with some\nvariety of rule, but the broad principle was the same in all. They were\nto live for others, not for themselves. They took vows of poverty, that\nthey might not be entangled in the pursuit of money. They took vows of\nchastity, that the care of a family might not distract them from the\nwork which they had undertaken. Their efforts of charity were not\nlimited to this world. Their days were spent in hard bodily labour, in\nstudy, or in visiting the sick. At night they were on the stone-floors\nof their chapels, holding up their withered hands to heaven, interceding\nfor the poor souls who were suffering in purgatory.\n\nThe world, as it always will, paid honour to exceptional excellence. The\nsystem spread to the furthest limits of Christendom. The religious\nhouses became places of refuge, where men of noble birth, kings and\nqueens and emperors, warriors and statesmen, retired to lay down their\nsplendid cares, and end their days in peace. Those with whom the world\nhad dealt hardly, or those whom it had surfeited with its unsatisfying\npleasures, those who were disappointed with earth, and those who were\nfilled with passionate aspirations after heaven, alike found a haven of\nrest in the quiet cloister. And, gradually, lands came to them, and\nwealth, and social dignity--all gratefully extended to men who deserved\nso well of their fellows; while no landlords were more popular than\nthey, for the sanctity of the monks sheltered their dependents as well\nas themselves.\n\nTravel now through Ireland, and you will see in the wildest parts of it\ninnumerable remains of religious houses, which had grown up among a\npeople who acknowledged no rule among themselves except the sword, and\nwhere every chief made war upon his neighbour as the humour seized him.\nThe monks among the O's and the Mac's were as defenceless as sheep among\nthe wolves; but the wolves spared them for their character. In such a\ncountry as Ireland then was, the monasteries could not have survived for\na generation but for the enchanted atmosphere which surrounded them.\n\nOf authority, the religious orders were practically independent. They\nwere amenable only to the Pope and to their own superiors. Here in\nEngland, the king could not send a commissioner to inspect a monastery,\nnor even send a policeman to arrest a criminal who had taken shelter\nwithin its walls. Archbishops and bishops, powerful as they were, found\ntheir authority cease when they entered the gates of a Benedictine or\nDominican abbey.\n\nSo utterly have times changed, that with your utmost exertions you will\nhardly be able to picture to yourselves the Catholic Church in the days\nof its greatness. Our school-books tell us how the Emperor of Germany\nheld the stirrup for Pope Gregory the Seventh to mount his mule; how our\nown English Henry Plantagenet walked barefoot through the streets of\nCanterbury, and knelt in the Chapter House for the monks to flog him.\nThe first of these incidents, I was brought up to believe, proved the\nPope to be the Man of Sin. Anyhow, they are both facts, and not\nromances; and you may form some notion from them how high in the world's\neyes the Church must have stood.\n\nAnd be sure it did not achieve that proud position without deserving it.\nThe Teutonic and Latin princes were not credulous fools; and when they\nsubmitted, it was to something stronger than themselves--stronger in\nlimb and muscle, or stronger in intellect and character.\n\nSo the Church was in its vigour: so the Church was _not_ at the opening\nof the sixteenth century. Power--wealth--security--men are more than\nmortal if they can resist the temptations to which too much of these\nexpose them. Nor were they the only enemies which undermined the\nenergies of the Catholic clergy. Churches exist in this world to remind\nus of the eternal laws which we are bound to obey. So far as they do\nthis, they fulfil their end, and are honoured in fulfilling it. It would\nhave been better for all of us--it would be better for us now, could\nChurches keep this their peculiar function steadily and singly before\nthem. Unfortunately, they have preferred in later times the speculative\nside of things to the practical. They take up into their teaching\nopinions and theories which are merely ephemeral; which would naturally\ndie out with the progress of knowledge; but, having received a spurious\nsanctity, prolong their days unseasonably, and become first unmeaning,\nand then occasions of superstition.\n\nIt matters little whether I say a paternoster in English or Latin, so\nthat what is present to my mind is the thought which the words express,\nand not the words themselves. In these and all languages it is the most\nbeautiful of prayers. But you know that people came to look on a Latin\npaternoster as the most powerful of spells--potent in heaven, if said\nstraightforward; if repeated backward, a charm which no spirit in hell\ncould resist.\n\nSo it is, in my opinion, with all forms--forms of words, or forms of\nceremony and ritualism. While the meaning is alive in them, they are not\nonly harmless, but pregnant and life-giving. When we come to think that\nthey possess in themselves material and magical virtues, then the\npurpose which they answer is to hide God from us and make us practically\ninto Atheists.\n\nThis is what I believe to have gradually fallen upon the Catholic Church\nin the generations which preceded Luther. The body remained; the mind\nwas gone away: the original thought which its symbolism represented was\nno longer credible to intelligent persons.\n\nThe acute were conscious unbelievers. In Italy, when men went to mass\nthey spoke of it as going to a comedy. You may have heard the story of\nLuther in his younger days saying mass at an altar in Rome, and hearing\nhis fellow-priests muttering at the consecration of the Eucharist,\n'Bread thou art, and bread thou wilt remain.'\n\nPart of the clergy were profane scoundrels like these; the rest repeated\nthe words of the service, conceiving that they were working a charm.\nReligion was passing through the transformation which all religions have\na tendency to undergo. They cease to be aids and incentives to holy\nlife; they become contrivances rather to enable men to sin, and escape\nthe penalties of sin. Obedience to the law is dispensed with if men will\ndiligently profess certain opinions, or punctually perform certain\nexternal duties. However scandalous the moral life, the participation of\na particular rite, or the profession of a particular belief, at the\nmoment of death, is held to clear the score.\n\nThe powers which had been given to the clergy required for their\nexercise the highest wisdom and the highest probity. They had fallen at\nlast into the hands of men who possessed considerably less of these\nqualities than the laity whom they undertook to govern. They had\ndegraded their conceptions of God; and, as a necessary consequence, they\nhad degraded their conceptions of man and man's duty. The aspirations\nafter sanctity had disappeared, and instead of them there remained the\npractical reality of the five senses. The high prelates, the cardinals,\nthe great abbots, were occupied chiefly in maintaining their splendour\nand luxury. The friars and the secular clergy, following their superiors\nwith shorter steps, indulged themselves in grosser pleasures; while\ntheir spiritual powers, their supposed authority in this world and the\nnext, were turned to account to obtain from the laity the means for\ntheir self-indulgence.\n\nThe Church forbade the eating of meat on fast days, but the Church was\nready with dispensations for those who could afford to pay for them. The\nChurch forbade marriage to the fourth degree of consanguinity, but\nloving cousins, if they were rich and open-handed, could obtain the\nChurch's consent to their union. There were toll-gates for the priests\nat every halting-place on the road of life--fees at weddings, fees at\nfunerals, fees whenever an excuse could be found to fasten them. Even\nwhen a man was dead he was not safe from plunder, for a mortuary or\ndeath present was exacted of his family.\n\nAnd then those Bishop's Courts, of which I spoke just now: they were\nfounded for the discipline of morality--they were made the instruments\nof the most detestable extortion. If an impatient layman spoke a\ndisrespectful word of the clergy, he was cited before the bishop's\ncommissary and fined. If he refused to pay, he was excommunicated, and\nexcommunication was a poisonous disease. When a poor wretch was under\nthe ban of the Church no tradesman might sell him clothes or food--no\nfriend might relieve him--no human voice might address him, under pain\nof the same sentence; and if he died unreconciled, he died like a dog,\nwithout the sacraments, and was refused Christian burial.\n\nThe records of some of these courts survive: a glance at their pages\nwill show the principles on which they were worked. When a layman\noffended, the single object was to make him pay for it. The magistrates\ncould not protect him. If he resisted, and his friends supported him, so\nmuch the better, for they were now all in the scrape together. The next\nstep would be to indict them in a body for heresy; and then, of course,\nthere was nothing for it but to give way, and compound for absolution by\nmoney.\n\nIt was money--ever money. Even in case of real delinquency, it was\nstill money. Money, not charity, covered the multitude of sins.\n\nI have told you that the clergy were exempt from secular jurisdiction.\nThey claimed to be amenable only to spiritual judges, and they extended\nthe broad fringe of their order till the word clerk was construed to\nmean any one who could write his name or read a sentence from a book. A\nrobber or a murderer at the assizes had but to show that he possessed\neither of these qualifications, and he was allowed what was called\nbenefit of clergy. His case was transferred to the Bishops' Court, to an\neasy judge, who allowed him at once to compound.\n\nSuch were the clergy in matters of this world. As religious instructors,\nthey appear in colours if possible less attractive.\n\nPractical religion throughout Europe at the beginning of the sixteenth\ncentury was a very simple affair. I am not going to speak of the\nmysterious doctrines of the Catholic Church. The creed which it\nprofessed in its schools and theological treatises was the same which it\nprofesses now, and which it had professed at the time when it was most\npowerful for good. I do not myself consider that the formulas in which\nmen express their belief are of much consequence. The question is rather\nof the thing expressed; and so long as we find a living consciousness\nthat above the world and above human life there is a righteous God, who\nwill judge men according to their works, whether they say their prayers\nin Latin or English, whether they call themselves Protestants or call\nthemselves Catholics, appears to me of quite secondary importance. But\nat the time I speak of, that consciousness no longer existed. The\nformulas and ceremonies were all in all; and of God it is hard to say\nwhat conceptions men had formed, when they believed that a dead man's\nrelations could buy him out of purgatory--buy him out of purgatory,--for\nthis was the literal truth--by hiring priests to sing masses for his\nsoul.\n\nReligion, in the minds of ordinary people, meant that the keys of the\nother world were held by the clergy. If a man confessed regularly to his\npriest, received the sacrament, and was absolved, then all was well with\nhim. His duties consisted in going to confession and to mass. If he\ncommitted sins, he was prescribed penances, which could be commuted for\nmoney. If he was sick or ill at ease in his mind, he was recommended a\npilgrimage--a pilgrimage to a shrine or a holy well, or to some\nwonder-working image--where, for due consideration, his case would be\nattended to. It was no use to go to a saint empty-handed. The rule of\nthe Church was, nothing for nothing. At a chapel in Saxony there was an\nimage of a Virgin and Child. If the worshipper came to it with a good\nhandsome offering, the child bowed and was gracious: if the present was\nunsatisfactory, it turned away its head, and withheld its favours till\nthe purse-strings were untied again.\n\nThere was a great rood or crucifix of the same kind at Boxley, in Kent,\nwhere the pilgrims went in thousands. This figure used to bow, too, when\nit was pleased; and a good sum of money was sure to secure its\ngood-will.\n\nWhen the Reformation came, and the police looked into the matter, the\nimages were found to be worked with wires and pulleys. The German lady\nwas kept as a curiosity in the cabinet of the Elector of Saxony. Our\nBoxley rood was brought up and exhibited in Cheapside, and was\nafterwards torn in pieces by the people.\n\nNor here again was death the limit of extortion: death was rather the\ngate of the sphere which the clergy made, peculiarly their own. When a\nman died, his friends were naturally anxious for the fate of his soul.\nIf he died in communion, he was not in the worst place of all. He had\nnot been a saint, and therefore he was not in the best. Therefore he was\nin purgatory--Purgatory Pickpurse, as our English Latimer called it--and\na priest, if properly paid, could get him out.\n\nTo be a mass priest, as it was called, was a regular profession, in\nwhich, with little trouble, a man could earn a comfortable living. He\nhad only to be ordained and to learn by heart a certain form of words,\nand that was all the equipment necessary for him. The masses were paid\nfor at so much a dozen, and for every mass that was said, so many years\nwere struck off from the penal period. Two priests were sometimes to be\nseen muttering away at the opposite ends of the same altar, like a\ncouple of musical boxes playing different parts of the same tune at the\nsame time. It made no difference. The upper powers had what they wanted.\nIf they got the masses, and the priests got the money, all parties\nconcerned were satisfied.\n\nI am speaking of the form which these things assumed in an age of\ndegradation and ignorance. The truest and wisest words ever spoken by\nman might be abused in the same way.\n\nThe Sermon on the Mount or the Apostles' Creed, if recited mechanically,\nand relied on to work a mechanical effort, would be no less perniciously\nidolatrous.\n\nYou can see something of the same kind in a milder form in Spain at the\npresent day. The Spaniards, all of them, high and low, are expected to\nbuy annually a Pope's Bula or Bull--a small pardon, or indulgence, or\nplenary remission of sins. The exact meaning of these things is a little\nobscure; the high authorities themselves do not universally agree about\nthem, except so far as to say that they are of prodigious value of some\nsort. The orthodox explanation, I believe, is something of this kind.\nWith every sin there is the moral guilt and the temporal penalty. The\npardon cannot touch the guilt; but when the guilt is remitted, there is\nstill the penalty. I may ruin my health by a dissolute life; I may\nrepent of my dissoluteness and be forgiven; but the bad health will\nremain. For bad health, substitute penance in this world and purgatory\nin the next; and in this sphere the indulgence takes effect.\n\nSuch as they are, at any rate, everybody in Spain has these bulls; you\nbuy them in the shops for a shilling apiece.\n\nThis is one form of the thing. Again, at the door of a Spanish church\nyou will see hanging on the wall an intimation that whoever will pray so\nmany hours before a particular image shall receive full forgiveness of\nhis sins. Having got that, one might suppose he would be satisfied; but\nno--if he prays so many more hours, he can get off a hundred years of\npurgatory, or a thousand, or ten thousand. In one place I remember\nobserving that for a very little trouble a man could escape a hundred\nand fifty thousand years of purgatory.\n\nWhat a prospect for the ill-starred Protestant, who will be lucky if he\nis admitted into purgatory at all!\n\nAgain, if you enter a sacristy, you will see a small board like the\nnotices addressed to parishioners in our vestries. On particular days it\nis taken out and hung up in the church, and little would a stranger,\nignorant of the language, guess the tremendous meaning of that\ncommonplace appearance. On these boards is written 'Hoy se sacan\nanimas,'--'This day, souls are taken out of purgatory.' It is an\nintimation to every one with a friend in distress that now is his time.\nYou put a shilling in a plate, you give your friend's name, and the\nthing is done. One wonders why, if purgatory can be sacked so easily,\nany poor wretch is left to suffer there.\n\nSuch practices nowadays are comparatively innocent, the money asked and\ngiven is trifling, and probably no one concerned in the business\nbelieves much about it. They serve to show, however, on a small scale,\nwhat once went on on an immense scale; and even such as they are, pious\nCatholics do not much approve of them. They do not venture to say much\non the subject directly, but they allow themselves a certain\ngood-humoured ridicule. A Spanish novelist of some reputation tells a\nstory of a man coming to a priest on one of these occasions, putting a\nshilling in the plate, and giving in the name of his friend.\n\n'Is my friend's soul out?' he asked. The priest said it was. 'Quite\nsure?' the man asked. 'Quite sure,' the priest answered. 'Very well,'\nsaid the man, 'if he is out of purgatory they will not put him in again:\nit is a bad shilling.'\n\nSadder than all else, even as the most beautiful things are worst in\ntheir degradation, was the condition of the monasteries. I am here on\ndelicate ground. The accounts of those institutions, as they existed in\nEngland and Germany at the time of their suppression, is so shocking\nthat even impartial writers have hesitated to believe the reports which\nhave come down to us. The laity, we are told, determined to appropriate\nthe abbey lands, and maligned the monks to justify the spoliation. Were\nthe charge true, the religious orders would still be without excuse, for\nthe whole education of the country was in the hands of the clergy; and\nthey had allowed a whole generation to grow up, which, on this\nhypothesis, was utterly depraved.\n\nBut no such theory can explain away the accumulated testimony which\ncomes to us--exactly alike--from so many sides and witnesses. We are not\ndependent upon evidence which Catholics can decline to receive. In the\nreign of our Henry the Seventh the notorious corruption of some of the\ngreat abbeys in England brought them under the notice of the Catholic\nArchbishop of Canterbury, Cardinal Morton. The archbishop, unable to\nmeddle with them by his own authority, obtained the necessary powers\nfrom the Pope. He instituted a partial visitation in the neighbourhood\nof London; and the most malignant Protestant never drew such a picture\nof profligate brutality as Cardinal Morton left behind him in his\nRegister, in a description of the great Abbey of St. Albans. I cannot,\nin a public lecture, give you the faintest idea of what it contains. The\nmonks were bound to celibacy--that is to say, they were not allowed to\nmarry. They were full-fed, idle, and sensual; of sin they thought only\nas something extremely pleasant, of which they could cleanse one another\nwith a few mumbled words as easily as they could wash their faces in a\nbasin. And there I must leave the matter. Anybody who is curious for\nparticulars may see the original account in Morton's Register, in the\nArchbishop's library at Lambeth.\n\nA quarter of a century after this there appeared in Germany a book, now\ncalled by Catholics an infamous libel, the 'Epistolae Obscurorum\nVirorum.' 'The obscure men,' supposed to be the writers of these\nepistles, are monks or students of theology. The letters themselves are\nwritten in dog-Latin--a burlesque of the language in which\necclesiastical people then addressed each other. They are sketches,\nsatirical, but not malignant, of the moral and intellectual character of\nthese reverend personages.\n\nOn the moral, and by far the most important, side of the matter I am\nstill obliged to be silent; but I can give you a few specimens of the\nfurniture of the theological minds, and of the subjects with which they\nwere occupied.\n\nA student writes to his ghostly father in an agony of distress because\nhe has touched his hat to a Jew. He mistook him for a doctor of\ndivinity; and on the whole, he fears he has committed mortal sin. Can\nthe father absolve him? Can the bishop absolve him? Can the Pope absolve\nhim? His case seems utterly desperate.\n\nAnother letter describes a great intellectual riddle, which was argued\nfor four days at the School of Logic at Louvaine. A certain Master of\nArts had taken out his degree at Louvaine, Leyden, Paris, Oxford,\nCambridge, Padua, and four other universities. He was thus a member of\nten universities. But how _could_ a man be a member of ten universities?\nA university was a body, and one body might have many members; but how\none member could have many bodies, passed comprehension. In such a\nmonstrous anomaly, the member would be the body, and the universities\nthe member, and this would be a scandal to such grave and learned\ncorporations. The holy doctor St. Thomas himself could not make himself\ninto the body of ten universities.\n\nThe more the learned men argued, the deeper they floundered, and at\nlength gave up the problem in despair.\n\nAgain: a certain professor argues that Julius Caesar could not have\nwritten the book which passes under the name of 'Caesar's Commentaries,'\nbecause that book is written in Latin, and Latin is a difficult\nlanguage; and a man whose life is spent in marching and fighting has\nnotoriously no time to learn Latin.\n\nHere is another fellow--a monk this one--describing to a friend the\nwonderful things which he has seen in Rome.\n\n'You may have heard,' he says, 'how the Pope did possess a monstrous\nbeast called an Elephant. The Pope did entertain for this beast a very\ngreat affection, and now behold it is dead. When it fell sick, the Pope\ncalled his doctors about him in great sorrow, and said to them, \"If it\nbe possible, heal my elephant.\" Then they gave the elephant a purge,\nwhich cost five hundred crowns, but it did not avail, and so the beast\ndeparted; and the Pope grieves much for his elephant, for it was indeed\na miraculous beast, with a long, long, prodigious long nose; and when it\nsaw the Pope it kneeled down before him and said, with a terrible voice,\n\"Bar, bar, bar!\"'\n\nI will not tire you with any more of this nonsense, especially as I\ncannot give you the really characteristic parts of the book.\n\nI want you to observe, however, what Sir Thomas More says of it, and\nnobody will question that Sir Thomas More was a good Catholic and a\ncompetent witness. 'These epistles,' he says, 'are the delight of\neveryone. The wise enjoy the wit; the blockheads of monks take them\nseriously, and believe that they have been written to do them honour.\nWhen we laugh, they think we are laughing at the style, which they admit\nto be comical. But they think the style is made up for by the beauty of\nthe sentiment. The scabbard, they say, is rough, but the blade within it\nis divine. The deliberate idiots would not have found out the jest for\nthemselves in a hundred years.'\n\nWell might Erasmus exclaim, 'What fungus could be more stupid? yet\nthese are the Atlases who are to uphold the tottering Church!'\n\n'The monks had a pleasant time of it,' says Luther. 'Every brother had\ntwo cans of beer and a quart of wine for his supper, with gingerbread,\nto make him take to his liquor kindly. Thus the poor things came to look\nlike fiery angels.'\n\nAnd more gravely, 'In the cloister rule the seven deadly\nsins--covetousness, lasciviousness, uncleanness, hate, envy, idleness,\nand the loathing of the service of God.'\n\nConsider such men as these owning a third, a half, sometimes two-thirds\nof the land in every country in Europe, and, in addition to their other\nsins, neglecting all the duties attaching to this property--the woods\ncut down and sold, the houses falling to ruin--unthrift, neglect, waste\neverywhere and in everything--the shrewd making the most of their time,\nwhich they had sense to see might be a short one--the rest dreaming on\nin sleepy sensuality, dividing their hours between the chapel, the\npothouse, and the brothel.\n\nI do not think that, in its main features, the truth of this sketch can\nbe impugned; and if it be just even in outline, then a reformation of\nsome kind or other was overwhelmingly necessary. Corruption beyond a\ncertain point becomes unendurable to the coarsest nostril. The\nconstitution of human things cannot away with it.\n\nSomething was to be done; but what, or how? There were three possible\ncourses.\n\nEither the ancient discipline of the Church might be restored by the\nheads of the Church themselves.\n\nOr, secondly, a higher tone of feeling might gradually be introduced\namong clergy and laity alike, by education and literary culture. The\ndiscovery of the printing press had made possible a diffusion of\nknowledge which had been unattainable in earlier ages. The\necclesiastical constitution, like a sick human body, might recover its\ntone if a better diet were prepared for it.\n\nOr, lastly, the common sense of the laity might take the matter at once\ninto their own hands, and make free use of the pruning knife and the\nsweeping brush. There might be much partial injustice, much violence,\nmuch wrongheadedness; but the people would, at any rate, go direct to\nthe point, and the question was whether any other remedy would serve.\n\nThe first of these alternatives may at once be dismissed. The heads of\nthe Church were the last persons in the world to discover that anything\nwas wrong. People of that sort always are. For them the thing as it\nexisted answered excellently well. They had boundless wealth, and all\nbut boundless power. What could they ask for more? No monk drowsing over\nhis wine-pot was less disturbed by anxiety than nine out of ten of the\nhigh dignitaries who were living on the eve of the Judgment Day, and\nbelieved that their seat was established for them for ever.\n\nThe character of the great ecclesiastics of that day you may infer from\na single example. The Archbishop of Mayence was one of the most\nenlightened Churchmen in Germany. He was a patron of the Renaissance, a\nfriend of Erasmus, a liberal, an intelligent, and, as times went, and\nconsidering his trade, an honourable, high-minded man.\n\nWhen the Emperor Maximilian died, and the imperial throne was vacant,\nthe Archbishop of Mayence was one of seven electors who had to choose a\nnew emperor.\n\nThere were two competitors--Francis the First and Maximilian's grandson,\nafterwards the well-known Charles the Fifth.\n\nWell, of the seven electors six were bribed. John Frederick of Saxony,\nLuther's friend and protector, was the only one of the party who came\nout of the business with clean hands.\n\nBut the Archbishop of Mayence took bribes six times alternately from\nboth the candidates. He took money as coolly as the most rascally\nten-pound householder in Yarmouth or Totnes, and finally drove a hard\nbargain for his actual vote.\n\nThe grape does not grow upon the blackthorn; nor does healthy reform\ncome from high dignitaries like the Archbishop of Mayence.\n\nThe other aspect of the problem I shall consider in the following\nLectures.\n\n\nLECTURE II.\n\nIn the year 1467--the year in which Charles the Bold became Duke of\nBurgundy--four years before the great battle of Barnet, which\nestablished our own fourth Edward on the English throne--about the time\nwhen William Caxton was setting up his printing press at\nWestminster--there was born at Rotterdam, on the 28th of October,\nDesiderius Erasmus. His parents, who were middle-class people, were\nwell-to-do in the world. For some reason or other they were prevented\nfrom marrying by the interference of relations. The father died soon\nafter in a cloister; the mother was left with her illegitimate infant,\nwhom she called first, after his father, Gerard; but afterwards, from\nhis beauty and grace, she changed his name--the words Desiderius\nErasmus, one with a Latin, the other with a Greek, derivation, meaning\nthe lovely or delightful one.\n\nNot long after, the mother herself died also. The little Erasmus was the\nheir of a moderate fortune; and his guardians, desiring to appropriate\nit to themselves, endeavoured to force him into a convent at Brabant.\n\nThe thought of living and dying in a house of religion was dreadfully\nunattractive; but an orphan boy's resistance was easily overcome. He was\nbullied into yielding, and, when about twenty, took the vows.\n\nThe life of a monk, which was uninviting on the surface, was not more\nlovely when seen from within.\n\n'A monk's holy obedience,' Erasmus wrote afterwards, 'consists in--what?\nIn leading an honest, chaste, and sober life? Not the least. In\nacquiring learning, in study, and industry? Still less. A monk may be a\nglutton, a drunkard, a whoremonger, an ignorant, stupid, malignant,\nenvious brute, but he has broken no vow, he is within his holy\nobedience. He has only to be the slave of a superior as good for nothing\nas himself, and he is an excellent brother.'\n\nThe misfortune of his position did not check Erasmus's intellectual\ngrowth. He was a brilliant, witty, sarcastic, mischievous youth. He did\nnot trouble himself to pine and mope; but, like a young thorough-bred in\na drove of asses, he used his heels pretty freely.\n\nWhile he played practical jokes upon the unreverend fathers, he\ndistinguished himself equally by his appetite for knowledge. It was the\ndawn of the Renaissance--the revival of learning. The discovery of\nprinting was reopening to modern Europe the great literature of Greece\nand Rome, and the writings of the Christian fathers. For studies of this\nkind, Erasmus, notwithstanding the disadvantages of cowl and frock,\ndisplayed extraordinary aptitude. He taught himself Greek when Greek was\nthe language which, in the opinion of the monks, only the devils spoke\nin the wrong place. His Latin was as polished as Cicero's; and at length\nthe Archbishop of Cambray heard of him, and sent him to the University\nof Paris.\n\nAt Paris he found a world where life could be sufficiently pleasant, but\nwhere his religious habit was every moment in his way. He was a priest,\nand so far could not help himself. That ink-spot not all the waters of\nthe German Ocean could wash away. But he did not care for the low\ndebaucheries, where the frock and cowl were at home. His place was in\nthe society of cultivated men, who were glad to know him and to\npatronise him; so he shook off his order, let his hair grow, and flung\naway his livery.\n\nThe Archbishop's patronage was probably now withdrawn. Life in Paris was\nexpensive, and Erasmus had for several years to struggle with poverty.\nWe see him, however, for the most part--in his early letters--carrying a\nbold front to fortune; desponding one moment, and larking the next with\na Paris grisette; making friends, enjoying good company, enjoying\nespecially good wine when he could get it; and, above all, satiating his\nliterary hunger at the library of the University.\n\nIn this condition, when about eight-and-twenty, he made acquaintance\nwith two young English noblemen who were travelling on the Continent,\nLord Mountjoy and one of the Greys.\n\nMountjoy, intensely attracted by his brilliance, took him for his tutor,\ncarried him over to England, and introduced him at the court of Henry\nthe Seventh. At once his fortune was made. He charmed every one, and in\nturn he was himself delighted with the country and the people. English\ncharacter, English hospitality, English manners--everything English\nexcept the beer--equally pleased him. In the young London men--the\nlawyers, the noblemen, even in some of the clergy--he found his own\npassion for learning. Sir Thomas More, who was a few years younger than\nhimself, became his dearest friend; and Warham, afterwards Archbishop of\nCanterbury--Fisher, afterwards Bishop of Rochester--Colet, the famous\nDean of St. Paul's--the great Wolsey himself--recognised and welcomed\nthe rising star of European literature.\n\nMoney flowed in upon him. Warham gave him a benefice in Kent, which was\nafterwards changed to a pension. Prince Henry, when he became King,\noffered him--kings in those days were not bad friends to\nliterature--Henry offered him, if he would remain in England, a house\nlarge enough to be called a palace, and a pension which, converted into\nour money, would be a thousand pounds a year.\n\nErasmus, however, was a restless creature, and did not like to be caged\nor tethered. He declined the King's terms, but Mountjoy settled a\npension on him instead. He had now a handsome income, and he understood\nthe art of enjoying it. He moved about as he pleased--now to Cambridge,\nnow to Oxford, and, as the humour took him, back again to Paris; now\nstaying with Sir Thomas More at Chelsea, now going a pilgrimage with\nDean Colet to Becket's tomb at Canterbury--but always studying, always\ngathering knowledge, and throwing it out again, steeped in his own\nmother wit, in shining Essays or Dialogues, which were the delight and\nthe despair of his contemporaries.\n\nEverywhere, in his love of pleasure, in his habits of thought, in his\nsarcastic scepticism, you see the healthy, clever, well-disposed,\ntolerant, epicurean, intellectual man of the world.\n\nHe went, as I said, with Dean Colet to Becket's tomb. At a shrine about\nCanterbury he was shown an old shoe which tradition called the Saint's.\nAt the tomb itself, the great sight was a handkerchief which a monk took\nfrom among the relics, and offered it to the crowd to kiss. The\nworshippers touched it in pious adoration, with clasped hands and\nupturned eyes. If the thing was genuine, as Erasmus observed, it had but\nserved for the archbishop to wipe his nose with--and Dean Colet, a\npuritan before his time, looked on with eyes flashing scorn, and\nscarcely able to keep his hands off the exhibitors. But Erasmus smiled\nkindly, reflecting that mankind were fools, and in some form or other\nwould remain fools. He took notice only of the pile of gold and jewels,\nand concluded that so much wealth might prove dangerous to its\npossessors.\n\nThe peculiarities of the English people interested and amused him. 'You\nare going to England,' he wrote afterwards to a friend; 'you will not\nfail to be pleased. You will find the great people there most agreeable\nand gracious; only be careful not to presume upon their intimacy. They\nwill condescend to your level, but do not you therefore suppose that you\nstand upon theirs. The noble lords are gods in their own eyes.'\n\n'For the other classes, be courteous, give your right hand, do not take\nthe wall, do not push yourself. Smile on whom you please, but trust no\none that you do not know; above all, speak no evil of England to them.\nThey are proud of their country above all nations in the world, as they\nhave good reason to be.'\n\nThese directions might have been written yesterday. The manners of the\nladies have somewhat changed. 'English ladies,' says Erasmus, 'are\ndivinely pretty, and _too_ good-natured. They have an excellent custom\namong them, that wherever you go the girls kiss you. They kiss you when\nyou come, they kiss you when you go, they kiss you at intervening\nopportunities, and their lips are soft, warm, and delicious.' Pretty\nwell that, for a priest!\n\nThe custom, perhaps, was not quite so universal as Erasmus would have us\nbelieve. His own coaxing ways may have had something to do with it. At\nany rate, he found England a highly agreeable place of residence.\n\nMeanwhile, his reputation as a writer spread over the world. Latin--the\nlanguage in which he wrote--was in universal use. It was the vernacular\nof the best society in Europe, and no living man was so perfect a master\nof it. His satire flashed about among all existing institutions,\nscathing especially his old enemies the monks; while the great secular\nclergy, who hated the religious orders, were delighted to see them\nscourged, and themselves to have the reputation of being patrons of\ntoleration and reform.\n\nErasmus, as he felt his ground more sure under him, obtained from Julius\nthe Second a distinct release from his monastic vows; and, shortly\nafter, when the brilliant Leo succeeded to the tiara, and gathered about\nhim the magnificent cluster of artists who have made his era so\nillustrious, the new Pope invited Erasmus to visit him at Rome, and\nbecome another star in the constellation which surrounded the Papal\nthrone.\n\nErasmus was at this time forty years old--the age when ambition becomes\npowerful in men, and takes the place of love of pleasure. He was\nreceived at Rome with princely distinction, and he could have asked for\nnothing--bishoprics, red hats, or red stockings--which would not have\nbeen freely given to him if he would have consented to remain.\n\nBut he was too considerable a man to be tempted by finery; and the\nPope's livery, gorgeous though it might be, was but a livery after all.\nNothing which Leo the Tenth could do for Erasmus could add lustre to his\ncoronet. More money he might have had, but of money he had already\nabundance, and outward dignity would have been dearly bought by gilded\nchains. He resisted temptation; he preferred the northern air, where he\ncould breathe at liberty, and he returned to England, half inclined to\nmake his home there.\n\nBut his own sovereign laid claim to his services; the future emperor\nrecalled him to the Low Countries, settled a handsome salary upon him,\nand established him at the University of Louvaine.\n\nHe was now in the zenith of his greatness. He had an income as large as\nmany an English nobleman. We find him corresponding with popes,\ncardinals, kings, and statesmen; and as he grew older, his mind became\nmore fixed upon serious subjects. The ignorance and brutality of the\nmonks, the corruption of the spiritual courts, the absolute irreligion\nin which the Church was steeped, gave him serious alarm. He had no\nenthusiasms, no doctrinal fanaticisms, no sectarian beliefs or\nsuperstitions. The breadth of his culture, his clear understanding, and\nthe worldly moderation of his temper, seemed to qualify him above living\nmen to conduct a temperate reform. He saw that the system around him was\npregnant with danger, and he resolved to devote what remained to him of\nlife to the introduction of a higher tone in the minds of the clergy.\n\nThe revival of learning had by this time alarmed the religious orders.\nLiterature and education, beyond the code of the theological text-books,\nappeared simply devilish to them. When Erasmus returned to Louvaine, the\nbattle was raging over the north of Europe.\n\nThe Dominicans at once recognised in Erasmus their most dangerous enemy.\nAt first they tried to compel him to re-enter the order, but, strong in\nthe Pope's dispensation, he was so far able to defy them. They could\nbark at his heels, but dared not come to closer quarters: and with his\ntemper slightly ruffled, but otherwise contented to despise them, he\ntook up boldly the task which he had set himself.\n\n'We kiss the old shoes of the saints,' he said, 'but we never read their\nworks.' He undertook the enormous labour of editing and translating\nselections from the writings of the Fathers. The New Testament was as\nlittle known as the lost books of Tacitus--all that the people knew of\nthe Gospels and the Epistles were the passages on which theologians had\nbuilt up the Catholic formulas. Erasmus published the text, and with it,\nand to make it intelligible, a series of paraphrases, which rent away\nthe veil of traditional and dogmatic interpretation, and brought the\nteaching of Christ and the Apostles into their natural relation with\nreason and conscience.\n\nIn all this, although the monks might curse, he had countenance and\nencouragement from the great ecclesiastics in all parts of Europe--and\nit is highly curious to see the extreme freedom with which they allowed\nhim to propose to them his plans for a Reformation--we seem to be\nlistening to the wisest of modern broad Churchmen.\n\nTo one of his correspondents, an archbishop, he writes:--\n\n'Let us have done with theological refinements. There is an excuse for\nthe Fathers, because the heretics forced them to define particular\npoints; but every definition is a misfortune, and for us to persevere in\nthe same way is sheer folly. Is no man to be admitted to grace who does\nnot know how the Father differs from the Son, and both from the Spirit?\nor how the nativity of the Son differs from the procession of the\nSpirit? Unless I forgive my brother his sins against me, God will not\nforgive me my sins. Unless I have a pure heart--unless I put away envy,\nhate, pride, avarice, lust, I shall not see God. But a man is not damned\nbecause he cannot tell whether the Spirit has one principle or two. Has\nhe the fruits of the Spirit? That is the question. Is he patient, kind,\ngood, gentle, modest, temperate, chaste? Enquire if you will, but do not\ndefine. True religion is peace, and we cannot have peace unless we leave\nthe conscience unshackled on obscure points on which certainty is\nimpossible. We hear now of questions being referred to the next\nOEcumenical Council--better a great deal refer them to doomsday. Time\nwas, when a man's faith was looked for in his life, not in the Articles\nwhich he professed. Necessity first brought Articles upon us, and ever\nsince, we have refined and refined till Christianity has become a thing\nof words and creeds. Articles increase--sincerity vanishes\naway--contention grows hot, and charity grows cold. Then comes in the\ncivil power, with stake and gallows, and men are forced to profess what\nthey do not believe, to pretend to love what in fact they hate, and to\nsay that they understand what in fact has no meaning for them.'\n\nAgain, to the Archbishop of Mayence:--\n\n'Reduce the dogmas necessary to be believed, to the smallest possible\nnumber; you can do it without danger to the realities of Christianity.\nOn other points, either discourage enquiry, or leave everyone free to\nbelieve what he pleases--then we shall have no more quarrels, and\nreligion will again take hold of life. When you have done this, you can\ncorrect the abuses of which the world with good reason complains. The\nunjust judge heard the widow's prayer. You should not shut your ears to\nthe cries of those for whom Christ died. He did not die for the great\nonly, but for the poor and for the lowly. There need be no tumult. Do\nyou only set human affections aside, and let kings and princes lend\nthemselves heartily to the public good. But observe that the monks and\nfriars be allowed no voice; with these gentlemen the world has borne too\nlong. They care only for their own vanity, their own stomachs, their own\npower; and they believe that if the people are enlightened, their\nkingdom cannot stand.'\n\nOnce more to the Pope himself:--\n\n'Let each man amend first his own wicked life. When he has done that,\nand will amend his neighbour, let him put on Christian charity, which is\nsevere enough when severity is needed. If your holiness give power to\nmen who neither believe in Christ nor care for you, but think only of\ntheir own appetites, I fear there will be danger. We can trust your\nholiness, but there are bad men who will use your virtues as a cloke for\ntheir own malice.'\n\nThat the spiritual rulers of Europe should have allowed a man like\nErasmus to use language such as this to them is a fact of supreme\nimportance. It explains the feeling of Goethe, that the world would have\ngone on better had there been no Luther, and that the revival of\ntheological fanaticism did more harm than good.\n\nBut the question of questions is, what all this latitudinarian\nphilosophising, this cultivated epicurean gracefulness would have come\nto if left to itself; or rather, what was the effect which it was\ninevitably producing? If you wish to remove an old building without\nbringing it in ruins about your ears, you must begin at the top, remove\nthe stones gradually downwards, and touch the foundation last. But\nlatitudinarianism loosens the elementary principles of theology. It\ndestroys the premises on which the dogmatic system rests. It would beg\nthe question to say that this would in itself have been undesirable; but\nthe practical effect of it, as the world then stood, would have only\nbeen to make the educated into infidels, and to leave the multitude to a\nconvenient but debasing superstition.\n\nThe monks said that Erasmus laid the egg, and Luther hatched a\ncockatrice. Erasmus resented deeply such an account of his work; but it\nwas true after all. The sceptical philosophy is the most powerful of\nsolvents, but it has no principle of organic life in it; and what of\ntruth there was in Erasmus's teaching had to assume a far other form\nbefore it was available for the reinvigoration of religion. He himself,\nin his clearer moments, felt his own incapacity, and despaired of making\nan impression on the mass of ignorance with which he saw himself\nsurrounded.\n\n'The stupid monks,' he writes, 'say mass as a cobbler makes a shoe; they\ncome to the altar reeking from their filthy pleasures. Confession with\nthe monks is a cloke to steal the people's money, to rob girls of their\nvirtue, and commit other crimes too horrible to name! Yet these people\nare the tyrants of Europe. The Pope himself is afraid of them.'\n\n'Beware!' he says to an impetuous friend, 'beware how you offend the\nmonks. You have to do with an enemy that cannot be slain; an order never\ndies, and they will not rest till they have destroyed you.'\n\nThe heads of the Church might listen politely, but Erasmus had no\nconfidence in them. 'Never,' he says, 'was there a time when divines\nwere greater fools, or popes and prelates more worldly.' Germany was\nabout to receive a signal illustration of the improvement which it was\nto look for from liberalism and intellectual culture.\n\nWe are now on the edge of the great conflagration. Here we must leave\nErasmus for the present. I must carry you briefly over the history of\nthe other great person who was preparing to play his part on the stage.\nYou have seen something of what Erasmus was; you must turn next to the\ncompanion picture of Martin Luther. You will observe in how many points\ntheir early experiences touch, as if to show more vividly the contrast\nbetween the two men.\n\nSixteen years after the birth of Erasmus, therefore in the year 1483,\nMartin Luther came into the world in a peasant's cottage, at Eisleben,\nin Saxony. By peasant, you need not understand a common boor. Hans\nLuther, the father, was a thrifty, well-to-do man for his station in\nlife--adroit with his hands, and able to do many useful things, from\nfarm work to digging in the mines. The family life was strict and\nstern--rather too stern, as Martin thought in later life.\n\n'Be temperate with your children,' he said, long after, to a friend;\n'punish them if they lie or steal, but be just in what you do. It is a\nlighter sin to take pears and apples than to take money. I shudder when\nI think of what I went through myself. My mother beat me about some nuts\nonce till the blood came. I had a terrible time of it, but she meant\nwell.'\n\nAt school, too, he fell into rough hands, and the recollection of his\nsufferings made him tender ever after with young boys and girls.\n\n'Never be hard with children,' he used to say. 'Many a fine character\nhas been ruined by the stupid brutality of pedagogues. The parts of\nspeech are a boy's pillory. I was myself flogged fifteen times in one\nforenoon over the conjugation of a verb. Punish if you will, but be\nkind too, and let the sugar-plum go with the rod.' This is not the\nlanguage of a demagogue or a fanatic; it is the wise thought of a\ntender, human-hearted man.\n\nAt seventeen, he left school for the University at Erfurt. It was then\nno shame for a poor scholar to maintain himself by alms. Young Martin\nhad a rich noble voice and a fine ear, and by singing ballads in the\nstreets he found ready friends and help. He was still uncertain with\nwhat calling he should take up, when it happened that a young friend was\nkilled at his side by lightning.\n\nErasmus was a philosopher. A powder magazine was once blown up by\nlightning in a town where Erasmus was staying, and a house of infamous\ncharacter was destroyed. The inhabitants saw in what had happened the\nDivine anger against sin. Erasmus told them that if there was any anger\nin the matter, it was anger merely with the folly which had stored\npowder in an exposed situation.\n\nLuther possessed no such premature intelligence. He was distinguished\nfrom other boys only by the greater power of his feelings and the\nvividness of his imagination. He saw in his friend's death the immediate\nhand of the great Lord of the universe. His conscience was terrified. A\nlife-long penitence seemed necessary to atone for the faults of his\nboyhood. He too, like Erasmus, became a monk, not forced into it--for\nhis father knew better what the holy men were like, and had no wish to\nhave son of his among them--but because the monk of Martin's imagination\nspent his nights and days upon the stones in prayer; and Martin, in the\nheat of his repentance, longed to be kneeling at his side.\n\nIn this mood he entered the Augustine monastery at Erfurt. He was full\nof an overwhelming sense of his own wretchedness and sinfulness. Like\nSt. Paul, he was crying to be delivered from the body of death which he\ncarried about him. He practised all possible austerities. He, if no one\nelse, mortified his flesh with fasting. He passed nights in the chancel\nbefore the altar, or on his knees on the floor of his cell. He weakened\nhis body till his mind wandered, and he saw ghosts and devils. Above\nall, he saw the flaming image of his own supposed guilt. God required\nthat he should keep the law in all points. He had not so kept the\nlaw--could not so keep the law--and therefore he believed that he was\ndamned. One morning, he was found senseless and seemingly dead; a\nbrother played to him on a flute, and soothed his senses back to\nconsciousness.\n\nIt was long since any such phenomenon had appeared among the rosy friars\nof Erfurt. They could not tell what to make of him. Staupitz, the prior,\nlistened to his accusations of himself in confession. 'My good fellow,'\nhe said, 'don't be so uneasy; you have committed no sins of the least\nconsequence; you have not killed anybody, or committed adultery, or\nthings of that sort. If you sin to some purpose, it is right that you\nshould think about it, but don't make mountains out of trifles.'\n\nVery curious: to the commonplace man the uncommonplace is for ever\nunintelligible. What was the good of all that excitement--that agony of\nself-reproach for little things? None at all, if the object is only to\nbe an ordinary good sort of man--if a decent fulfilment of the round of\ncommon duties is the be-all and the end-all of human life on earth.\n\nThe plague came by-and-by into the town. The commonplace clergy ran\naway--went to their country-houses, went to the hills, went\nanywhere--and they wondered in the same way why Luther would not go with\nthem. They admired him and liked him. They told him his life was too\nprecious to be thrown away. He answered, quite simply, that his place\nwas with the sick and dying; a monk's life was no great matter. The sun\nhe did not doubt would continue to shine, whatever became of him. 'I am\nno St. Paul,' he said; 'I am afraid of death; but there are things worse\nthan death, and if I die, I die.'\n\nEven a Staupitz could not but feel that he had an extraordinary youth in\nhis charge. To divert his mind from feeding upon itself, he devised a\nmission for him abroad, and brother Martin was despatched on business of\nthe convent to Rome.\n\nLuther too, like Erasmus, was to see Rome; but how different the figures\nof the two men there! Erasmus goes with servants and horses, the\npolished, successful man of the world. Martin Luther trudges penniless\nand barefoot across the Alps, helped to a meal and a night's rest at the\nmonasteries along the road, or begging, if the convents fail him, at the\nfarm-houses.\n\nHe was still young, and too much occupied with his own sins to know much\nof the world outside him. Erasmus had no dreams. He knew the hard truth\non most things. But Rome, to Luther's eager hopes, was the city of the\nsaints, and the court and palace of the Pope fragrant with the odours of\nParadise. 'Blessed Rome,' he cried, as he entered the gate--'Blessed\nRome, sanctified with the blood of martyrs!'\n\nAlas! the Rome of reality was very far from blessed. He remained long\nenough to complete his disenchantment. The cardinals, with their gilded\nchariots and their parasols of peacocks' plumes, were poor\nrepresentatives of the apostles. The gorgeous churches and more gorgeous\nrituals, the pagan splendour of the paintings, the heathen gods still\nalmost worshipped in the adoration of the art which had formed them, to\nLuther, whose heart was heavy with thoughts of man's depravity, were\nutterly horrible. The name of religion was there: the thinnest veil was\nscarcely spread over the utter disbelief with which God and Christ were\nat heart regarded. Culture enough there was. It was the Rome of Raphael\nand Michael Angelo, of Perugino, and Benvenuto; but to the poor German\nmonk, who had come there to find help for his suffering soul, what was\nculture?\n\nHe fled at the first moment that he could. 'Adieu! Rome,' he said; 'let\nall who would lead a holy life depart from Rome. Everything is permitted\nin Rome except to be an honest man.' He had no thought of leaving the\nRoman Church. To a poor monk like him, to talk of leaving the Church was\nlike talking of leaping off the planet. But perplexed and troubled he\nreturned to Saxony; and his friend Staupitz, seeing clearly that a\nmonastery was no place for him, recommended him to the Elector as\nProfessor of Philosophy at Wittenberg.\n\nThe senate of Wittenberg gave him the pulpit of the town church, and\nthere at once he had room to show what was in him. 'This monk,' said\nsome one who heard him, 'is a marvellous fellow. He has strange eyes,\nand will give the doctors trouble by-and-by.'\n\nHe had read deeply, especially he had read that rare and almost unknown\nbook, the 'New Testament.' He was not cultivated like Erasmus. Erasmus\nspoke the most polished Latin. Luther spoke and wrote his own vernacular\nGerman. The latitudinarian philosophy, the analytical acuteness, the\nsceptical toleration of Erasmus were alike strange and distasteful to\nhim. In all things he longed only to know the truth--to shake off and\nhurl from him lies and humbug.\n\nSuperstitious he was. He believed in witches and devils and fairies--a\nthousand things without basis in fact, which Erasmus passed by in\ncontemptuous indifference. But for things which were really true--true\nas nothing else in this world, or any world, is true--the justice of\nGod, the infinite excellence of good, the infinite hatefulness of\nevil--these things he believed and felt with a power of passionate\nconviction to which the broader, feebler mind of the other was for ever\na stranger.\n\nWe come now to the memorable year 1517, when Luther was thirty-five\nyears old. A new cathedral was in progress at Rome. Michael Angelo had\nfurnished Leo the Tenth with the design of St. Peter's; and the question\nof questions was to find money to complete the grandest structure which\nhad ever been erected by man.\n\nPope Leo was the most polished and cultivated of mankind. The work to be\ndone was to be the most splendid which art could produce. The means to\nwhich the Pope had recourse will serve to show us how much all that\nwould have done for us.\n\nYou remember what I told you about indulgences. The notable device of\nhis Holiness was to send distinguished persons about Europe with sacks\nof indulgences. Indulgences and dispensations! Dispensations to eat meat\non fast-days--dispensations to marry one's near relation--dispensations\nfor anything and everything which the faithful might wish to purchase\nwho desired forbidden pleasures. The dispensations were simply\nscandalous. The indulgences--well, if a pious Catholic is asked nowadays\nwhat they were, he will say that they were the remission of the penances\nwhich the Church inflicts upon earth; but it is also certain that they\nwould have sold cheap if the people had thought that this was all that\nthey were to get by them. As the thing was represented by the spiritual\nhawkers who disposed of these wares, they were letters of credit on\nheaven. When the great book was opened, the people believed that these\npapers would be found entire on the right side of the account.\nDebtor--so many murders, so many robberies, lies, slanders, or\ndebaucheries. Creditor--the merits of the saints placed to the account\nof the delinquent by the Pope's letters, in consideration of value\nreceived.\n\nThis is the way in which the pardon system was practically worked. This\nis the way in which it is worked still, where the same superstitions\nremain.\n\nIf one had asked Pope Leo whether he really believed in these pardons of\nhis, he would have said officially that the Church had always held that\nthe Pope had power to grant them.\n\nHad he told the truth, he would have added privately that if the people\nchose to be fools, it was not for him to disappoint them.\n\nThe collection went on. The money of the faithful came in plentifully;\nand the pedlars going their rounds appeared at last in Saxony.\n\nThe Pope had bought the support of the Archbishop of Mayence, Erasmus's\nfriend, by promising him half the spoil which was gathered in his\nprovince. The agent was the Dominican monk Tetzel, whose name has\nacquired a forlorn notoriety in European history.\n\nHis stores were opened in town after town. He entered in state. The\nstreets everywhere were hung with flags. Bells were pealed; nuns and\nmonks walked in procession before and after him, while he himself sate\nin a chariot, with the Papal Bull on a velvet cushion in front of him.\nThe sale-rooms were the churches. The altars were decorated, the candles\nlighted, the arms of St. Peter blazoned conspicuously on the roof.\nTetzel from the pulpit explained the efficacy of his medicines; and if\nany profane person doubted their power, he was threatened with\nexcommunication.\n\nAcolytes walked through the crowds, clinking their plates and crying,\n'Buy! buy!' The business went as merry as a marriage bell till the\nDominican came near to Wittenberg.\n\nHalf a century before, such a spectacle would have excited no particular\nattention. The few who saw through the imposition would have kept their\nthoughts to themselves; the many would have paid their money, and in a\nmonth all would have been forgotten.\n\nBut the fight between the men of letters and the monks, the writings of\nErasmus and Reuchlin, the satires of Ulric von Hutten, had created a\nsilent revolution in the minds of the younger laity.\n\nA generation had grown to manhood of whom the Church authorities knew\nnothing; and the whole air of Germany, unsuspected by pope or prelate,\nwas charged with electricity.\n\nHad Luther stood alone, he, too, would probably have remained silent.\nWhat was he, a poor, friendless, solitary monk, that he should set\nhimself against the majesty of the triple crown?\n\nHowever hateful the walls of a dungeon, a man of sense confined alone\nthere does not dash his hands against the stones.\n\nBut Luther knew that his thoughts were the thoughts of thousands. Many\nwrong things, as we all know, have to be endured in this world.\nAuthority is never very angelic; and moderate injustice, a moderate\nquantity of lies, is more tolerable than anarchy.\n\nBut it is with human things as it is with the great icebergs which drift\nsouthward out of the frozen seas. They swim two-thirds under water, and\none-third above; and so long as the equilibrium is sustained, you would\nthink that they were as stable as the rocks. But the sea-water is warmer\nthan the air. Hundreds of fathoms down, the tepid current washes the\nbase of the berg. Silently in those far deeps the centre of gravity is\nchanged; and then, in a moment, with one vast roll, the enormous mass\nheaves over, and the crystal peaks which had been glancing so proudly in\nthe sunlight, are buried in the ocean for ever.\n\nSuch a process as this had been going on in Germany, and Luther knew it,\nand knew that the time was come for him to speak. Fear had not kept him\nback. The danger to himself would be none the less because he would have\nthe people at his side. The fiercer the thunderstorm, the greater peril\nto the central figure who stands out above the rest exposed to it. But\nhe saw that there was hope at last of a change; and for himself--as he\nsaid in the plague--if he died, he died.\n\nErasmus admitted frankly for himself that he did not like danger.\n\n'As to me,' he wrote to Archbishop Warham, 'I have no inclination to\nrisk my life for truth. We have not all strength for martyrdom; and if\ntrouble come, I shall imitate St. Peter. Popes and emperors must settle\nthe creeds. If they settle them well, so much the better; if ill, I\nshall keep on the safe side.'\n\nThat is to say, truth was not the first necessity to Erasmus. He would\nprefer truth, if he could have it. If not, he could get on moderately\nwell upon falsehood. Luther could not. No matter what the danger to\nhimself, if he could smite a lie upon the head and kill it, he was\nbetter pleased than by a thousand lives. We hear much of Luther's\ndoctrine about faith. Stripped of theological verbiage, that doctrine\nmeans this.\n\nReason says that, on the whole, truth and justice are desirable things.\nThey make men happier in themselves, and make society more prosperous.\nBut there reason ends, and men will not die for principles of utility.\nFaith says that between truth and lies, there is an infinite difference:\none is of God, the other of Satan; one is eternally to be loved, the\nother eternally to be abhorred. It cannot say why, in language\nintelligible to reason. It is the voice of the nobler nature in man\nspeaking out of his heart.\n\nWhile Tetzel, with his bull and his gilt car, was coming to Wittenberg,\nLuther, loyal still to authority while there was a hope that authority\nwould be on the side of right, wrote to the Archbishop of Mayence to\nremonstrate.\n\nThe archbishop, as we know, was to have a share of Tetzel's spoils; and\nwhat were the complaints of a poor insignificant monk to a supreme\narchbishop who was in debt and wanted money?\n\nThe Archbishop of Mayence flung the letter into his waste-paper basket;\nand Luther made his solemn appeal from earthly dignitaries to the\nconscience of the German people. He set up his protest on the church\ndoor at Wittenberg; and, in ninety-five propositions he challenged the\nCatholic Church to defend Tetzel and his works.\n\nThe Pope's indulgences, he said, cannot take away sins. God alone remits\nsins; and He pardons those who are penitent, without help from man's\nabsolutions.\n\nThe Church may remit penalties which the Church inflicts. But the\nChurch's power is in this world only, and does not reach to purgatory.\n\nIf God has thought fit to place a man in purgatory, who shall say that\nit is good for him to be taken out of purgatory? who shall say that he\nhimself desires it?\n\nTrue repentance does not shrink from chastisement. True repentance\nrather loves chastisement.\n\nThe bishops are asleep. It is better to give to the poor than to buy\nindulgences; and he who sees his neighbour in want, and instead of\nhelping his neighbour buys a pardon for himself, is doing what is\ndispleasing to God. Who is this man who dares to say that for so many\ncrowns the soul of a sinner can be made whole?\n\nThese, and like these, were Luther's propositions. Little guessed the\nCatholic prelates the dimensions of the act which had been done. The\nPope, when he saw the theses, smiled in good-natured contempt. 'A\ndrunken German wrote them,' he said; 'when he has slept off his wine, he\nwill be of another mind.'\n\nTetzel bayed defiance; the Dominican friars took up the quarrel; and\nHochstrat of Cologne, Reuchlin's enemy, clamoured for fire and faggot.\n\nVoice answered voice. The religious houses all Germany over were like\nkennels of hounds howling to each other across the spiritual waste. If\nsouls could not be sung out of purgatory, their occupation was gone.\n\nLuther wrote to Pope Leo to defend himself; Leo cited him to answer for\nhis audacity at Rome; while to the young laymen, to the noble spirits\nall Europe over, Wittenberg became a beacon of light shining in the\nuniversal darkness.\n\nIt was a trying time to Luther. Had he been a smaller man, he would have\nbeen swept away by his sudden popularity--he would have placed himself\nat the head of some great democratic movement, and in a few years his\nname would have disappeared in the noise and smoke of anarchy.\n\nBut this was not his nature. His fellow-townsmen were heartily on his\nside. He remained quietly at his post in the Augustine Church at\nWittenberg. If the powers of the world came down upon him and killed\nhim, he was ready to be killed. Of himself at all times he thought\ninfinitely little; and he believed that his death would be as\nserviceable to truth as his life.\n\nKilled undoubtedly he would have been if the clergy could have had their\nway. It happened, however, that Saxony just then was governed by a\nprince of no common order. Were all princes like the Elector Frederick,\nwe should have no need of democracy in this world--we should never have\nheard of democracy. The clergy could not touch Luther against the will\nof the Wittenberg senate, unless the Elector would help them; and, to\nthe astonishment of everybody, the Elector was disinclined to consent.\nThe Pope himself wrote to exhort him to his duties. The Elector still\nhesitated. His professed creed was the creed in which the Church had\neducated him; but he had a clear secular understanding outside his\nformulas. When he read the propositions, they did not seem to him the\npernicious things which the monks said they were. 'There is much in the\nBible about Christ,' he said, 'but not much about Rome.' He sent for\nErasmus, and asked him what he thought about the matter.\n\nThe Elector knew to whom he was speaking. He wished for a direct answer,\nand looked Erasmus full and broad in the face. Erasmus pinched his thin\nlips together. 'Luther,' he said at length, 'has committed two sins: he\nhas touched the Pope's crown and the monks' bellies.'\n\nHe generously and strongly urged Frederick not to yield for the present\nto Pope Leo's importunacy; and the Pope was obliged to try less hasty\nand more formal methods.\n\nHe had wished Luther to be sent to him to Rome, where his process would\nhave had a rapid end. As this could not be, the case was transferred to\nAugsburg, and a cardinal legate was sent from Italy to look into it.\n\nThere was no danger of violence at Augsburg. The townspeople there and\neverywhere were on the side of freedom; and Luther went cheerfully to\ndefend himself. He walked from Wittenberg. You can fancy him still in\nhis monk's brown frock, with all his wardrobe on his back--an apostle of\nthe old sort. The citizens, high and low, attended him to the gates, and\nfollowed him along the road, crying 'Luther for ever!' 'Nay,' he\nanswered, 'Christ for ever!'\n\nThe cardinal legate, being reduced to the necessity of politeness,\nreceived him civilly. He told him, however, simply and briefly, that the\nPope insisted on his recantation, and would accept nothing else. Luther\nrequested the cardinal to point out to him where he was wrong. The\ncardinal waived discussion. 'He was come to command,' he said, 'not to\nargue.' And Luther had to tell him that it could not be.\n\nRemonstrances, threats, entreaties, even bribes were tried. Hopes of\nhigh distinction and reward were held out to him if he would only be\nreasonable. To the amazement of the proud Italian, a poor peasant's\nson--a miserable friar of a provincial German town--was prepared to defy\nthe power and resist the prayers of the Sovereign of Christendom.\n'What!' said the cardinal at last to him, 'do you think the Pope cares\nfor the opinion of a German boor? The Pope's little finger is stronger\nthan all Germany. Do you expect your princes to take up arms to defend\n_you_--_you_, a wretched worm like you? I tell you, No! and where will\nyou be then--where will you be then?'\n\nLuther answered, 'Then, as now, in the hands of Almighty God.'\n\nThe Court dissolved. The cardinal carried back his report to his master.\nThe Pope, so defied, brought out his thunders; he excommunicated Luther;\nhe wrote again to the elector, entreating him not to soil his name and\nlineage by becoming a protector of heretics; and he required him,\nwithout further ceremony, to render up the criminal to justice.\n\nThe elector's power was limited. As yet, the quarrel was simply between\nLuther and the Pope. The elector was by no means sure that his bold\nsubject was right--he was only not satisfied that he was wrong--and it\nwas a serious question with him how far he ought to go. The monk might\nnext be placed under the ban of the empire; and if he persisted in\nprotecting him afterwards, Saxony might have all the power of Germany\nupon it. He did not venture any more to refuse absolutely. He temporised\nand delayed; while Luther himself, probably at the elector's\ninstigation, made overtures for peace to the Pope. Saving his duty to\nChrist, he promised to be for the future an obedient son of the Church,\nand to say no more about indulgences if Tetzel ceased to defend them.\n\n'My being such a small creature,' Luther said afterwards, 'was a\nmisfortune for the Pope. He despised me too much! What, he thought,\ncould a slave like me do to him--to him, who was the greatest man in all\nthe world. Had he accepted my proposal, he would have extinguished me.'\n\nBut the infallible Pope conducted himself like a proud, irascible,\nexceedingly fallible mortal. To make terms with the town preacher of\nWittenberg was too preposterous.\n\nJust then the imperial throne fell vacant; and the pretty scandal I told\nyou of, followed at the choice of his successor. Frederick of Saxony\nmight have been elected if he had liked--and it would have been better\nfor the world perhaps if Frederick had been more ambitious of high\ndignities--but the Saxon Prince did not care to trouble himself with the\nimperial sceptre. The election fell on Maximilian's grandson\nCharles--grandson also of Ferdinand the Catholic--Sovereign of Spain;\nSovereign of Burgundy and the Low Countries; Sovereign of Naples and\nSicily; Sovereign, beyond the Atlantic, of the New Empire of the Indies.\n\nNo fitter man could have been found to do the business of the Pope. With\nthe empire of Germany added to his inherited dominions, who could resist\nhim?\n\nTo the new emperor, unless the elector yielded, Luther's case had now to\nbe referred.\n\nThe elector, if he had wished, could not interfere. Germany was\nattentive, but motionless. The students, the artisans, the tradesmen,\nwere at heart with the Reformer; and their enthusiasm could not be\nwholly repressed. The press grew fertile with pamphlets; and it was\nnoticed that all the printers and compositors went for Luther. The\nCatholics could not get their books into type without sending them to\nFrance or the Low Countries.\n\nYet none of the princes except the elector had as yet shown him favour.\nThe bishops were hostile to a man. The nobles had given no sign; and\ntheir place would be naturally on the side of authority. They had no\nlove for bishops--there was hope in that; and they looked with no favour\non the huge estates of the religious orders. But no one could expect\nthat they would peril their lands and lives for an insignificant monk.\n\nThere was an interval of two years before the emperor was at leisure to\ntake up the question. The time was spent in angry altercation, boding no\ngood for the future.\n\nThe Pope issued a second bull condemning Luther and his works. Luther\nreplied by burning the bull in the great square at Wittenberg.\n\nAt length, in April 1521, the Diet of the Empire assembled at Worms, and\nLuther was called to defend himself in the presence of Charles the\nFifth.\n\nThat it should have come to this at all, in days of such high-handed\nauthority, was sufficiently remarkable. It indicated something growing\nin the minds of men, that the so-called Church was not to carry things\nany longer in the old style. Popes and bishops might order, but the\nlaity intended for the future to have opinions of their own how far such\norders should be obeyed.\n\nThe Pope expected anyhow that the Diet, by fair means or foul, would\nnow rid him of his adversary. The elector, who knew the ecclesiastical\nways of handling such matters, made it a condition of his subject\nappearing, that he should have a safe conduct, under the emperor's hand;\nthat Luther, if judgment went against him, should be free for the time\nto return to the place from which he had come; and that he, the elector,\nshould determine afterwards what should be done with him.\n\nWhen the interests of the Church were concerned, safe conducts, it was\ntoo well known, were poor security. Pope Clement the Seventh, a little\nafter, when reproached for breaking a promise, replied with a smile,\n'The Pope has power to bind and to loose.' Good, in the eyes of\necclesiastical authorities, meant what was good for the Church; evil,\nwhatever was bad for the Church; and the highest moral obligation became\nsin when it stood in St. Peter's way.\n\nThere had been an outburst of free thought in Bohemia a century and a\nhalf before. John Huss, Luther's forerunner, came with a safe conduct to\nthe Council of Constance; but the bishops ruled that safe conducts could\nnot protect heretics. They burnt John Huss for all their promises, and\nthey hoped now that so good a Catholic as Charles would follow so\nexcellent a precedent. Pope Leo wrote himself to beg that Luther's safe\nconduct should not be observed. The bishops and archbishops, when\nCharles consulted them, took the same view as the Pope.\n\n'There is something in the office of a bishop,' Luther said, a year or\ntwo later, 'which is dreadfully demoralising. Even good men change their\nnatures at their consecration; Satan enters into them as he entered into\nJudas, as soon as they have taken the sop.'\n\nIt was most seriously likely that, if Luther trusted himself at the Diet\non the faith of his safe conduct, he would never return alive. Rumours\nof intended treachery were so strong, that if he refused to go, the\nelector meant to stand by him at any cost. Should he appear, or not\nappear? It was for himself to decide. If he stayed away, judgment would\ngo against him by default. Charles would call out the forces of the\nempire, and Saxony would be invaded.\n\nCivil war would follow, with insurrection all over Germany, with no\ncertain prospect except bloodshed and misery.\n\nLuther was not a man to expose his country to peril that his own person\nmight escape. He had provoked the storm; and if blood was to be shed,\nhis blood ought at least to be the first. He went. On his way, a friend\ncame to warn him again that foul play was intended, that he was\ncondemned already, that his books had been burnt by the hangman, and\nthat he was a dead man if he proceeded.\n\nLuther trembled--he owned it--but he answered, 'Go to Worms! I will go\nif there are as many devils in Worms as there are tiles upon the roofs\nof the houses.'\n\nThe roofs, when he came into the city, were crowded, not with devils,\nbut with the inhabitants, all collecting there to see him as he passed.\nA nobleman gave him shelter for the night; the next day he was led to\nthe Town Hall.\n\nNo more notable spectacle had been witnessed in this planet for many a\ncentury--not, perhaps, since a greater than Luther stood before the\nRoman Procurator.\n\nThere on the raised dais sate the sovereign of half the world. There on\neither side of him stood the archbishops, the ministers of state, the\nprinces of the empire, gathered together to hear and judge the son of a\npoor miner, who had made the world ring with his name.\n\nThe body of the hall was thronged with knights and nobles--stern hard\nmen in dull gleaming armour. Luther, in his brown frock, was led forward\nbetween their ranks. The looks which greeted him were not all\nunfriendly. The first Article of a German credo was belief in _courage_.\nGermany had had its feuds in times past with Popes of Rome, and they\nwere not without pride that a poor countryman of theirs should have\ntaken by the beard the great Italian priest. They had settled among\nthemselves that, come what would, there should be fair play; and they\nlooked on half admiring, and half in scorn.\n\nAs Luther passed up the hall, a steel baron touched him on the shoulder\nwith his gauntlet.\n\n'Pluck up thy spirit, little monk;' he said, 'some of us here have seen\nwarm work in our time, but, by my troth, nor I nor any knight in this\ncompany ever needed a stout heart more than thou needest it now. If thou\nhast faith in these doctrines of thine, little monk, go on, in the name\nof God.'\n\n'Yes, in the name of God,' said Luther, throwing back his head, 'In the\nname of God, forward!'\n\nAs at Augsburg, one only question was raised. Luther had broken the\nlaws of the Church. He had taught doctrines which the Pope had declared\nto be false. Would he or would he not retract?\n\nAs at Augsburg, he replied briefly that he would retract when his\ndoctrines were not declared to be false merely, but were proved to be\nfalse. Then, but not till then. That was his answer, and his last word.\n\nThere, as you understand, the heart of the matter indeed rested. In\nthose words lay the whole meaning of the Reformation. Were men to go on\nfor ever saying that this and that was true, because the Pope affirmed\nit? Or were Popes' decrees thenceforward to be tried like the words of\nother men--by the ordinary laws of evidence?\n\nIt required no great intellect to understand that a Pope's pardon, which\nyou could buy for five shillings, could not really get a soul out of\npurgatory. It required a quality much rarer than intellect to look such\na doctrine in the face--sanctioned as it was by the credulity of ages,\nand backed by the pomp and pageantry of earthly power--and say to it\nopenly, 'You are a lie.' Cleverness and culture could have given a\nthousand reasons--they did then and they do now--why an indulgence\nshould be believed in; when honesty and common sense could give but one\nreason for thinking otherwise. Cleverness and imposture get on\nexcellently well together--imposture and veracity, never.\n\nLuther looked at those wares of Tetzel's, and said, 'Your pardons are no\npardons at all--no letters of credit on heaven, but flash notes of the\nBank of Humbug, and you know it.' They did know it. The conscience of\nevery man in Europe answered back, that what Luther said was true.\n\nBravery, honesty, veracity, these were the qualities which were\nneeded--which were needed then, and are needed always, as the root of\nall real greatness in man.\n\nThe first missionaries of Christianity, when they came among the heathen\nnations, and found them worshipping idols, did not care much to reason\nthat an image which man had made could not be God. The priests might\nhave been a match for them in reasoning. They walked up to the idol in\nthe presence of its votaries. They threw stones at it, spat upon it,\ninsulted it. 'See,' they said, 'I do this to your God. If he is God, let\nhim avenge himself.'\n\nIt was a simple argument; always effective; easy, and yet most\ndifficult. It required merely a readiness to be killed upon the spot by\nthe superstition which is outraged.\n\nAnd so, and only so, can truth make its way for us in any such matters.\nThe form changes--the thing remains. Superstition, folly, and cunning\nwill go on to the end of time, spinning their poison webs around the\nconsciences of mankind. Courage and veracity--these qualities, and only\nthese, avail to defeat them.\n\nFrom the moment that Luther left the emperor's presence a free man, the\nspell of Absolutism was broken, and the victory of the Reformation\nsecured. The ban of the Pope had fallen; the secular arm had been called\nto interfere; the machinery of authority strained as far as it would\nbear. The emperor himself was an unconscious convert to the higher\ncreed. The Pope had urged him to break his word. The Pope had told him\nthat honour was nothing, and morality was nothing, where the interests\nof orthodoxy were compromised. The emperor had refused to be tempted\ninto perjury; and, in refusing, had admitted that there was a spiritual\npower upon the earth, above the Pope, and above him.\n\nThe party of the Church felt it so. A plot was formed to assassinate\nLuther on his return to Saxony. The insulted majesty of Rome could be\nvindicated at least by the dagger.\n\nBut this, too, failed. The elector heard what was intended. A party of\nhorse, disguised as banditti, waylaid the Reformer upon the road, and\ncarried him off to the castle of Wartburg, where he remained out of\nharm's way till the general rising of Germany placed him beyond the\nreach of danger.\n\nAt Wartburg for the present evening we leave him.\n\nThe Emperor Charles and Luther never met again. The monks of Yuste, who\nwatched on the deathbed of Charles, reported that at the last hour he\nrepented that he had kept his word, and reproached himself for having\nallowed the arch-heretic to escape from his hands.\n\nIt is possible that, when the candle of life was burning low, and spirit\nand flesh were failing together, and the air of the sick room was thick\nand close with the presence of the angel of death, the nobler nature of\nthe emperor might have yielded to the influences which were around him.\nHis confessor might have thrust into his lips the words which he so\nwished to hear.\n\nBut Charles the Fifth, though a Catholic always, was a Catholic of the\nold grand type, to whom creed and dogmas were but the robe of a regal\nhumanity. Another story is told of Charles--an authentic story this\none--which makes me think that the monks of Yuste mistook or maligned\nhim. Six and twenty years after this scene at Worms, when the then\ndawning heresy had become broad day; when Luther had gone to his\nrest--and there had gathered about his name the hate which mean men feel\nfor an enemy who has proved too strong for them--a passing vicissitude\nin the struggle brought the emperor at the head of his army to\nWittenberg.\n\nThe vengeance which the monks could not inflict upon him in life, they\nproposed to wreak upon his bones.\n\nThe emperor desired to be conducted to Luther's tomb; and as he stood\ngazing at it, full of many thoughts, some one suggested that the body\nshould be taken up and burnt at the stake in the Market Place.\n\nThere was nothing unusual in the proposal; it was the common practice of\nthe Catholic Church with the remains of heretics who were held unworthy\nto be left in repose in hallowed ground. There was scarcely, perhaps,\nanother Catholic prince who would have hesitated to comply. But Charles\nwas one of nature's gentlemen; he answered, 'I war not with the dead.'\n\n\nLECTURE III.\n\nWe have now entered upon the movement which broke the power of the\nPapacy--which swept Germany, Sweden, Denmark, Holland, England,\nScotland, into the stream of revolution, and gave a new direction to the\nspiritual history of mankind.\n\nYou would not thank me if I were to take you out into that troubled\nocean. I confine myself, and I wish you to confine your attention, to\nthe two kinds of men who appear as leaders in times of change--of whom\nErasmus and Luther are respectively the types.\n\nOn one side there are the large-minded latitudinarian philosophers--men\nwho have no confidence in the people--who have no passionate\nconvictions; moderate men, tolerant men, who trust to education, to\ngeneral progress in knowledge and civilisation, to forbearance, to\nendurance, to time--men who believe that all wholesome reforms proceed\ndownwards from the educated to the multitudes; who regard with contempt,\nqualified by terror, appeals to the popular conscience or to popular\nintelligence.\n\nOpposite to these are the men of faith--and by faith I do not mean\nbelief in dogmas, but belief in goodness, belief in justice, in\nrighteousness, above all, belief in truth. Men of faith consider\nconscience of more importance than knowledge--or rather as a first\ncondition--without which all the knowledge in the world is no use to a\nman--if he wishes to be indeed a man in any high and noble sense of the\nword. They are not contented with looking for what may be useful or\npleasant to themselves; they look by quite other methods for what is\nhonourable--for what is good--for what is just. They believe that if\nthey can find out that, then at all hazards, and in spite of all present\nconsequences to themselves, that is to be preferred. If, individually\nand to themselves, no visible good ever came from it, in this world or\nin any other, still they would say, 'Let us do that and nothing else.\nLife will be of no value to us if we are to use it only for our own\ngratification.'\n\nThe soldier before a battle knows that if he shirks and pretends to be\nill, he may escape danger and make sure of his life. There are very few\nmen, indeed, if it comes to that, who would not sooner die ten times\nover than so dishonour themselves. Men of high moral nature carry out\nthe same principle into the details of their daily life; they do not\ncare to live unless they may live nobly. Like my uncle Toby, they have\nbut one fear--the fear of doing a wrong thing.\n\nI call this faith, because there is no proof, such as will satisfy the\nscientific enquirer, that there is any such thing as moral truth--any\nsuch thing as absolute right and wrong at all. As the Scripture says,\n'Verily, thou art a God that hidest thyself.' The forces of nature pay\nno respect to what we call good and evil. Prosperity does not uniformly\nfollow virtue; nor are defeat and failure necessary consequences of\nvice.\n\nCertain virtues--temperance, industry, and things within reasonable\nlimits--command their reward. Sensuality, idleness, and waste, commonly\nlead to ruin.\n\nBut prosperity is consistent with intense worldliness, intense\nselfishness, intense hardness of heart; while the grander features of\nhuman character--self-sacrifice, disregard of pleasure, patriotism, love\nof knowledge, devotion to any great and good cause--these have no\ntendency to bring men what is called fortune. They do not even\nnecessarily promote their happiness; for do what they will in this way,\nthe horizon of what they desire to do perpetually flies before them.\nHigh hopes and enthusiasms are generally disappointed in results; and\nthe wrongs, the cruelties, the wretchednesses of all kinds which for\never prevail among mankind--the shortcomings in himself of which he\nbecomes more conscious as he becomes really better--these things, you\nmay be sure, will prevent a noble-minded man from ever being\nparticularly happy.\n\nIf you see a man happy, as the world goes--contented with himself and\ncontented with what is round him--such a man may be, and probably is,\ndecent and respectable; but the highest is not in him, and the highest\nwill not come out of him.\n\nJudging merely by outward phenomena--judging merely by what we call\nreason--you cannot prove that there is any moral government in the world\nat all, except what men, for their own convenience, introduce into it.\nRight and wrong resolve themselves into principles of utility and social\nconvenience. Enlightened selfishness prescribes a decent rule of conduct\nfor common purposes; and virtue, by a large school of philosophy, is\ncompletely resolved into that.\n\nTrue, when nations go on long on the selfish hypothesis, they are apt to\nfind at last that they have been mistaken. They find it in bankruptcy of\nhonour and character--in social wreck and dissolution. All lies in\nserious matters end at last, as Carlyle says, in broken heads. That is\nthe final issue which they are sure to come to in the long run. The\nMaker of the world does not permit a society to continue which forgets\nor denies the nobler principles of action.\n\nBut the end is often long in coming; and these nobler principles are\nmeanwhile _not_ provided for us by the inductive philosophy.\n\nPatriotism, for instance, of which we used to think something--a\nreadiness to devote our energies while we live, to devote our lives, if\nnothing else will serve, to what we call our country--what are we to say\nof that?\n\nI once asked a distinguished philosopher what he thought of patriotism.\nHe said he thought it was a compound of vanity and superstition; a bad\nkind of prejudice, which would die out with the growth of reason. My\nfriend believed in the progress of humanity--he could not narrow his\nsympathies to so small a thing as his own country. I could but say to\nmyself, 'Thank God, then, we are not yet a nation of philosophers.'\n\nA man who takes up with philosophy like that, may write fine books, and\nreview articles and such like, but at the bottom of him he is a poor\ncaitiff, and there is no more to be said about him.\n\nSo when the air is heavy with imposture, and men live only to make\nmoney, and the service of God is become a thing of words and ceremonies,\nand the kingdom of heaven is bought and sold, and all that is high and\npure in man is smothered by corruption--fire of the same kind bursts out\nin higher natures with a fierceness which cannot be controlled; and,\nconfident in truth and right, they call fearlessly on the seven\nthousand in Israel who have not bowed the knee to Baal to rise and stand\nby them.\n\nThey do not ask whether those whom they address have wide knowledge of\nhistory, or science, or philosophy; they ask rather that they shall be\nhonest, that they shall be brave, that they shall be true to the common\nlight which God has given to all His children. They know well that\nconscience is no exceptional privilege of the great or the cultivated,\nthat to be generous and unselfish is no prerogative of rank or\nintellect.\n\nErasmus considered that, for the vulgar, a lie might be as good as\ntruth, and often better. A lie, ascertained to be a lie, to Luther was\ndeadly poison--poison to him, and poison to all who meddled with it. In\nhis own genuine greatness, he was too humble to draw insolent\ndistinctions in his own favour; or to believe that any one class on\nearth is of more importance than another in the eyes of the Great Maker\nof them all.\n\nWell, then, you know what I mean by faith, and what I mean by intellect.\nIt was not that Luther was without intellect. He was less subtle, less\nlearned, than Erasmus; but in mother wit, in elasticity, in force, and\nimaginative power, he was as able a man as ever lived. Luther created\nthe German language as an instrument of literature. His translation of\nthe Bible is as rich and grand as our own, and his table talk as full of\nmatter as Shakespeare's plays.\n\nAgain; you will mistake me if you think I represent Erasmus as a man\nwithout conscience, or belief in God and goodness. But in Luther that\nbelief was a certainty; in Erasmus it was only a high probability--and\nthe difference between the two is not merely great, it is infinite. In\nLuther, it was the root; in Erasmus, it was the flower. In Luther, it\nwas the first principle of life; in Erasmus, it was an inference which\nmight be taken away, and yet leave the world a very tolerable and\nhabitable place after all.\n\nYou see the contrast in their early lives. You see Erasmus--light,\nbright, sarcastic, fond of pleasure, fond of society, fond of wine and\nkisses, and intellectual talk and polished company. You see Luther\nthrowing himself into the cloister, that he might subdue his will to the\nwill of God; prostrate in prayer, in nights of agony, and distracting\nhis easy-going confessor with the exaggerated scruples of his\nconscience.\n\nYou see it in the effects of their teaching. You see Erasmus addressing\nhimself with persuasive eloquence to kings, and popes, and prelates; and\nfor answer, you see Pope Leo sending Tetzel over Germany with his\ncarriage-load of indulgences. You see Erasmus's dearest friend, our own\ngifted admirable Sir Thomas More, taking his seat beside the bishops and\nsending poor Protestant artisans to the stake.\n\nYou see Luther, on the other side, standing out before the world, one\nlone man, with all authority against him--taking lies by the throat, and\nEurope thrilling at his words, and saying after him, 'The reign of\nImposture shall end.'\n\nLet us follow the course of Erasmus after the tempest had broken.\n\nHe knew Luther to be right. Luther had but said what Erasmus had been\nall his life convinced of, and Luther looked to see him come forward and\ntake his place at his side. Had Erasmus done so, the course of things\nwould have been far happier and better. His prodigious reputation would\nhave given the Reformers the influence with the educated which they had\nwon for themselves with the multitude, and the Pope would have been left\nwithout a friend to the north of the Alps. But there would have been\nsome danger--danger to the leaders, if certainty of triumph to the\ncause--and Erasmus had no gift for martyrdom.\n\nHis first impulse was generous. He encouraged the elector, as we have\nseen, to protect Luther from the Pope. 'I looked on Luther,' he wrote to\nDuke George of Saxe, 'as a necessary evil in the corruption of the\nChurch; a medicine, bitter and drastic, from which sounder health would\nfollow.'\n\nAnd again, more boldly: 'Luther has taken up the cause of honesty and\ngood sense against abominations which are no longer tolerable. His\nenemies are men under whose worthlessness the Christian world has\ngroaned too long.'\n\nSo to the heads of the Church he wrote, pressing them to be moderate and\ncareful:--\n\n'I neither approve Luther nor condemn him,' he said to the Archbishop of\nMayence; 'if he is innocent, he ought not to be oppressed by the\nfactions of the wicked; if he is in error, he should be answered, not\ndestroyed. The theologians'--observe how true they remain to the\nuniversal type in all times and in all countries--'the theologians do\nnot try to answer him. They do but raise an insane and senseless\nclamour, and shriek and curse. Heresy, heretic, heresiarch, schismatic,\nAntichrist--these are the words which are in the mouths of all of them;\nand, of course, they condemn without reading. I warned them what they\nwere doing. I told them to scream less, and to think more. Luther's life\nthey admit to be innocent and blameless. Such a tragedy I never saw. The\nmost humane men are thirsting for his blood, and they would rather kill\nhim than mend him. The Dominicans are the worst, and are more knaves\nthan fools. In old times, even a heretic was quietly listened to. If he\nrecanted, he was absolved; if he persisted, he was at worst\nexcommunicated. Now they will have nothing but blood. Not to agree with\nthem is heresy. To know Greek is heresy. To speak good Latin is heresy.\nWhatever they do not understand is heresy. Learning, they pretend, has\ngiven birth to Luther, though Luther has but little of it. Luther thinks\nmore of the Gospel than of scholastic divinity, and that is his crime.\nThis is plain at least, that the best men everywhere are those who are\nleast offended with him.'\n\nEven to Pope Leo, in the midst of his fury, Erasmus wrote bravely;\nseparating himself from Luther, yet deprecating violence. 'Nothing,' he\nsaid, 'would so recommend the new teaching as the howling of fools:'\nwhile to a member of Charles's council he insisted that 'severity had\nbeen often tried in such cases and had always failed; unless Luther was\nencountered calmly and reasonably, a tremendous convulsion was\ninevitable.'\n\nWisely said all this, but it presumed that those whom he was addressing\nwere reasonable men; and high officials, touched in their pride, are a\nclass of persons of whom Solomon may have been thinking when he said,\n'Let a bear robbed of her whelps meet a man rather than a fool in his\nfolly.'\n\nSo to Luther, so to the people, Erasmus preached moderation. It was like\npreaching to the winds in a hurricane. The typhoon itself is not wilder\nthan human creatures when once their passions are stirred. You cannot\ncheck them; but, if you are brave, you can guide them wisely. And this,\nErasmus had not the heart to do.\n\nHe said at the beginning, 'I will not countenance revolt against\nauthority. A bad government is better than none.' But he said at the\nsame time, 'You bishops, cease to be corrupt: you popes and cardinals,\nreform your wicked courts: you monks, leave your scandalous lives, and\nobey the rules of your order, so you may recover the respect of mankind,\nand be obeyed and loved as before.'\n\nWhen he found that the case was desperate; that his exhortations were\nbut words addressed to the winds; that corruption had tainted the blood;\nthat there was no hope except in revolution--as, indeed, in his heart he\nknew from the first that there was none--then his place ought to have\nbeen with Luther.\n\nBut Erasmus, as the tempest rose, could but stand still in feeble\nuncertainty. The responsibilities of his reputation weighed him down.\n\nThe Lutherans said, 'You believe as we do.' The Catholics said, 'You are\na Lutheran at heart; if you are not, prove it by attacking Luther.'\n\nHe grew impatient. He told lies. He said he had not read Luther's books,\nand had no time to read them. What was he, he said, that he should\nmeddle in such a quarrel. He was the vine and the fig tree of the Book\nof Judges. The trees said to them, Rule over us. The vine and the fig\ntree answered, they would not leave their sweetness for such a thankless\noffice. 'I am a poor actor,' he said; 'I prefer to be a spectator of the\nplay.'\n\nBut he was sore at heart, and bitter with disappointment. All had been\ngoing on so smoothly--literature was reviving, art and science were\nspreading, the mind of the world was being reformed in the best sense by\nthe classics of Greece and Rome, and now an apple of discord had been\nflung out into Europe.\n\nThe monks who had fought against enlightenment could point to the\nconfusion as a fulfilment of their prophecies; and he, and all that he\nhad done, was brought to disrepute.\n\nTo protect himself from the Dominicans, he was forced to pretend to an\northodoxy which he did not possess. Were all true which Luther had\nwritten, he pretended that it ought not to have been said, or should\nhave been addressed in a learned language to the refined and educated.\n\nHe doubted whether it was not better on the whole to teach the people\nlies for their good, when truth was beyond their comprehension. Yet he\ncould not for all that wish the Church to be successful.\n\n'I fear for that miserable Luther,' he said; 'the popes and princes are\nfurious with him. His own destruction would be no great matter, but if\nthe monks triumph there will be no bearing them. They will never rest\ntill they have rooted learning out of the land. The Pope expects _me_ to\nwrite against Luther. The orthodox, it appears, can call him names--call\nhim blockhead, fool, heretic, toadstool, schismatic, and Antichrist--but\nthey must come to me to answer his arguments.'\n\n'Oh! that this had never been,' he wrote to our own Archbishop Warham.\n'Now there is no hope for any good. It is all over with quiet learning,\nthought, piety, and progress; violence is on one side and folly on the\nother; and they accuse me of having caused it all. If I joined Luther I\ncould only perish with him, and I do not mean to run my neck into a\nhalter. Popes and emperors must decide matters. I will accept what is\ngood, and do as I can with the rest. Peace on any terms is better than\nthe justest war.'\n\nErasmus never stooped to real baseness. He was too clever, too\ngenuine--he had too great a contempt for worldly greatness. They offered\nhim a bishopric if he would attack Luther. He only laughed at them. What\nwas a bishopric to him? He preferred a quiet life among his books at\nLouvaine.\n\nBut there was no more quiet for Erasmus at Louvaine or anywhere. Here is\na scene between him and the Prior of the Dominicans in the presence of\nthe Rector of the University.\n\nThe Dominican had preached at Erasmus in the University pulpit. Erasmus\ncomplained to the rector, and the rector invited the Dominican to defend\nhimself. Erasmus tells the story.\n\n'I sate on one side and the monk on the other, the rector between us to\nprevent our scratching.\n\n'The monk asked what the matter was, and said he had done no harm.\n\n'I said he had told lies of me, and that was harm.\n\n'It was after dinner. The holy man was flushed. He turned purple.\n\n'\"Why do you abuse monks in your books?\" he said.\n\n'\"I spoke of your order,\" I answered. \"I did not mention you. You\ndenounced me by name as a friend of Luther.\"\n\n'He raged like a madman. \"You are the cause of all this trouble,\" he\nsaid; \"you are a chameleon, you can twist everything.\"\n\n'\"You see what a fellow he is,\" said I, turning to the rector. \"If it\ncomes to calling names, why I can do that too; but let us be\nreasonable.\"\n\n'He still roared and cursed; he vowed he would never rest till he had\ndestroyed Luther.\n\n'I said he might curse Luther till he burst himself if he pleased. I\ncomplained of his cursing me.\n\n'He answered, that if I did not agree with Luther, I ought to say so,\nand write against him.\n\n'\"Why should I?\" urged I. \"The quarrel is none of mine. Why should I\nirritate Luther against me, when he has horns and knows how to use\nthem?\"\n\n'\"Well, then,\" said he, \"if you will not write, at least you can say\nthat we Dominicans have had the best of the argument.\"\n\n'\"How can I do that?\" replied I. \"You have burnt his books, but I never\nheard that you had answered them.\"\n\n'He almost spat upon me. I understand that there is to be a form of\nprayer for the conversion of Erasmus and Luther.'\n\nBut Erasmus was not to escape so easily. Adrian the Sixth, who succeeded\nLeo, was his old schoolfellow, and implored his assistance in terms\nwhich made refusal impossible. Adrian wanted Erasmus to come to him to\nRome. He was too wary to walk into the wolf's den. But Adrian required\nhim to write, and reluctantly he felt that he must comply.\n\nWhat was he to say?\n\n'If his Holiness will set about reform in good earnest,' he wrote to the\nPope's secretary, 'and if he will not be too hard on Luther, I may,\nperhaps, do good; but what Luther writes of the tyranny, the corruption,\nthe covetousness of the Roman court, would, my friend, that it was not\ntrue.'\n\nTo Adrian himself, Erasmus addressed a letter really remarkable.\n\n'I cannot go to your Holiness,' he said, 'King Calculus will not let me.\nI have dreadful health, which this tornado has not improved. I, who was\nthe favourite of everybody, am now cursed by everybody--at Louvaine by\nthe monks; in Germany by the Lutherans. I have fallen into trouble in my\nold age, like a mouse into a pot of pitch. You say, Come to Rome; you\nmight as well say to the crab, Fly. The crab says, Give me wings; I say,\nGive me back my health and my youth. If I write calmly against Luther I\nshall be called lukewarm; if I write as he does, I shall stir a hornet's\nnest. People think he can be put down by force. The more force you try,\nthe stronger he will grow. Such disorders cannot be cured in that way.\nThe Wickliffites in England were put down, but the fire smouldered.\n\n'If you mean to use violence you have no need of me; but mark this--if\nmonks and theologians think only of themselves, no good will come of it.\nLook rather into the causes of all this confusion, and apply your\nremedies there. Send for the best and wisest men from all parts of\nChristendom and take their advice.'\n\nTell a crab to fly. Tell a pope to be reasonable. You must relieve him\nof his infallibility if you want him to act like a sensible man. Adrian\ncould undertake no reforms, and still besought Erasmus to take arms for\nhim.\n\nErasmus determined to gratify Adrian with least danger to himself and\nleast injury to Luther.\n\n'I remember Uzzah, and am afraid,' he said, in his quizzing way; 'it is\nnot everyone who is allowed to uphold the ark. Many a wise man has\nattacked Luther, and what has been effected? The Pope curses, the\nemperor threatens; there are prisons, confiscations, faggots; and all is\nvain. What can a poor pigmy like me do?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'The world has been besotted with ceremonies. Miserable monks have ruled\nall, entangling men's consciences for their own benefit. Dogma has been\nheaped on dogma. The bishops have been tyrants, the Pope's commissaries\nhave been rascals. Luther has been an instrument of God's displeasure,\nlike Pharaoh or Nebuchadnezzar, or the Caesars, and I shall not attack\nhim on such grounds as these.'\n\nErasmus was too acute to defend against Luther the weak point of a bad\ncause. He would not declare for him--but he would not go over to his\nenemies. Yet, unless he quarrelled with Adrian, he could not be\nabsolutely silent; so he chose a subject to write upon on which all\nschools of theology, Catholic or Protestant--all philosophers, all\nthinkers of whatever kind, have been divided from the beginning of time:\nfate and free will, predestination and the liberty of man--a problem\nwhich has no solution--which may be argued even from eternity to\neternity.\n\nThe reason of the selection was obvious. Erasmus wished to please the\nPope and not exasperate Luther. Of course he pleased neither, and\noffended both.\n\nLuther, who did not comprehend his motive, was needlessly angry. Adrian\nand the monks were openly contemptuous. Sick of them and their quarrels,\nhe grew weary of the world, and began to wish to be well out of it.\n\nIt is characteristic of Erasmus that, like many highly-gifted men, but\nunlike all theologians, he expressed a hope for sudden death, and\ndeclared it to be one of the greatest blessings which a human creature\ncan receive.\n\nDo not suppose that he broke down or showed the white feather to\nfortune's buffets. Through all storms he stuck bravely to his own proper\nwork; editing classics, editing the Fathers, writing paraphrases--still\ndoing for Europe what no other man could have done.\n\nThe Dominicans hunted him away from Louvaine. There was no living for\nhim in Germany for the Protestants. He suffered dreadfully from the\nstone, too, and in all ways had a cruel time of it. Yet he continued,\nfor all that, to make life endurable.\n\nHe moved about in Switzerland and on the Upper Rhine. The lakes, the\nmountains, the waterfalls, the villas on the hill slopes, delighted\nErasmus when few people else cared for such things. He was particular\nabout his wine. The vintage of Burgundy was as new blood in his veins,\nand quickened his pen into brightness and life.\n\nThe German wines he liked worse--for this point among others, which is\ncurious to observe in those days. The great capitalist winegrowers,\nanti-Reformers all of them, were people without conscience and humanity,\nand adulterated their liquors. Of course they did. They believed in\nnothing but money, and this was the way to make money.\n\n'The water they mix with the wine,' Erasmus says, 'is the least part of\nthe mischief. They put in lime, and alum, and resin, and sulphur, and\nsalt--and then they say it is good enough for heretics.'\n\nObserve the practical issue of religious corruption. Show me a people\nwhere trade is dishonest, and I will show you a people where religion is\na sham.\n\n'We hang men that steal money,' Erasmus exclaimed, writing doubtless\nwith the remembrance of a stomach-ache. 'These wretches steal our money\nand our lives too, and get off scot free.'\n\nHe settled at last at Basle, which the storm had not yet reached, and\ntried to bury himself among his books. The shrieks of the conflict,\nhowever, still troubled his ears. He heard his own name still cursed,\nand he could not bear it or sit quiet under it.\n\nHis correspondence was still enormous. The high powers still appealed to\nhim for advice and help: of open meddling he would have no more; he did\nnot care, he said, to make a post of himself for every dog of a\ntheologian to defile. Advice, however, he continued to give in the old\nstyle.\n\n'Put down the preachers on both sides. Fill the pulpits with men who\nwill kick controversy into the kennel, and preach piety and good\nmanners. Teach nothing in the schools but what bears upon life and duty.\nPunish those who break the peace, and punish no one else; and when the\nnew opinions have taken root, allow liberty of conscience.'\n\nPerfection of wisdom; but a wisdom which, unfortunately, was three\ncenturies at least out of date, which even now we have not grown big\nenough to profit by. The Catholic princes and bishops were at work with\nfire and faggot. The Protestants were pulling down monasteries, and\nturning the monks and nuns out into the world. The Catholics declared\nthat Erasmus was as much to blame as Luther. The Protestants held him\nresponsible for the persecutions, and insisted, not without reason, that\nif Erasmus had been true to his conscience, the whole Catholic world\nmust have accepted the Reformation.\n\nHe suffered bitterly under these attacks upon him. He loved quiet--and\nhis ears were deafened with clamour. He liked popularity--and he was the\nbest abused person in Europe. Others who suffered in the same way he\ncould advise to leave the black-coated jackdaws to their noise--but he\ncould not follow his own counsel. When the curs were at his heels, he\ncould not restrain himself from lashing out at them; and, from his\nretreat at Basle, his sarcasms flashed out like jagged points of\nlightning.\n\nDescribing an emeute, and the burning of an image of a saint, 'They\ninsulted the poor image so,' he said, 'it is a marvel there was no\nmiracle. The saint worked so many in the good old times.'\n\nWhen Luther married an escaped nun, the Catholics exclaimed that\nAntichrist would be born from such an incestuous intercourse. 'Nay,'\nErasmus said, 'if monk and nun produce Antichrist, there must have been\nlegions of Antichrists these many years.'\n\nMore than once he was tempted to go over openly to Luther--not from a\nnoble motive, but, as he confessed, 'to make those furies feel the\ndifference between him and them.'\n\nHe was past sixty, with broken health and failing strength. He thought\nof going back to England, but England had by this time caught fire, and\nBasle had caught fire. There was no peace on earth.\n\n'The horse has his heels,' he said, when advised to be quiet, 'the dog\nhis teeth, the hedgehog his spines, the bee his sting. I myself have my\ntongue and my pen, and why should I not use them?'\n\nYet to use them to any purpose now, he must take a side, and, sorely\ntempted as he was, he could not.\n\nWith the negative part of the Protestant creed he sympathised heartily;\nbut he did not understand Luther's doctrine of faith, because he had\nnone of his own, and he disliked it as a new dogma.\n\nHe regarded Luther's movement as an outburst of commonplace revolution,\ncaused by the folly and wickedness of the authorities, but with no\norganising vitality in itself; and his chief distress, as we gather from\nhis later letters, was at his own treatment. He had done his best for\nboth sides. He had failed, and was abused by everybody.\n\nThus passed away the last years of one of the most gifted men that\nEurope has ever seen. I have quoted many of his letters. I will add one\nmore passage, written near the end of his life, very touching and\npathetic:--\n\n'Hercules,' he said, 'could not fight two monsters at once; while I,\npoor wretch, have lions, cerberuses, cancers, scorpions every day at my\nsword's point; not to mention smaller vermin--rats, mosquitoes, bugs,\nand fleas. My troops of friends are turned to enemies. At dinner-tables\nor social gatherings, in churches and king's courts, in public carriage\nor public flyboat, scandal pursues me, and calumny defiles my name.\nEvery goose now hisses at Erasmus; and it is worse than being stoned,\nonce for all, like Stephen, or shot with arrows like Sebastian.\n\n'They attack me now even for my Latin style, and spatter me with\nepigrams. Fame I would have parted with; but to be the sport of\nblackguards--to be pelted with potsherds and dirt and ordure--is not\nthis worse than death?\n\n'There is no rest for me in my age, unless I join Luther; and I cannot,\nfor I cannot accept his doctrines. Sometimes I am stung with a desire to\navenge my wrongs; but I say to myself, \"Will you, to gratify your\nspleen, raise your hand against your mother the Church, who begot you at\nthe font and fed you with the word of God?\" I cannot do it. Yet I\nunderstand now how Arius, and Tertullian, and Wickliff were driven into\nschism. The theologians say I am their enemy. Why? Because I bade monks\nremember their vows; because I told parsons to leave their wranglings\nand read the Bible; because I told popes and cardinals to look at the\nApostles, and make themselves more like to them. If this is to be their\nenemy, then indeed I have injured them.'\n\nThis was almost the last. The stone, advancing years, and incessant toil\nhad worn him to a shred. The clouds grew blacker. News came from England\nthat his dear friends More and Fisher had died upon the scaffold. He had\nlong ceased to care for life; and death, almost as sudden as he had\nlonged for, gave him peace at last.\n\nSo ended Desiderius Erasmus, the world's idol for so many years; and\ndying heaped with undeserved but too intelligible anathemas, seeing all\nthat he had laboured for swept away by the whirlwind.\n\nDo not let me lead you to undervalue him. Without Erasmus, Luther would\nhave been impossible; and Erasmus really succeeded--so much of him as\ndeserved to succeed--in Luther's victory.\n\nHe was brilliantly gifted. His industry never tired. His intellect was\ntrue to itself; and no worldly motives ever tempted him into\ninsincerity. He was even far braver than he professed to be. Had he been\nbrought to the trial, he would have borne it better than many a man who\nboasted louder of his courage.\n\nAnd yet, in his special scheme for remodelling the mind of Europe, he\nfailed hopelessly--almost absurdly. He believed, himself, that his work\nwas spoilt by the Reformation; but, in fact, under no conditions could\nany more have come of it.\n\nLiterature and cultivation will feed life when life exists already; and\ntoleration and latitudinarianism are well enough when mind and\nconscience are awake and energetic of themselves.\n\nWhen there is no spiritual life at all; when men live only for\nthemselves and for sensual pleasure; when religion is superstition, and\nconscience a name, and God an idol half feared and half despised--then,\nfor the restoration of the higher nature in man, qualities are needed\ndifferent in kind from any which Erasmus possessed.\n\nAnd now to go back to Luther. I cannot tell you all that Luther did; it\nwould be to tell you all the story of the German Reformation. I want you\nrather to consider the kind of man that Luther was, and to see in his\ncharacter how he came to achieve what he did.\n\nYou remember that the Elector of Saxony, after the Diet of Worms, sent\nhim to the Castle of Wartburg, to prevent him from being murdered or\nkidnapped. He remained there many months; and during that time the old\necclesiastical institutions of Germany were burning like a North\nAmerican forest. The monasteries were broken up; the estates were\nappropriated by the nobles; the monks were sent wandering into the\nworld. The bishops looked helplessly on while their ancient spiritual\ndominion was torn to pieces and trodden under foot. The Elector of\nSaxony, the Landgrave of Hesse, and several more of the princes,\ndeclared for the Reformation. The Protestants had a majority in the\nDiet, and controlled the force of the empire. Charles the Fifth, busy\nwith his French wars, and in want of money, dared not press questions to\na crisis which he had not power to cope with; and he was obliged for a\ntime to recognise what he could not prevent. You would have thought\nLuther would have been well pleased to see the seed which he had sown\nbear fruit so rapidly; yet it was exactly while all this was going on\nthat he experienced those temptations of the devil of which he has left\nso wonderful an account.\n\nWe shall have our own opinions on the nature of these apparitions. But\nLuther, it is quite certain, believed that Satan himself attacked him in\nperson. Satan, he tells us, came often to him, and said, 'See what you\nhave done. Behold this ancient Church--this mother of saints--polluted\nand defiled by brutal violence. And it is you--you, a poor ignorant\nmonk, that have set the people on to their unholy work. Are you so much\nwiser than the saints who approved the things which you have denounced?\nPopes, bishops, clergy, kings, emperors--are none of these--are not all\nthese together--wiser than Martin Luther the monk?'\n\nThe devil, he says, caused him great agony by these suggestions. He fell\ninto deep fits of doubt and humiliation and despondency. And wherever\nthese thoughts came from, we can only say that they were very natural\nthoughts--natural and right. He called them temptations; yet these were\ntemptations which would not have occurred to any but a high-minded man.\n\nHe had, however, done only what duty had forced him to do. His business\nwas to trust to God, who had begun the work and knew what He meant to\nmake of it. His doubts and misgivings, therefore, he ascribed to Satan,\nand his enormous imaginative vigour gave body to the voice which was\nspeaking in him.\n\nHe tells many humorous stories--not always producible--of the means with\nwhich he encountered his offensive visitor.\n\n'The devil,' he says, 'is very proud, and what he least likes is to be\nlaughed at.' One night he was disturbed by something rattling in his\nroom; the modern unbeliever will suppose it was a mouse. He got up, lit\na candle, searched the apartment through, and could find nothing--the\nEvil One was indisputably there.\n\n'Oh!' he said, 'it is you, is it?' He returned to bed, and went to\nsleep.\n\nThink as you please about the cause of the noise, but remember that\nLuther had not the least doubt that he was alone in the room with the\nactual devil, who, if he could not overcome his soul, could at least\ntwist his neck in a moment--and then think what courage there must have\nbeen in a man who could deliberately sleep in such a presence!\n\nDuring his retirement he translated the Bible. The confusion at last\nbecame so desperate that he could no longer be spared; and, believing\nthat he was certain to be destroyed, he left Wartburg and returned to\nWittenberg. Death was always before him as supremely imminent. He used\nto say that it would be a great disgrace to the Pope if he died in his\nbed. He was wanted once at Leipsic. His friends said if he went there\nDuke George would kill him.\n\n'Duke George!' he said; 'I would go to Leipsic if it rained Duke Georges\nfor nine days!'\n\nNo such cataclysm of Duke Georges happily took place. The single one\nthere was would have gladly been mischievous if he could; but Luther\noutlived him--lived for twenty-four years after this, in continued toil,\nre-shaping the German Church, and giving form to its new doctrine.\n\nSacerdotalism, properly so called, was utterly abolished. The\ncorruptions of the Church had all grown out of one root--the notion that\nthe Christian priesthood possesses mystical power, conferred through\nepiscopal ordination.\n\nReligion, as Luther conceived it, did not consist in certain things done\nto and for a man by a so-called priest. It was the devotion of each\nindividual soul to the service of God. Masses were nothing, and\nabsolution was nothing; and a clergyman differed only from a layman in\nbeing set apart for the especial duties of teaching and preaching.\n\nI am not concerned to defend Luther's view in this matter. It is a\nmatter of fact only, that in getting rid of episcopal ordination, he\ndried up the fountain from which the mechanical and idolatrous\nconceptions of religion had sprung; and, in consequence, the religious\nlife of Germany has expanded with the progress of knowledge, while\npriesthoods everywhere cling to the formulas of the past, in which they\nlive, and move, and have their being.\n\nEnough of this.\n\nThe peculiar doctrine which has passed into Europe under Luther's name\nis known as Justification by Faith. Bandied about as a watchword of\nparty, it has by this time hardened into a formula, and has become\nbarren as the soil of a trodden footpath. As originally proclaimed by\nLuther, it contained the deepest of moral truths. It expressed what was,\nand is, and must be, in one language or another, to the end of time, the\nconviction of every generous-minded man.\n\nThe service of God, as Luther learnt it from the monks, was a thing of\ndesert and reward. So many good works done, so much to the right page in\nthe great book; where the stock proved insufficient, there was the\nreserve fund of the merits of the saints, which the Church dispensed for\nmoney to those who needed.\n\n'Merit!' Luther thought. 'What merit can there be in such a poor caitiff\nas man? The better a man is--the more clearly he sees how little he is\ngood for, the greater mockery it seems to attribute to him the notion of\nhaving deserved reward.'\n\n'Miserable creatures that we are!' he said; 'we earn our bread in sin.\nTill we are seven years old, we do nothing but eat and drink and sleep\nand play; from seven to twenty-one we study four hours a day, the rest\nof it we run about and amuse ourselves; then we work till fifty, and\nthen we grow again to be children. We sleep half our lives; we give God\na tenth of our time: and yet we think that with our good works we can\nmerit heaven. What have I been doing to-day? I have talked for two\nhours; I have been at meals three hours; I have been idle four hours!\nAh, enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord!'\n\nA perpetual struggle. For ever to be falling, yet to rise again and\nstumble forward with eyes turned to heaven--this was the best which\nwould ever come of man. It was accepted in its imperfection by the\ninfinite grace of God, who pities mortal weakness, and accepts the\nintention for the deed--who, when there is a sincere desire to serve\nHim, overlooks the shortcomings of infirmity.\n\nDo you say such teaching leads to disregard of duty? All doctrines, when\npetrified into formulas, lead to that. But, as Luther said, 'where real\nfaith is, a good life follows, as light follows the sun; faint and\nclouded, yet ever struggling to break through the mist which envelopes\nit, and welcoming the roughest discipline which tends to clear and raise\nit.\n\n'The barley,' he says, in a homely but effective image--'the barley\nwhich we brew, the flax of which we weave our garments, must be bruised\nand torn ere they come to the use for which they are grown. So must\nChristians suffer. The natural creature must be combed and threshed. The\nold Adam must die, for the higher life to begin. If man is to rise to\nnobleness, he must first be slain.'\n\nIn modern language, the poet Goethe tells us the same truth. 'The\nnatural man,' he says, 'is like the ore out of the iron mine. It is\nsmelted in the furnace; it is forged into bars upon the anvil. A new\nnature is at last forced upon it, and it is made steel.'\n\nIt was this doctrine--it was this truth rather (the word doctrine\nreminds one of quack medicines)--which, quickening in Luther's mind,\ngave Europe its new life. It was the flame which, beginning with a small\nspark, kindled the hearth-fires in every German household.\n\nLuther's own life was a model of quiet simplicity. He remained poor. He\nmight have had money if he had wished; but he chose rather, amidst his\nenormous labour, to work at a turning-lathe for his livelihood.\n\nHe was sociable, cheerful, fond of innocent amusements, and delighted to\nencourage them. His table-talk, collected by his friends, makes one of\nthe most brilliant books in the world. He had no monkish theories about\nthe necessity of abstinence; but he was temperate from habit and\nprinciple. A salt herring and a hunch of bread was his ordinary meal;\nand he was once four days without food of any sort, having emptied his\nlarder among the poor.\n\nAll kinds of people thrust themselves on Luther for help. Flights of\nnuns from the dissolved convents came to him to provide for them--naked,\nshivering creatures, with scarce a rag to cover them. Eight florins were\nwanted once to provide clothes for some of them. 'Eight florins!' he\nsaid; 'and where am I to get eight florins?' Great people had made him\npresents of plate: it all went to market to be turned into clothes and\nfood for the wretched.\n\nMelancthon says that, unless provoked, he was usually very gentle and\ntolerant. He recognised, and was almost alone in recognising, the\nnecessity of granting liberty of conscience. No one hated Popery more\nthan he did, yet he said:--\n\n'The Papists must bear with us, and we with them. If they will not\nfollow us, we have no right to force them. Wherever they can, they will\nhang, burn, behead, and strangle us. I shall be persecuted as long as I\nlive, and most likely killed. But it must come to this at last--every\nman must be allowed to believe according to his conscience, and answer\nfor his belief to his Maker.'\n\nErasmus said of Luther that there were two natures in him: sometimes he\nwrote like an apostle--sometimes like a raving ribald.\n\nDoubtless, Luther could be impolite on occasions. When he was angry,\ninvectives rushed from him like boulder rocks down a mountain torrent\nin flood. We need not admire all that; in quiet times it is hard to\nunderstand it.\n\nHere, for instance, is a specimen. Our Henry the Eighth, who began life\nas a highly orthodox sovereign, broke a lance with Luther for the\nPapacy.\n\nLuther did not credit Henry with a composition which was probably his\nown after all. He thought the king was put forward by some of the\nEnglish bishops--'Thomists' he calls them, as men who looked for the\nbeginning and end of wisdom to the writings of Thomas Aquinas.\n\n'Courage,' he exclaimed to them, 'swine that you are! burn me then, if\nyou can and dare. Here I am; do your worst upon me. Scatter my ashes to\nall the winds--spread them through all seas. My spirit shall pursue you\nstill. Living, I am the foe of the Papacy; and dead, I will be its foe\ntwice over. Hogs of Thomists! Luther shall be the bear in your way--the\nlion in your path. Go where you will, Luther shall cross you. Luther\nshall leave you neither peace nor rest till he has crushed in your brows\nof brass and dashed out your iron brains.'\n\nStrong expressions; but the times were not gentle. The prelates whom he\nsupposed himself to be addressing were the men who filled our Smithfield\nwith the reek of burning human flesh.\n\nMen of Luther's stature are like the violent forces of Nature\nherself--terrible when roused, and in repose, majestic and beautiful. Of\nvanity he had not a trace. 'Do not call yourselves Lutherans,' he said;\n'call yourselves Christians. Who and what is Luther? Has Luther been\ncrucified for the world?'\n\nI mentioned his love of music. His songs and hymns were the expression\nof the very inmost heart of the German people. 'Music' he called 'the\ngrandest and sweetest gift of God to man.' 'Satan hates music,' he said;\n'he knows how it drives the evil spirit out of us.'\n\nHe was extremely interested in all natural things. Before the science of\nbotany was dreamt of, Luther had divined the principle of vegetable\nlife. 'The principle of marriage runs through all creation,' he said;\n'and flowers as well as animals are male and female.'\n\nA garden called out bursts of eloquence from him; beautiful sometimes as\na finished piece of poetry.\n\nOne April day as he was watching the swelling buds, he exclaimed:--\n\n'Praise be to God the Creator, who out of a dead world makes all alive\nagain. See those shoots how they burgeon and swell. Image of the\nresurrection of the dead! Winter is death--summer is the resurrection.\nBetween them lie spring and autumn, as the period of uncertainty and\nchange. The proverb says--\n\n    Trust not a day\n    Ere birth of May.\n\nLet us pray our Father in heaven to give us this day our daily bread.'\n\n'We are in the dawn of a new era,' he said another time; 'we are\nbeginning to think something of the natural world which was ruined in\nAdam's fall. We are learning to see all round us the greatness and glory\nof the Creator. We can see the Almighty hand--the infinite goodness--in\nthe humblest flower. We praise Him--we thank Him--we glorify Him--we\nrecognise in creation the power of His word. He spoke and it was there.\nThe stone of the peach is hard; but the soft kernel swells and bursts it\nwhen the time comes. An egg--what a thing is that! If an egg had never\nbeen seen in Europe, and a traveller had brought one from Calcutta, how\nwould all the world have wondered!'\n\nAnd again:--\n\n'If a man could make a single rose, we should give him an empire; yet\nroses, and flowers no less beautiful, are scattered in profusion over\nthe world, and no one regards them.'\n\nThere are infinite other things which I should like to tell you about\nLuther, but time wears on. I must confine what more I have to say to a\nsingle matter--for which more than any other he has been blamed--I mean\nhis marriage.\n\nHe himself, a monk and a priest, had taken a vow of celibacy. The person\nwhom he married had been a nun, and as such had taken a vow of celibacy\nalso.\n\nThe marriage was unquestionably no affair of passion. Luther had come to\nmiddle age when it was brought about, when temptations of that kind lose\ntheir power; and among the many accusations which have been brought\nagainst his early life, no one has ventured to charge him with\nincontinence. His taking a wife was a grave act deliberately performed;\nand it was either meant as a public insult to established ecclesiastical\nusage, or else he considered that the circumstances of the time required\nit of him.\n\nLet us see what those circumstances were. The enforcement of celibacy on\nthe clergy was, in Luther's opinion, both iniquitous in itself, and\nproductive of enormous immorality. The impurity of the religious orders\nhad been the jest of satirists for a hundred years. It had been the\ndistress and perplexity of pious and serious persons. Luther himself was\nimpressed with profound pity for the poor men, who were cut off from the\nnatural companionship which nature had provided for them--who were thus\nexposed to temptations which they ought not to have been called upon to\nresist.\n\nThe dissolution of the religious houses had enormously complicated the\nproblem. Germany was covered with friendless and homeless men and women\nadrift upon the world. They came to Luther to tell them what to do; and\nadvice was of little service without example.\n\nThe world had grown accustomed to immorality in such persons. They might\nhave lived together in concubinage, and no one would have thought much\nabout it. Their marriage was regarded with a superstitious terror as a\nkind of incest.\n\nLuther, on the other hand, regarded marriage as the natural and healthy\nstate in which clergy as well as laity were intended to live. Immorality\nwas hateful to him as a degradation of a sacrament--impious, loathsome,\nand dishonoured. Marriage was the condition in which humanity was at\nonce purest, best, and happiest.\n\nFor himself, he had become inured to a single life. He had borne the\ninjustice of his lot, when the burden had been really heavy. But time\nand custom had lightened the load; and had there been nothing at issue\nbut his own personal happiness, he would not have given further occasion\nto the malice of his enemies.\n\nBut tens of thousands of poor creatures were looking to him to guide\nthem--guide them by precept, or guide them by example. He had satisfied\nhimself that the vow of celibacy had been unlawfully imposed both on him\nand them--that, as he would put it, it had been a snare devised by the\ndevil. He saw that all eyes were fixed on him--that it was no use to\ntell others that they might marry, unless he himself led the way, and\nmarried first. And it was characteristic of him that, having resolved to\ndo the thing, he did it in the way most likely to show the world his\nfull thought upon the matter.\n\nThat this was his motive, there is no kind of doubt whatever.\n\n'We may be able to live unmarried,' he said; 'but in these days we must\nprotest in deed as well as word, against the doctrine of celibacy. It is\nan invention of Satan. Before I took my wife, I had made up my mind that\nI must marry some one: and had I been overtaken by illness, I should\nhave betrothed myself to some pious maiden.'\n\nHe asked nobody's advice. Had he let his intention be suspected, the\nmoderate respectable people--the people who thought like Erasmus--those\nwho wished well to what was good, but wished also to stand well with the\nworld's opinion--such persons as these would have overwhelmed him with\nremonstrances. 'When you marry,' he said to a friend in a similar\nsituation, 'be quiet about it, or mountains will rise between you and\nyour wishes. If I had not been swift and secret, I should have had the\nwhole world in my way.'\n\nCatherine Bora, the lady whom he chose for his wife, was a nun of good\nfamily, left homeless and shelterless by the breaking-up of her convent.\nShe was an ordinary, unimaginative body--plain in person and plain in\nmind, in no sense whatever a heroine of romance--but a decent, sensible,\ncommonplace Haus Frau.\n\nThe age of romance was over with both of them; yet, for all that, never\nmarriage brought a plainer blessing with it. They began with respect,\nand ended with steady affection.\n\nThe happiest life on earth, Luther used to say, is with a pious, good\nwife; in peace and quiet, contented with a little, and giving God\nthanks.\n\nHe spoke from his own experience. His Katie, as he called her, was not\nclever, and he had numerous stories to tell of the beginning of their\nadventures together.\n\n'The first year of married life is an odd business,' he says. 'At meals,\nwhere you used to be alone, you are yourself and somebody else. When you\nwake in the morning, there are a pair of tails close to you on the\npillow. My Katie used to sit with me when I was at work. She thought she\nought not to be silent. She did not know what to say, so she would ask\nme.\n\n'\"Herr Doctor, is not the master of the ceremonies in Prussia the\nbrother of the Margrave?\"'\n\nShe was an odd woman.\n\n'Doctor,' she said to him one day, 'how is it that under Popery we\nprayed so often and so earnestly, and now our prayers are cold and\nseldom?'\n\nKatie might have spoken for herself. Luther, to the last, spent hours of\nevery day in prayer. He advised her to read the Bible a little more. She\nsaid she had read enough of it, and knew half of it by heart. 'Ah!' he\nsaid, 'here begins weariness of the word of God. One day new lights will\nrise up, and the Scriptures will be despised and be flung away into the\ncorner.'\n\nHis relations with his children were singularly beautiful. The\nrecollection of his own boyhood made him especially gentle with them,\nand their fancies and imaginations delighted him.\n\nChildren, to him, were images of unfallen nature. 'Children,' he said,\n'imagine heaven a place where rivers run with cream, and trees are hung\nwith cakes and plums. Do not blame them. They are but showing their\nsimple, natural, unquestioning, all-believing faith.'\n\nOne day, after dinner, when the fruit was on the table, the children\nwere watching it with longing eyes. 'That is the way,' he said, 'in\nwhich we grown Christians ought to look for the Judgment Day.'\n\nHis daughter Magdalen died when she was fourteen. He speaks of his loss\nwith the unaffected simplicity of natural grief, yet with the faith of a\nman who had not the slightest doubt into whose hands his treasure was\npassing. Perfect nature and perfect piety. Neither one emotion nor the\nother disguised or suppressed.\n\nYou will have gathered something, I hope, from these faint sketches, of\nwhat Luther was; you will be able to see how far he deserves to be\ncalled by our modern new lights, a Philistine or a heretic. We will now\nreturn to the subject with which we began, and resume, in a general\nconclusion, the argument of these Lectures.\n\nIn part, but not wholly, it can be done in Luther's words.\n\nOne regrets that Luther did not know Erasmus better, or knowing him,\nshould not have treated him with more forbearance.\n\nErasmus spoke of him for the most part with kindness. He interceded for\nhim, defended him, and only with the utmost reluctance was driven into\ncontroversy with him.\n\nLuther, on the other hand, saw in Erasmus a man who was false to his\nconvictions; who played with truth; who, in his cold, sarcastic\nscepticism, believed in nothing--scarcely even in God. He was unaware of\nhis own obligations to him, for Erasmus was not a person who would\ntrumpet out his own good deeds.\n\nThus Luther says:--\n\n'All you who honour Christ, I pray you hate Erasmus. He is a scoffer and\na mocker. He speaks in riddles; and jests at Popery and Gospel, and\nChrist and God, with his uncertain speeches. He might have served the\nGospel if he would, but, like Judas, he has betrayed the Son of Man with\na kiss. He is not with us, and he is not with our foes; and I say with\nJoshua, Choose whom ye will serve. He thinks we should trim to the\ntimes, and hang our cloaks to the wind. He is himself his own first\nobject; and as he lived, he died.\n\n'I take Erasmus to be the worst enemy that Christ has had for a thousand\nyears. Intellect does not understand religion, and when it comes to the\nthings of God, it laughs at them. He scoffs like Lucian, and by-and-by\nhe will say, Behold, how are these among the saints whose life we\ncounted for folly.\n\n'I bid you, therefore, take heed of Erasmus. He treats theology as a\nfool's jest, and the Gospel as a fable good for the ignorant to\nbelieve.'\n\nOf Erasmus personally, much of this was unjust and untrue. Erasmus knew\nmany things which it would have been well for Luther to have known; and,\nas a man, he was better than his principles.\n\nBut if for the name of Erasmus we substitute the theory of human things\nwhich Erasmus represented, between that creed and Luther there is, and\nmust be, an eternal antagonism.\n\nIf to be true in heart and just in act are the first qualities necessary\nfor the elevation of humanity--if without these all else is worthless,\nintellectual culture cannot give what intellectual culture does not\nrequire or imply. You cultivate the plant which has already life; you\nwill waste your labour in cultivating a stone. The moral life is the\ncounterpart of the natural, alike mysterious in its origin, and alike\nvisible only in its effects.\n\nIntellectual gifts are like gifts of strength, or wealth, or rank, or\nworldly power--splendid instruments if nobly used--but requiring\nqualities to use them nobler and better than themselves.\n\nThe rich man may spend his wealth on vulgar luxury. The clever man may\nlive for intellectual enjoyment--refined enjoyment it may be--but\nenjoyment still, and still centering in self.\n\nIf the spirit of Erasmus had prevailed, it would have been with modern\nEurope as with the Roman Empire in its decay. The educated would have\nbeen mere sceptics; the multitude would have been sunk in superstition.\nIn both alike all would have perished which deserves the name of\nmanliness.\n\nAnd this leads me to the last observation that I have to make to you. In\nthe sciences, the philosopher leads; the rest of us take on trust what\nhe tells us. The spiritual progress of mankind has followed the opposite\ncourse. Each forward step has been made first among the people, and the\nlast converts have been among the learned.\n\nThe explanation is not far to look for. In the sciences there is no\ntemptation of self-interest to mislead. In matters which affect life and\nconduct, the interests and prejudices of the cultivated classes are\nenlisted on the side of the existing order of things, and their better\ntrained faculties and larger acquirements serve only to find them\narguments for believing what they wish to believe.\n\nSimpler men have less to lose; they come more in contact with the\nrealities of life, and they learn wisdom in the experience of suffering.\n\nThus it was that when the learned and the wise turned away from\nChristianity, the fishermen of the Galilean lake listened, and a new\nlife began for mankind. A miner's son converted Germany to the\nReformation. The London artisans and the peasants of Buckinghamshire\nwent to the stake for doctrines which were accepted afterwards as a\nsecond revelation.\n\nSo it has been; so it will be to the end. When a great teacher comes\nagain upon the earth, he will find his first disciples where Christ\nfound them and Luther found them. Had Luther written for the learned,\nthe words which changed the face of Europe would have slumbered in\nimpotence on the bookshelves.\n\nIn appealing to the German nation, you will agree, I think, with me,\nthat he did well and not ill; you will not sacrifice his great name to\nthe disdain of a shallow philosophy, or to the grimacing of a dead\nsuperstition, whose ghost is struggling out of its grave.\n\n\n\n\nTHE INFLUENCE OF THE REFORMATION ON THE SCOTTISH CHARACTER:\n\nA LECTURE DELIVERED AT EDINBURGH, NOVEMBER 1865.\n\n\nI have undertaken to speak this evening on the effects of the\nReformation in Scotland, and I consider myself a very bold person to\nhave come here on any such undertaking. In the first place, the subject\nis one with which it is presumptuous for a stranger to meddle. Great\nnational movements can only be understood properly by the people whose\ndisposition they represent. We say ourselves about our own history that\nonly Englishmen can properly comprehend it. The late Chevalier Bunsen\nonce said to me of our own Reformation in England, that, for his part,\nhe could not conceive how we had managed to come by such a thing. We\nseemed to him to be an obdurate, impenetrable, stupid people, hide-bound\nby tradition and precedent, and too self-satisfied to be either willing\nor able to take in new ideas upon any theoretic subject whatever,\nespecially German ideas. That is to say, he could not get inside the\nEnglish mind. He did not know that some people go furthest and go\nfastest when they look one way and row the other. It is the same with\nevery considerable nation. They work out their own political and\nspiritual lives, through tempers, humours, and passions peculiar to\nthemselves; and the same disposition which produces the result is\nrequired to interpret it afterwards. This is one reason why I should\nfeel diffident about what I have undertaken. Another is, that I do not\nconceal from myself that the subject is an exceedingly delicate one. The\nblazing passions of those stormy sixteenth and seventeenth centuries are\nno longer, happily, at their old temperature. The story of those times\ncan now be told or listened to with something like impartiality. Yet, if\npeople no longer hate each other for such matters, the traditions of the\nstruggle survive in strong opinions and sentiments, which it is easy to\nwound without intending it.\n\nMy own conviction with respect to all great social and religious\nconvulsions is the extremely commonplace one that much is to be said on\nboth sides. I believe that nowhere and at no time any such struggle can\ntake place on a large scale unless each party is contending for\nsomething which has a great deal of truth in it. Where the right is\nplain, honest, wise, and noble-minded men are all on one side; and only\nrogues and fools are on the other. Where the wise and good are divided,\nthe truth is generally found to be divided also. But this is precisely\nwhat cannot be admitted as long as the conflict continues. Men begin to\nfight about things when reason and argument fail to convince them. They\nmake up in passion what is wanting in logic. Each side believes that all\nthe right is theirs--that their enemies have all the bad qualities which\ntheir language contains names for; and even now, on the subject on which\nI have to talk to-night, one has but to take up any magazine, review,\nnewspaper, or party organ of any kind which touches on it, to see that\nopinion is still Whig or Tory, Cavalier or Roundhead, Protestant or\nCatholic, as the case may be. The unfortunate person who is neither\nwholly one nor wholly the other is in the position of Hamlet's 'baser\nnature,' 'between the incensed points of mighty opposites.' He is the\nLaodicean, neither cold nor hot, whom decent people consider bad\ncompany. He pleases no one, and hurts the sensitiveness of all.\n\nHere, then, are good reasons why I should have either not come here at\nall, or else should have chosen some other matter to talk about. In\nexcuse for persisting, I can but say that the subject is one about which\nI have been led by circumstances to read and think considerably; and\nthough, undoubtedly, each of us knows more about himself and his own\naffairs than anyone else can possibly know, yet a stranger's eye will\nsometimes see things which escape those more immediately interested; and\nI allow myself to hope that I may have something to say not altogether\nundeserving your attention. I shall touch as little as possible on\nquestions of opinion; and if I tread by accident on any sensitive\npoint, I must trust to your kindness to excuse my awkwardness.\n\nWell, then, if we look back on Scotland as it stood in the first quarter\nof the sixteenth century, we see a country in which the old feudal\norganisation continued, so far as it generally affected the people, more\nvigorous than in any other part of civilised Europe. Elsewhere, the\ngrowth of trade and of large towns had created a middle class, with an\norganisation of their own, independent of the lords. In Scotland, the\ntowns were still scanty and poor; such as they were, they were for the\nmost part under the control of the great nobleman who happened to live\nnearest to them; and a people, as in any sense independent of lords,\nknights, abbots, or prelates, under whose rule they were born, had as\nyet no existence. The tillers of the soil (and the soil was very\nmiserably tilled) lived under the shadow of the castle or the monastery.\nThey followed their lord's fortunes, fought his battles, believed in his\npolitics, and supported him loyally in his sins or his good deeds, as\nthe case might be. There was much moral beauty in the life of those\ntimes. The loyal attachment of man to man--of liege servant to liege\nlord--of all forms under which human beings can live and work together,\nhas most of grace and humanity about it. It cannot go on without mutual\nconfidence and affection--mutual benefits given and received. The length\nof time which the system lasted proves that in the main there must have\nbeen a fine fidelity in the people--truth, justice, generosity in their\nleaders. History brings down many bad stories to us out of those times;\njust as in these islands nowadays you may find bad instances of the\nabuses of rights of property. You may find stories--too many also--of\nhusbands ill-using their wives, and so on. Yet we do not therefore lay\nthe blame on marriage, or suppose that the institution of property on\nthe whole does more harm than good. I do not doubt that down in that\nfeudal system somewhere lie the roots of some of the finest qualities in\nthe European peoples.\n\nSo much for the temporal side of the matter; and the spiritual was not\nvery unlike it. As no one lived independently, in our modern sense of\nthe word, so no one thought independently. The minds of men were looked\nafter by a Church which, for a long time also, did, I suppose, very\nlargely fulfil the purpose for which it was intended. It kept alive and\nactive the belief that the world was created and governed by a just\nBeing, who hated sins and crimes, and steadily punished such things. It\ntaught men that they had immortal souls, and that this little bit of\nlife was an entirely insignificant portion of their real existence. It\ntaught these truths, indeed, along with a great deal which we now\nconsider to have been a mistake--a great many theories of earthly things\nwhich have since passed away, and special opinions clothed in outward\nforms and ritual observances which we here, most of us at least, do not\nthink essential for our soul's safety. But mistakes like these are\nhurtful only when persisted in in the face of fuller truth, after truth\nhas been discovered. Only a very foolish man would now uphold the\nPtolemaic astronomy. But the Ptolemaic astronomy, when first invented,\nwas based on real if incomplete observations, and formed a groundwork\nwithout which further progress in that science would have been probably\nimpossible. The theories and ceremonials of the Catholic Church suited\nwell with an age in which little was known and much was imagined: when\nsuperstition was active and science was not yet born. When I am told\nhere or anywhere that the Middle Ages were times of mere spiritual\ndarkness and priestly oppression, with the other usual formulas, I say,\nas I said before, if the Catholic Church, for those many centuries that\nit reigned supreme over all men's consciences, was no better than the\nthing which we see in the generation which immediately preceded the\nReformation, it could not have existed at all. You might as well argue\nthat the old fading tree could never have been green and young.\nInstitutions do not live on lies. They either live by the truth and\nusefulness which there is in them, or they do not live at all.\n\nSo things went on for several hundred years. There were scandals enough,\nand crimes enough, and feuds, and murders, and civil wars. Systems,\nhowever good, cannot prevent evil. They can but compress it within\nmoderate and tolerable limits. I should conclude, however, that,\nmeasuring by the average happiness of the masses of the people, the\nmediaeval institutions were very well suited for the inhabitants of these\ncountries as they then were. Adam Smith and Bentham themselves could\nhardly have mended them if they had tried.\n\nBut times change, and good things as well as bad grow old and have to\ndie. The heart of the matter which the Catholic Church had taught was\nthe fear of God; but the language of it and the formulas of it were made\nup of human ideas and notions about things which the mere increase of\nhuman knowledge gradually made incredible. To trace the reason of this\nwould lead us a long way. It is intelligible enough, but it would take\nus into subjects better avoided here. It is enough to say that, while\nthe essence of religion remains the same, the mode in which it is\nexpressed changes and has changed--changes as living languages change\nand become dead, as institutions change, as forms of government change,\nas opinions on all things in heaven and earth change, as half the\ntheories held at this time among ourselves will probably change--that\nis, the outward and mortal parts of them. Thus the Catholic formulas,\ninstead of living symbols, become dead and powerless cabalistic signs.\nThe religion lost its hold on the conscience and the intellect, and the\neffect, singularly enough, appeared in the shepherds before it made\nitself felt among the flocks. From the see of St. Peter to the far\nmonasteries in the Hebrides or the Isle of Arran, the laity were shocked\nand scandalised at the outrageous doings of high cardinals, prelates,\npriests, and monks. It was clear enough that these great personages\nthemselves did not believe what they taught; so why should the people\nbelieve it? And serious men, to whom the fear of God was a living\nreality, began to look into the matter for themselves. The first steps\neverywhere were taken with extreme reluctance; and had the popes and\ncardinals been wise, they would have taken the lead in the enquiry,\ncleared their teaching of its lumber, and taken out a new lease of life\nboth for it and for themselves. An infallible pope and an infallible\ncouncil might have done something in this way, if good sense had been\namong the attributes of their omniscience. What they did do was\nsomething very different. It was as if, when the new astronomy began to\nbe taught, the professors of that science in all the universities of\nEurope had met together and decided that Ptolemy's cycles and epicycles\nwere eternal verities; that the theory of the rotation of the earth was\nand must be a damnable heresy; and had invited the civil authorities to\nhelp them in putting down by force all doctrines but their own. This, or\nsomething very like it, was the position taken up in theology by the\nCouncil of Trent. The bishops assembled there did not reason. They\ndecided by vote that certain things were true, and were to be believed;\nand the only arguments which they condescended to use were fire and\nfaggot, and so on. How it fared with them, and with this experiment of\ntheirs, we all know tolerably well.\n\nThe effect was very different in different countries. Here, in Scotland,\nthe failure was most marked and complete, but the way in which it came\nabout was in many ways peculiar. In Germany, Luther was supported by\nprinces and nobles. In England, the Reformation rapidly mixed itself up\nwith politics and questions of rival jurisdiction. Both in England and\nGermany, the revolution, wherever it established itself, was accepted\nearly by the Crown or the Government, and by them legally recognised.\nHere, it was far otherwise: the Protestantism of Scotland was the\ncreation of the commons, as in turn the commons may be said to have been\ncreated by Protestantism. There were many young high-spirited men,\nbelonging to the noblest families in the country, who were among the\nearliest to rally round the Reforming preachers; but authority, both in\nChurch and State, set the other way. The congregations who gathered in\nthe fields around Wishart and John Knox were, for the most part,\nfarmers, labourers, artisans, tradesmen, or the smaller gentry; and\nthus, for the first time in Scotland, there was created an organisation\nof men detached from the lords and from the Church--brave, noble,\nresolute, daring people, bound together by a sacred cause, unrecognised\nby the leaders whom they had followed hitherto with undoubting\nallegiance. That spirit which grew in time to be the ruling power of\nScotland--that which formed eventually its laws and its creed, and\ndetermined its after fortunes as a nation--had its first germ in these\nhalf-outlawed wandering congregations. In this it was that the\nReformation in Scotland differed from the Reformation in any other part\nof Europe. Elsewhere it found a middle class existing--created already\nby trade or by other causes. It raised and elevated them, but it did not\nmaterially affect their political condition. In Scotland, the commons,\nas an organised body, were simply created by religion. Before the\nReformation they had no political existence; and therefore it has been\nthat the print of their origin has gone so deeply into their social\nconstitution. On them, and them only, the burden of the work of the\nReformation was eventually thrown; and when they triumphed at last, it\nwas inevitable that both they and it should react one upon the other.\n\nHow this came about I must endeavour to describe, although I can give\nbut a brief sketch of an exceedingly complicated matter. Everybody knows\nthe part played by the aristocracy of Scotland in the outward\nrevolution, when the Reformation first became the law of the land. It\nwould seem at first sight as if it had been the work of the whole\nnation--as if it had been a thing on which high and low were heartily\nunited. Yet on the first glance below the surface you see that the\ngreater part of the noble lords concerned in that business cared nothing\nabout the Reformation at all; or, if they cared, they rather disliked it\nthan otherwise. How, then, did they come to act as they did? or, how\ncame they to permit a change of such magnitude when they had so little\nsympathy with it? I must make a slight circuit to look for the\nexplanation.\n\nThe one essentially noble feature in the great families of Scotland was\ntheir patriotism. They loved Scotland and Scotland's freedom with a\npassion proportioned to the difficulty with which they had defended\ntheir liberties; and yet the wisest of them had long seen that, sooner\nor later, union with England was inevitable; and the question was, how\nthat union was to be brought about--how they were to make sure that,\nwhen it came, they should take their place at England's side as equals,\nand not as a dependency. It had been arranged that the little Mary\nStuart should marry our English Edward VI., and the difficulty was to be\nsettled so. They would have been contented, they said, if Scotland had\nhad the 'lad' and England the 'lass.' As it stood, they broke their\nbargain, and married the little queen away into France, to prevent the\nProtector Somerset from getting hold of her. Then, however, appeared an\nopposite danger; the queen would become a Frenchwoman; her French mother\ngoverned Scotland with French troops and French ministers; the country\nwould become a French province, and lose its freedom equally. Thus an\nEnglish party began again; and as England was then in the middle of her\ngreat anti-Church revolution, so the Scottish nobles began to be\nanti-Church. It was not for doctrines: neither they nor their brothers\nin England cared much about doctrines; but in both countries the Church\nwas rich--much richer than there seemed any occasion for it to be. Harry\nthe Eighth had been sharing among the laity the spoils of the English\nmonasteries; the Scotch Lords saw in a similar process the probability\nof a welcome addition to their own scanty incomes. Mary of Guise and the\nFrench stood by the Church, and the Church stood by them; and so it came\nabout that the great families--even those who, like the Hamiltons, were\nmost closely connected with France--were tempted over by the bait to the\nother side. They did not want reformed doctrines, but they wanted the\nChurch lands; and so they came to patronise, or endure, the Reformers,\nbecause the Church hated them, and because they weakened the Church; and\nthus for a time, and especially as long as Mary Stuart was Queen of\nFrance, all classes in Scotland, high and low, seemed to fraternise in\nfavour of the revolution.\n\nAnd it seemed as if the union of the realms could be effected at last,\nat the same juncture, and in connexion with the same movement. Next in\nsuccession to the Scotch crown, after Mary Stuart, was the house of\nHamilton. Elizabeth, who had just come to the English throne, was\nsupposed to be in want of a husband. The heir of the Hamiltons was of\nher own age, and in years past had been thought of for her by her\nfather. What could be more fit than to make a match between those two?\nSend a Scot south to be King of England, find or make some pretext to\nshake off Mary Stuart, who had forsaken her native country, and so join\nthe crowns, the 'lass' and the 'lad' being now in the right relative\nposition. Scotland would thus annex her old oppressor, and give her a\nnew dynasty.\n\nI seem to be straying from the point; but these political schemes had so\nmuch to do with the actions of the leading men at that time, that the\nstory of the Reformation cannot be understood without them. It was thus,\nand with these incongruous objects, that the combination was formed\nwhich overturned the old Church of Scotland in 1559-60, confiscated its\npossessions, destroyed its religious houses, and changed its creed. The\nFrench were driven away from Leith by Elizabeth's troops; the Reformers\ntook possession of the churches; and the Parliament of 1560 met with a\nclear stage to determine for themselves the future fate of the country.\nNow, I think it certain that, if the Scotch nobility, having once\naccepted the Reformation, had continued loyal to it--especially if\nElizabeth had met their wishes in the important point of the\nmarriage--the form of the Scotch Kirk would have been something\nextremely different from what it in fact became. The people were\nperfectly well inclined to follow their natural leaders if the matters\non which their hearts were set had received tolerable consideration from\nthem, and the democratic form of the ecclesiastical constitution would\nhave been inevitably modified. One of the conditions of the proposed\ncompact with England was the introduction of the English Liturgy and the\nEnglish Church constitution. This too, at the outset, and with fair\ndealing, would not have been found impossible. But it soon became clear\nthat the religious interests of Scotland were the very last thing which\nwould receive consideration from any of the high political personages\nconcerned. John Knox had dreamt of a constitution like that which he had\nseen working under Calvin at Geneva--a constitution in which the clergy\nas ministers of God should rule all things--rule politically at the\ncouncil board, and rule in private at the fireside. It was soon made\nplain to Knox that Scotland was not Geneva. 'Eh, mon,' said the younger\nMaitland to him, 'then we may all bear the barrow now to build the House\nof the Lord.' Not exactly. The churches were left to the ministers; the\nworldly good things and worldly power remained with the laity; and as to\nreligion, circumstances would decide what they would do about that.\nAgain, I am not speaking of all the great men of those times. Glencairn,\nRuthven, young Argyll--above all, the Earl of Moray--really did in some\ndegree interest themselves in the Kirk. But what most of them felt was\nperhaps rather broadly expressed by Maitland when he called religion 'a\nbogle of the nursery.' That was the expression which a Scotch statesman\nof those days actually ventured to use. Had Elizabeth been conformable,\nno doubt they would in some sense or other have remained on the side of\nthe Reformation. But here, too, there was a serious hitch. Elizabeth\nwould not marry Arran. Elizabeth would be no party to any of their\nintrigues. She detested Knox. She detested Protestantism entirely, in\nall shapes in which Knox approved of it. She affronted the nobles on one\nside, she affronted the people on another; and all idea of uniting the\ntwo crowns after the fashion proposed by the Scotch Parliament she\nutterly and entirely repudiated. She was right enough, perhaps, so far\nas this was concerned; but she left the ruling families extremely\nperplexed as to the course which they would follow. They had allowed the\ncountry to be revolutionised in the teeth of their own sovereign, and\nwhat to do next they did not very well know.\n\nIt was at this crisis that circumstances came in to their help. Francis\nthe Second died. Mary Stuart was left a childless widow. Her connexion\nwith the Crown of France was at an end, and all danger on that side to\nthe liberties of Scotland at an end also. The Arran scheme having\nfailed, she would be a second card as good as the first to play for the\nEnglish Crown--as good as he, or better, for she would have the English\nCatholics on her side. So, careless how it would affect religion, and\nmaking no condition at all about that, the same men who a year before\nwere ready to whistle Mary Stuart down the wind, now invited her back to\nScotland; the same men who had been the loudest friends of Elizabeth now\nencouraged Mary Stuart to persist in the pretension to the Crown of\nEngland, which had led to all the past trouble. While in France, she had\nassumed the title of Queen of England. She had promised to abandon it,\nbut, finding her own people ready to support her in withdrawing her\npromise, she stood out, insisting that at all events the English\nParliament should declare her next in the succession; and it was well\nknown that, as soon as the succession was made sure in her favour, some\nrascal would be found to put a knife or a bullet into Elizabeth. The\nobject of the Scotch nobles was political, national, patriotic. For\nreligion it was no great matter either way; and as they had before acted\nwith the Protestants, so now they were ready to turn about, and openly\nor tacitly act with the Catholics. Mary Stuart's friends in England and\non the Continent were Catholics, and therefore it would not do to offend\nthem. First, she was allowed to have mass at Holyrood; then there was a\nmove for a broader toleration. That one mass, Knox said, was more\nterrible to him than ten thousand armed men landed in the country--and\nhe had perfectly good reason for saying so. He thoroughly understood\nthat it was the first step towards a counter-revolution which in time\nwould cover all Scotland and England, and carry them back to Popery. Yet\nhe preached to deaf ears. Even Murray was so bewitched with the notion\nof the English succession, that for a year and a half he ceased to speak\nto Knox; and as it was with Murray, so it was far more with all the\nrest--their zeal for religion was gone no one knew where. Of course\nElizabeth would not give way. She might as well, she said, herself\nprepare her shroud; and then conspiracies came, and under-ground\nintrigues with the Romanist English noblemen. France and Spain were to\ninvade England, Scotland was to open its ports to their fleets, and its\nsoil to their armies, giving them a safe base from which to act, and a\ndry road over the Marches to London. And if Scotland had remained\nunchanged from what it had been--had the direction of its fortunes\nremained with the prince and with the nobles, sooner or later it would\nhave come to this. But suddenly it appeared that there was a new power\nin this country which no one suspected till it was felt.\n\nThe commons of Scotland had hitherto been the creatures of the nobles.\nThey had neither will nor opinion of their own. They thought and acted\nin the spirit of their immediate allegiance. No one seems to have dreamt\nthat there would be any difficulty in dealing with them if once the\ngreat families agreed upon a common course. Yet it appeared, when the\npressure came, that religion, which was the play-thing of the nobles,\nwas to the people a clear matter of life and death. They might love\ntheir country: they might be proud of anything which would add lustre to\nits crown; but if it was to bring back the Pope and Popery--if it\nthreatened to bring them back--if it looked that way--they would have\nnothing to do with it; nor would they allow it to be done. Allegiance\nwas well enough; but there was a higher allegiance suddenly discovered\nwhich superseded all earthly considerations. I know nothing finer in\nScottish history than the way in which the commons of the Lowlands took\ntheir places by the side of Knox in the great convulsions which\nfollowed. If all others forsook him, they at least would never forsake\nhim while tongue remained to speak and hand remained to strike. Broken\nthey might have been, trampled out as the Huguenots at last were\ntrampled out in France, had Mary Stuart been less than the most\nimprudent or the most unlucky of sovereigns. But Providence, or the\nfolly of those with whom they had to deal, fought for them. I need not\nfollow the wild story of the crimes and catastrophes in which Mary\nStuart's short reign in Scotland closed. Neither is her own share, be it\ngreat or small, or none at all, in those crimes of any moment to us\nhere. It is enough that, both before that strange business and after it,\nwhen at Holyrood or across the Border, in Sheffield or Tutbury, her ever\nfavourite dream was still the English throne. Her road towards it was\nthrough a Catholic revolution and the murder of Elizabeth. It is enough\nthat, both before and after, the aristocracy of Scotland, even those\namong them who had seemed most zealous for the Reformation, were eager\nto support her. John Knox alone, and the commons, whom Knox had raised\ninto a political power, remained true.\n\nMuch, indeed, is to be said for the Scotch nobles. In the first shock of\nthe business at Kirk-o'-Field, they forgot their politics in a sense of\nnational disgrace. They sent the queen to Loch Leven. They intended to\nbring her to trial, and, if she was proved guilty, to expose and perhaps\npunish her. All parties for a time agreed in this--even the Hamiltons\nthemselves; and had they been left alone they would have done it. But\nthey had a perverse neighbour in England, to whom crowned heads were\nsacred. Elizabeth, it might have been thought, would have had no\nparticular objection; but Elizabeth had aims of her own which baffled\ncalculation. Elizabeth, the representative of revolution, yet detested\nrevolutionists. The Reformers in Scotland, the Huguenots in France, the\ninsurgents in the United Provinces, were the only friends she had in\nEurope. For her own safety she was obliged to encourage them; yet she\nhated them all, and would at any moment have abandoned them all, if, in\nany other way, she could have secured herself. She might have conquered\nher personal objection to Knox--she could not conquer her aversion to a\nChurch which rose out of revolt against authority, which was democratic\nin constitution and republican in politics. When driven into alliance\nwith the Scotch Protestants, she angrily and passionately disclaimed any\ncommunity of creed with them; and for subjects to sit in judgment on\ntheir prince was a precedent which she would not tolerate. Thus she\nflung her mantle over Mary Stuart. She told the Scotch Council here in\nEdinburgh that, if they hurt a hair of her head, she would harry their\ncountry, and hang them all on the trees round the town, if she could\nfind any trees there for that purpose. She tempted the queen to England\nwith her fair promises after the battle of Langside, and then, to her\nastonishment, imprisoned her. Yet she still shielded her reputation,\nstill fostered her party in Scotland, still incessantly threatened and\nincessantly endeavoured to restore her. She kept her safe, because, in\nher lucid intervals, her ministers showed her the madness of acting\notherwise. Yet for three years she kept her own people in a fever of\napprehension. She made a settled Government in Scotland impossible;\ntill, distracted and perplexed, the Scottish statesmen went back to\ntheir first schemes. They assured themselves that in one way or other\nthe Queen of Scots would sooner or later come again among them. They,\nand others besides them, believed that Elizabeth was cutting her own\nthroat, and that the best that they could do was to recover their own\nqueen's favour, and make the most of her and her titles; and so they\nlent themselves again to the English Catholic conspiracies.\n\nThe Earl of Moray--the one supremely noble man then living in the\ncountry--was put out of the way by an assassin. French and Spanish money\npoured in, and French and Spanish armies were to be again invited over\nto Scotland. This is the form in which the drama unfolds itself in the\ncorrespondence of the time. Maitland, the soul and spirit of it all,\nsaid, in scorn, that 'he would make the Queen of England sit upon her\ntail and whine like a whipped dog.' The only powerful noblemen who\nremained on the Protestant side were Lennox, Morton, and Mar. Lord\nLennox was a poor creature, and was soon dispatched; Mar was old and\nweak; and Morton was an unprincipled scoundrel, who used the Reformation\nonly as a stalking-horse to cover the spoils which he had clutched in\nthe confusion, and was ready to desert the cause at any moment if the\nbalance of advantage shifted. Even the ministers of the Kirk were fooled\nand flattered over. Maitland told Mary Stuart that he had gained them\nall except one.\n\nJohn Knox alone defied both his threats and his persuasions. Good reason\nhas Scotland to be proud of Knox. He only, in this wild crisis, saved\nthe Kirk which he had founded, and saved with it Scottish and English\nfreedom. But for Knox, and what he was able still to do, it is almost\ncertain that the Duke of Alva's army would have been landed on the\neastern coast. The conditions were drawn out and agreed upon for the\nreception, the support, and the stay of the Spanish troops. Two-thirds\nof the English peerage had bound themselves to rise against Elizabeth,\nand Alva waited only till Scotland itself was quiet. Only that quiet\nwould not be. Instead of quiet came three dreadful years of civil war.\nScotland was split into factions, to which the mother and son gave\nnames. The queen's lords, as they were called, with unlimited money from\nFrance and Flanders, held Edinburgh and Glasgow; all the border line was\ntheirs, and all the north and west. Elizabeth's Council, wiser than\ntheir mistress, barely squeezed out of her reluctant parsimony enough to\nkeep Mar and Morton from making terms with the rest; but there her\nassistance ended. She would still say nothing, promise nothing, bind\nherself to nothing, and, so far as she was concerned, the war would have\nbeen soon enough brought to a close. But away at St. Andrews, John Knox,\nbroken in body, and scarcely able to stagger up the pulpit stairs, still\nthundered in the parish church; and his voice, it was said, was like ten\nthousand trumpets braying in the ear of Scottish Protestantism. All the\nLowlands answered to his call. Our English Cromwell found in the man of\nreligion a match for the man of honour. Before Cromwell, all over the\nLothians, and across from St. Andrews to Stirling and Glasgow--through\nfarm, and town, and village--the words of Knox had struck the inmost\nchords of the Scottish commons' hearts. Passing over knight and noble,\nhe had touched the farmer, the peasant, the petty tradesman, and the\nartisan, and turned the men of clay into men of steel. The village\npreacher, when he left his pulpit, doffed cap and cassock, and donned\nmorion and steel-coat. The Lothian yeoman's household became for the\nnonce a band of troopers, who would cross swords with the night riders\nof Buccleuch. It was a terrible time, a time rather of anarchy than of\ndefined war, for it was without form or shape. Yet the horror of it was\neverywhere. Houses and villages were burned, and women and children\ntossed on pike-point into the flames. Strings of poor men were dangled\nday after day from the walls of Edinburgh Castle. A word any way from\nElizabeth would have ended it, but that word Elizabeth would never\nspeak; and, maddened with suffering, the people half believed that she\nwas feeding the fire for her own bad purposes, when it was only that she\nwould not make up her mind to allow a crowned princess to be dethroned.\nNo earthly influence could have held men true in such a trial. The noble\nlords--the Earl of Morton and such-like--would have made their own\nconditions, and gone with the rest; but the vital force of the Scotch\nnation, showing itself where it was least looked for, would not have it\nso.\n\nA very remarkable account of the state of the Scotch commons at this\ntime is to be found in a letter of an English emissary, who had been\nsent by Lord Burleigh to see how things were going there. It was not\nmerely a new creed that they had got; it was a new vital power. 'You\nwould be astonished to see how men are changed here,' this writer said.\n'There is little of that submission to those above them which there used\nto be. The poor think and act for themselves. They are growing strong,\nconfident, independent. The farms are better cultivated; the farmers are\ngrowing rich. The merchants at Leith are thriving, and, notwithstanding\nthe pirates, they are increasing their ships and opening a brisk trade\nwith France.'\n\nAll this while civil war was raging, and the flag of Queen Mary was\nstill floating over Edinburgh Castle. It surprised the English; still\nmore it surprised the politicians. It was the one thing which\ndisconcerted, baffled, and finally ruined the schemes and the dreams of\nMaitland. When he had gained the aristocracy, he thought that he had\ngained everybody, and, as it turned out, he had all his work still to\ndo. The Spaniards did not come. The prudent Alva would not risk invasion\ntill Scotland at least was assured. As time passed on, the English\nconspiracies were discovered and broken up. The Duke of Norfolk lost his\nhead; the Queen of Scots was found to have been mixed up with the plots\nto murder Elizabeth; and Elizabeth at last took courage and recognised\nJames. Supplies of money ceased to come from abroad, and gradually the\ntide turned. The Protestant cause once more grew towards the ascendant.\nThe great families one by one came round again; and, as the backward\nmovement began, the Massacre of St. Bartholomew gave it a fresh and\ntremendous impulse. Even the avowed Catholics--the Hamiltons, the\nGordons, the Scotts, the Kers, the Maxwells--quailed before the wail of\nrage and sorrow which at that great horror rose over their country. The\nQueen's party dwindled away to a handful of desperate politicians, who\nstill clung to Edinburgh Castle. But Elizabeth's 'peace-makers,' as the\nbig English cannon were called, came round, at the Regent's request,\nfrom Berwick; David's tower, as Knox had long ago foretold, 'ran down\nover the cliff like a sandy brae;' and the cause of Mary Stuart in\nScotland was extinguished for ever. Poor Grange, who deserved a better\nend, was hanged at the Market Cross. Secretary Maitland, the cause of\nall the mischief--the cleverest man, as far as intellect went, in all\nBritain--died (so later rumour said) by his own hand. A nobler version\nof his end is probably a truer one: He had been long ill--so ill that\nwhen the Castle cannon were fired, he had been carried into the cellars\nas unable to bear the sound. The breaking down of his hopes finished\nhim. 'The secretary,' wrote some one from the spot to Cecil, 'is dead of\ngrief, being unable to endure the great hatred which all this people\nbears towards him.' It would be well if some competent man would write a\nlife of Maitland, or at least edit his papers. They contain by far the\nclearest account of the inward movements of the time; and he himself is\none of the most tragically interesting characters in the cycle of the\nReformation history.\n\nWith the fall of the Castle, then, but not till then, it became clear to\nall men that the Reformation would hold its ground. It was the final\ntrampling out of the fire which for five years had threatened both\nEngland and Scotland with flames and ruin. For five years--as late\ncertainly as the massacre of St. Bartholomew--those who understood best\nthe true state of things, felt the keenest misgivings how the event\nwould turn. That things ended as they did was due to the spirit of the\nScotch commons. There was a moment when, if they had given way, all\nwould have gone, perhaps even to Elizabeth's throne. They had passed for\nnothing; they had proved to be everything; had proved--the ultimate test\nin human things--to be the power which could hit the hardest blows, and\nthey took rank accordingly. The creed began now in good earnest to make\nits way into hall and castle; but it kept the form which it assumed in\nthe first hours of its danger and trial, and never after lost it. Had\nthe aristocracy dealt sincerely with things in the earlier stages of the\nbusiness, again I say the democratic element in the Kirk might have been\nsoftened or modified. But the Protestants had been trifled with by their\nown natural leaders. Used and abused by Elizabeth, despised by the\nworldly intelligence and power of the times--they triumphed after all,\nand, as a natural consequence, they set their own mark and stamp upon\nthe fruits of the victory.\n\nThe question now is, what has the Kirk so established done for Scotland?\nHas it justified its own existence? Briefly, we might say, it has\ncontinued its first function as the guardian of Scottish freedom. But\nthat is a vague phrase, and there are special accusations against the\nKirk and its doctrines which imply that it has cared for other things\nthan freedom. Narrow, fanatical, dictatorial, intrusive, superstitious,\na spiritual despotism, the old priesthood over again with a new\nface--these and other such epithets and expressions we have heard often\nenough applied to it at more than one stage of its history. Well, I\nsuppose that neither the Kirk nor anything else of man's making is\naltogether perfect. But let us look at the work which lay before it when\nit had got over its first perils. Scotch patriotism succeeded at last in\nthe object it had so passionately set its heart upon. It sent a king at\nlast of the Scotch blood to England, and a new dynasty; and it never\nknew peace or quiet after. The Kirk had stood between James Stuart and\nhis kingcraft. He hated it as heartily as did his mother; and, when he\ngot to England, he found people there who told him it would be easy to\ndestroy it, and he found the strength of a fresh empire to back him in\ntrying to do it. To have forced prelacy upon Scotland would have been to\ndestroy the life out of Scotland. Thrust upon them by force, it would\nhave been no more endurable than Popery. They would as soon, perhaps\nsooner, have had what the Irish call the 'rale thing' back again. The\npolitical freedom of the country was now wrapped up in the Kirk; and the\nStuarts were perfectly well aware of that, and for that very reason\nbegan their crusade against it.\n\nAnd now, suppose the Kirk had been the broad, liberal, philosophical,\nintellectual thing which some people think it ought to have been, how\nwould it have fared in that crusade; how altogether would it have\nencountered those surplices of Archbishop Laud or those dragoons of\nClaverhouse? It is hard to lose one's life for a 'perhaps,' and\nphilosophical belief at the bottom means a 'perhaps' and nothing more.\nFor more than half the seventeenth century, the battle had to be fought\nout in Scotland, which in reality was the battle between liberty and\ndespotism; and where, except in an intense, burning conviction that they\nwere maintaining God's cause against the devil, could the poor Scotch\npeople have found the strength for the unequal struggle which was forced\nupon them? Toleration is a good thing in its place; but you cannot\ntolerate what will not tolerate you, and is trying to cut your throat.\nEnlightenment you cannot have enough of, but it must be true\nenlightenment, which sees a thing in all its bearings. In these matters\nthe vital questions are not always those which appear on the surface;\nand in the passion and resolution of brave and noble men there is often\nan inarticulate intelligence deeper than what can be expressed in words.\nAction sometimes will hit the mark, when the spoken word either misses\nit or is but half the truth. On such subjects, and with common men,\nlatitude of mind means weakness of mind. There is but a certain quantity\nof spiritual force in any man. Spread it over a broad surface, the\nstream is shallow and languid; narrow the channel, and it becomes a\ndriving force. Each may be well at its own time. The mill-race which\ndrives the water-wheel is dispersed in rivulets over the meadow at its\nfoot. The Covenanters fought the fight and won the victory, and then,\nand not till then, came the David Humes with their essays on miracles,\nand the Adam Smiths with their political economies, and steam-engines,\nand railroads, and philosophical institutions, and all the other blessed\nor unblessed fruits of liberty.\n\nBut we may go further. Institutions exist for men, not men for\ninstitutions; and the ultimate test of any system of politics, or body\nof opinions, or form of belief, is the effect produced on the conduct\nand condition of the people who live and die under them. Now, I am not\nhere to speak of Scotland of the present day. That, happily, is no\nbusiness of mine. We have to do here with Scotland before the march of\nintellect; with Scotland of the last two centuries; with the three or\nfour hundred thousand families, who for half-a-score of generations\nbelieved simply and firmly in the principles of the Reformation, and\nwalked in the ways of it.\n\nLooked at broadly, one would say they had been an eminently pious\npeople. It is part of the complaint of modern philosophers about them,\nthat religion, or superstition, or whatever they please to call it, had\ntoo much to do with their daily lives. So far as one can look into that\ncommonplace round of things which historians never tell us about, there\nhave rarely been seen in this world a set of people who have thought\nmore about right and wrong, and the judgment about them of the upper\npowers. Long-headed, thrifty industry,--a sound hatred of waste,\nimprudence, idleness, extravagance,--the feet planted firmly upon the\nearth,--a conscientious sense that the worldly virtues are,\nnevertheless, very necessary virtues, that without these, honesty for\none thing is not possible, and that without honesty no other excellence,\nreligious or moral, is worth anything at all--this is the stuff of which\nScotch life was made, and very good stuff it is. It has been called\ngloomy, austere, harsh, and such other epithets. A gifted modern writer\nhas favoured us lately with long strings of extracts from the sermons of\nScotch divines of the last century, taking hard views of human\nshortcomings and their probable consequences, and passing hard censures\nupon the world and its amusements. Well, no doubt amusement is a very\ngood thing; but I should rather infer from the vehemence and frequency\nof these denunciations that the people had not been in the habit of\ndenying themselves too immoderately; and, after all, it is no very hard\ncharge against those teachers that they thought more of duty than of\npleasure. Sermons always exaggerate the theoretic side of things; and\nthe most austere preacher, when he is out of the pulpit, and you meet\nhim at the dinner-table, becomes singularly like other people. We may\ntake courage, I think, we may believe safely that in those\nminister-ridden days, men were not altogether so miserable; we may hope\nthat no large body of human beings have for any length of time been too\ndangerously afraid of enjoyment. Among other good qualities, the Scots\nhave been distinguished for humour--not for venomous wit, but for\nkindly, genial humour, which half loves what it laughs at--and this\nalone shows clearly enough that those to whom it belongs have not looked\ntoo exclusively on the gloomy side of the world. I should rather say\nthat the Scots had been an unusually happy people. Intelligent industry,\nthe honest doing of daily work, with a sense that it must be done well,\nunder penalties; the necessaries of life moderately provided for; and a\nsensible content with the situation of life in which men are born--this\nthrough the week, and at the end of it the 'Cottar's Saturday\nNight'--the homely family, gathered reverently and peacefully together,\nand irradiated with a sacred presence.--Happiness! such happiness as we\nhuman creatures are likely to know upon this world, will be found there,\nif anywhere.\n\nThe author of the 'History of Civilisation' makes a naive remark in\nconnexion with this subject. Speaking of the other country, which he\ncensures equally with Scotland for its slavery to superstition, he says\nof the Spaniards that they are a well-natured, truthful, industrious,\ntemperate, pious people, innocent in their habits, affectionate in their\nfamilies, full of humour, vivacity, and shrewdness, yet that all this\n'has availed them nothing'--'has availed them nothing,' that is his\nexpression--because they are loyal, because they are credulous, because\nthey are contented, because they have not apprehended the first\ncommandment of the new covenant: 'Thou shalt get on and make money, and\nbetter thy condition in life;' because, therefore, they have added\nnothing to the scientific knowledge, the wealth, and the progress of\nmankind. Without these, it seems, the old-fashioned virtues avail\nnothing. They avail a great deal to human happiness. Applied science,\nand steam, and railroads, and machinery, enable an ever-increasing\nnumber of people to live upon the earth; but the happiness of those\npeople remains, so far as I know, dependent very much on the old\nconditions. I should be glad to believe that the new views of things\nwill produce effects upon the character in the long run half so\nbeautiful.\n\nThere is much more to say on this subject, were there time to say it,\nbut I will not trespass too far upon your patience; and I would gladly\nhave ended here, had not the mention of Spain suggested one other topic,\nwhich I should not leave unnoticed. The Spain of Cervantes and Don\nQuixote was the Spain of the Inquisition. The Scotland of Knox and\nMelville was the Scotland of the witch trials and witch burnings. The\nbelief in witches was common to all the world. The prosecution and\npunishment of the poor creatures was more conspicuous in Scotland when\nthe Kirk was most powerful; in England and New England, when Puritan\nprinciples were also dominant there. It is easy to understand the\nreasons. Evil of all kinds was supposed to be the work of a personal\ndevil; and in the general horror of evil, this particular form of it,\nin which the devil was thought especially active, excited the most\npassionate detestation. Thus, even the best men lent themselves\nunconsciously to the most detestable cruelty. Knox himself is not free\nfrom reproach. A poor woman was burned at St. Andrews when he was living\nthere, and when a word from him would have saved her. It remains a\nlesson to all time, that goodness, though the indispensable adjunct to\nknowledge, is no substitute for it; that when conscience undertakes to\ndictate beyond its province, the result is only the more monstrous.\n\nIt is well that we should look this matter in the face; and as\nparticular stories leave more impression than general statements, I will\nmention one, perfectly well authenticated, which I take from the\nofficial report of the proceedings:--Towards the end of 1593 there was\ntrouble in the family of the Earl of Orkney. His brother laid a plot to\nmurder him, and was said to have sought the help of a 'notorious witch'\ncalled Alison Balfour. When Alison Balfour's life was looked into, no\nevidence could be found connecting her either with the particular\noffence or with witchcraft in general; but it was enough in these\nmatters to be accused. She swore she was innocent; but her guilt was\nonly held to be aggravated by perjury. She was tortured again and again.\nHer legs were put in the caschilaws--an iron frame which was gradually\nheated till it burned into the flesh--but no confession could be wrung\nfrom her. The caschilaws failed utterly, and something else had to be\ntried. She had a husband, a son, and a daughter, a child seven years\nold. As her own sufferings did not work upon her, she might be touched,\nperhaps, by the sufferings of those who were dear to her. They were\nbrought into court, and placed at her side; and the husband first was\nplaced in the 'lang irons'--some accursed instrument; I know not what.\nStill the devil did not yield. She bore this; and her son was next\noperated on. The boy's legs were set in 'the boot,'--the iron boot you\nmay have heard of. The wedges were driven in, which, when forced home,\ncrushed the very bone and marrow. Fifty-seven mallet strokes were\ndelivered upon the wedges. Yet this, too, failed. There was no\nconfession yet. So, last of all, the little daughter was taken. There\nwas a machine called the piniwinkies--a kind of thumbscrew, which\nbrought blood from under the finger nails, with a pain successfully\nterrible. These things were applied to the poor child's hands, and the\nmother's constancy broke down, and she said she would admit anything\nthey wished. She confessed her witchcraft--so tried, she would have\nconfessed to the seven deadly sins--and then she was burned, recalling\nher confession, and with her last breath protesting her innocence.\n\nIt is due to the intelligence of the time to admit that after this her\nguilt was doubted, and such vicarious means of extorting confession do\nnot seem to have been tried again. Yet the men who inflicted these\ntortures would have borne them all themselves sooner than have done any\nact which they consciously knew to be wrong. They did not know that the\ninstincts of humanity were more sacred than the logic of theology, and\nin fighting against the devil they were themselves doing the devil's\nwork. We should not attempt to apologise for these things, still less to\nforget them. No martyrs ever suffered to instil into mankind a more\nwholesome lesson--more wholesome, or one more hard to learn. The more\nconscientious men are, the more difficult it is for them to understand\nthat in their most cherished convictions, when they pass beyond the\nlimits where the wise and good of all sorts agree, they may be the\nvictims of mere delusion. Yet, after all, and happily, such cases were\nbut few, and affected but lightly the general condition of the people.\n\nThe student running over the records of other times finds certain\nsalient things standing out in frightful prominence. He concludes that\nthe substance of those times was made up of the matters most dwelt on by\nthe annalist. He forgets that the things most noticed are not those of\nevery-day experience, but the abnormal, the extraordinary, the\nmonstrous. The exceptions are noted down, the common and usual is passed\nover in silence. The philosophic historian, studying hereafter this\npresent age, in which we are ourselves living, may say that it was a\ntime of unexampled prosperity, luxury, and wealth; but catching at\ncertain horrible murders which have lately disgraced our civilisation,\nmay call us a nation of assassins. It is to invert the pyramid and stand\nit on its point. The same system of belief which produced the tragedy\nwhich I have described, in its proper province as the guide of ordinary\nlife, has been the immediate cause of all that is best and greatest in\nScottish character.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHILOSOPHY OF CATHOLICISM.[C]\n\n\nNot long ago I heard a living thinker of some eminence say that he\nconsidered Christianity to have been a misfortune. Intellectually, he\nsaid, it was absurd; and practically, it was an offence, over which he\nstumbled. It would have been far better for mankind, he thought, if they\ncould have kept clear of superstition, and followed on upon the track of\nthe Grecian philosophy. So little do men care to understand the\nconditions which have made them what they are, and which has created for\nthem that very wisdom in which they themselves are so contented. But it\nis strange, indeed, that a person who could deliberately adopt such a\nconclusion should trouble himself any more to look for truth. If a mere\nabsurdity could make its way out of a little fishing village in Galilee,\nand spread through the whole civilised world; if men are so pitiably\nsilly, that in an age of great mental activity their strongest thinkers\nshould have sunk under an abortion of fear and folly, should have\nallowed it to absorb into itself whatever of heroism, of devotion,\nself-sacrifice, and moral nobleness there was among them; surely there\nwere nothing better for a wise man than to make the best of his time,\nand to crowd what enjoyment he can find into it, sheltering himself in a\nvery disdainful Pyrrhonism from all care for mankind or for their\nopinions. For what better test of truth have we than the ablest men's\nacceptance of it? and if the ablest men eighteen centuries ago\ndeliberately accepted what is now too absurd to reason upon, what right\nhave we to hope that with the same natures, the same passions, the same\nunderstandings, no better proof against deception, we, like they, are\nnot entangled in what, at the close of another era, shall seem again\nridiculous? The scoff of Cicero at the divinity of Liber and Ceres\n(bread and wine) may be translated literally by the modern Protestant;\nand the sarcasms which Clement and Tertullian flung at the Pagan creed,\nthe modern sceptic returns upon their own. Of what use is it to destroy\nan idol, when another, or the same in another form, takes immediate\npossession of the vacant pedestal?\n\nI shall not argue with the extravagant hypothesis of my friend. In the\nopinion even of Goethe, who was not troubled with credulity, the human\nrace can never attain to anything higher than Christianity--if we mean\nby Christianity the religion which was revealed to the world in the\nteaching and the life of its Founder. But even the more limited\nreprobation by our own Reformers of the creed of mediaeval Europe is not\nmore just or philosophical.\n\nPtolemy was not perfect, but Newton had been a fool if he had scoffed at\nPtolemy. Newton could not have been without Ptolemy, nor Ptolemy without\nthe Chaldees; and as it is with the minor sciences, so far more is it\nwith the science of sciences--the science of life, which has grown\nthrough all the ages from the beginning of time. We speak of the errors\nof the past. We, with this glorious present which is opening on us, we\nshall never enter on it, we shall never understand it, till we have\nlearnt to see in that past, not error, but instalment of truth,\nhard-fought-for truth, wrung out with painful and heroic effort. The\npromised land is smiling before us, but we may not pass over into the\npossession of it while the bones of our fathers who laboured through the\nwilderness lie bleaching on the sands, or a prey to the unclean birds.\nWe must gather their relics and bury them, and sum up their labours, and\ninscribe the record of their actions on their tombs as an honourable\nepitaph. If Catholicism really is passing away, if it has done its work,\nand if what is left of it is now holding us back from better things, it\nis not for our bitterness but for our affectionate acknowledgment, nor\nfor our heaping contempt on what it is, but for our reverend and patient\nexamination of what it has been, that it will be content to bid us\nfarewell, and give us God speed on our further journey.\n\nIn the Natural History of Religions, certain broad phenomena perpetually\nrepeat themselves; they rise in the highest thought extant at the time\nof their origin; the conclusions of philosophy settle into a creed; art\nornaments it, devotion consecrates it, time elaborates it. It grows\nthrough a long series of generations into the heart and habits of the\npeople; and so long as no disturbing cause interferes, or so long as the\nidea at the centre of it survives, a healthy, vigorous, natural life\nshoots beautifully up out of the intellectual root. But at last the idea\nbecomes obsolete; the numbing influence of habit petrifies the spirit in\nthe outside ceremonial, while new questions arise among the thinkers,\nand ideas enter into new and unexplained relations. The old formula will\nnot serve; but new formulae are tardy in appearing; and habit and\nsuperstition cling to the past, and policy vindicates it, and statecraft\nupholds it forcibly as serviceable to order, till, from the combined\naction of folly, and worldliness, and ignorance, the once beautiful\nsymbolism becomes at last no better than 'a whited sepulchre full of\ndead men's bones and all uncleanness.' So it is now. So it was in the\nera of the Caesars, out of which Christianity arose; and Christianity, in\nthe form which it assumed at the close of the Arian controversy, was the\ndeliberate solution which the most powerful intellects of that day could\noffer of the questions which had grown with the growth of mankind, and\non which Paganism had suffered shipwreck.\n\nPaganism, as a creed, was entirely physical. When Paganism rose, men had\nnot begun to reflect upon themselves, or the infirmities of their own\nnature. The bad man was a bad man--the coward, a coward--the liar, a\nliar--individually hateful and despicable: but in hating and despising\nsuch unfortunates, the old Greeks were satisfied to have felt all that\nit was necessary to feel about them; and how such a phenomenon as a bad\nman came to exist in this world, they scarcely cared to enquire. There\nis no evil spirit in the mythology as an antagonist of the gods. There\nis the Erinnys as the avenger of monstrous villanies; there is a\nTartarus where the darkest criminals suffer eternal tortures. But\nTantalus and Ixion are suffering for enormous crimes, to which the small\nwickedness of common men offers no analogy. Moreover, these and other\nsuch stories are only curiously ornamented myths, representing physical\nphenomena. But with Socrates a change came over philosophy; a\nsign--perhaps a cause--of the decline of the existing religion. The\nstudy of man superseded the study of nature: a purer Theism came in with\nthe higher ideal of perfection, and sin and depravity at once assumed an\nimportance, the intensity of which made every other question\ninsignificant. How man could know the good and yet choose the evil; how\nGod could be all pure and almighty, and yet evil have broken into his\ncreation--these were the questions which thenceforth were the perplexity\nof philosophic speculation.\n\nWhatever difficulty there might be in discovering how evil came to be,\nthe leaders of all the sects agreed at last upon the seat of it. Whether\n_matter_ was eternal, as Aristotle thought, or created, as Plato\nthought, both Plato and Aristotle were equally satisfied that the secret\nof all the shortcomings in this world lay in the imperfection,\nreluctancy, or inherent grossness of this impracticable substance. God\nwould have everything perfect, but the nature of the element in which He\nworked in some way defeated his purpose. Death, disease, decay, clung\nnecessarily to everything which was created out of it; and pain, and\nwant, and hunger, and suffering. Worse than all, the spirit in its\nmaterial body was opposed and borne down, its aspirations crushed, its\npurity tainted by the passions and appetites of its companion--the\nfleshly lusts which waged perpetual war against the soul.\n\nMatter was the cause of evil, and thenceforth the question was how to\nconquer matter, or, at least, how to set free the spirit from its\ncontrol.\n\nThe Greek language and the Greek literature spread behind the march of\nAlexander; but as his generals could only make their conquests permanent\nby largely accepting the Eastern manners, so philosophy could only make\ngood its ground by becoming itself Orientalised. The one pure and holy\nGod whom Plato had painfully reasoned out for himself had existed from\nimmemorial time in the traditions of the Jews; while the Persians, who\nhad before taught the Jews at Babylon the existence of an independent\nevil being, now had him to offer to the Greeks as their account of the\ndifficulties which had perplexed Socrates. Seven centuries of struggle,\nand many hundred thousand folios, were the results of the remarkable\nfusion which followed. Out of these elements, united in various\nproportions, rose successively the Alexandrian philosophy, the\nHellenists, the Therapeutae, those strange Essene communists, with the\ninnumerable sects of Gnostic or Christian heretics. Finally, the battle\nwas limited to the two great rivals, under one or other of which the\nbest of the remainder had ranged themselves--Manicheism and Catholic\nChristianity: Manicheism in which the Persian--Catholicism in which the\nJewish--element most preponderated. It did not end till the close of the\nfifth century, and it ended then rather by arbitration than by a decided\nvictory which either side could claim. The Church has yet to acknowledge\nhow large a portion of its enemy's doctrines it incorporated through the\nmediation of Augustine before the field was surrendered to it. Let us\ntrace something of the real bearings of this section of the world's\nOriental history, which to so many moderns seems no better than an idle\nfighting over words and straws.\n\nFacts witnessing so clearly that the especial strength of evil lay, as\nthe philosophers had seen, in _matter_, it was so far a conclusion which\nboth Jew and Persian were ready to accept; the naked Aristotelic view of\nit being most acceptable to the Persian, the Platonic to the Hellenistic\nJew. But the purer theology of the Jew forced him to look for a solution\nof the question which Plato had left doubtful, and to explain how evil\nhad crept into matter. He could not allow that what God had created\ncould be of its own nature imperfect. God made it very good; some other\ncause had broken in to spoil it. Accordingly, as before he had reduced\nthe independent Arimanes, whose existence he had learnt at Babylon, into\na subordinate spirit; so now, not questioning the facts of disease, of\ndeath, of pain, or of the infirmity of the flesh which the natural\nstrength of the spirit was unable to resist, he accounted for them under\nthe supposition that the first man had deliberately sinned, and by his\nsin had brought a curse upon the whole material earth, and upon all\nwhich was fashioned out of it. The earth was created pure and lovely--a\ngarden of delight, loading itself of its own free accord with fruit and\nflower, and everything most exquisite and beautiful. No bird or beast of\nprey broke the eternal peace which reigned over its hospitable surface.\nIn calm and quiet intercourse, the leopard lay down by the kid, the lion\nbrowsed beside the ox, and the corporeal frame of man, knowing neither\ndecay nor death, nor unruly appetite, nor any change or infirmity, was\npure as the immortal substance of the unfallen angels.\n\nBut with the fatal apple all this fair scene passed away, and creation\nas it seemed was hopelessly and irretrievably ruined. Adam sinned--no\nmatter how, he sinned; the sin was the one terrible fact: moral evil was\nbrought into the world by the only creature who was capable of\ncommitting it. Sin entered in, and death by sin; death and disease,\nstorm and pestilence, earthquake and famine. The imprisoned passions of\nthe wild animals were let loose, and earth and air became full of\ncarnage: worst of all, man's animal nature came out in gigantic\nstrength--the carnal lusts, unruly appetites, jealousies, hatreds,\nrapines, and murders; and then the law, and with it, of course, breaches\nof the law, and sin on sin. The seed of Adam was infected in the animal\nchange which had passed over Adam's person, and every child, therefore,\nthenceforth naturally engendered in his posterity, was infected with the\ncurse which he had incurred. Every material organisation thenceforward\ncontained in itself the elements of its own destruction, and the\nphilosophic conclusions of Aristotle were accepted and explained by\ntheology. Already, in the popular histories, those who were infected by\ndisease were said to be bound by Satan; madness was a 'possession' by\nthe Evil Spirit; and the whole creation, from Adam till Christ, groaned\nand travailed under Satan's power. The nobler nature in man still made\nitself felt; but it was a slave when it ought to command. It might will\nto obey the higher law, but the law in the members was over-strong for\nit and bore it down. This was the body of death which philosophy\ndetected but could not explain, and from which Catholicism now came\nforward with its magnificent promise of deliverance.\n\nThe carnal doctrine of the sacraments, which Protestants are compelled\nto acknowledge to have been taught as fully in the early Church as it is\nnow taught by the Roman Catholics, has long been the stumbling-block to\nmodern thought. It was the very essence of the original creed. Unless\nthe body could be purified, the soul could not be saved; because from\nthe beginning, soul and flesh were one man and inseparable. Without his\nflesh, man was not, or would cease to be. But the natural organisation\nof the flesh was infected with evil, and unless organisation could begin\nagain from a new original, no pure material substance could exist at\nall. He, therefore, by whom God had first made the world, entered into\nthe womb of the Virgin in the form (if I may with reverence say so) of a\nnew organic cell; and around it, through the virtue of his creative\nenergy, a material body grew again of the substance of his mother, pure\nof taint and clean as the first body of the first man was clean when it\npassed out under his hand in the beginning of all things. In Him thus\nwonderfully born was the virtue which was to restore the lost power of\nmankind. He came to redeem man; and, therefore, He took a human body,\nand He kept it pure through a human life, till the time came when it\ncould be applied to its marvellous purpose. He died, and then appeared\nwhat was the nature of a material human body when freed from the\nlimitations of sin. The grave could not hold it, neither was it possible\nthat it should see corruption. It was real, for the disciples were\nallowed to feel and handle it. He ate and drank with them to assure\ntheir senses. But space had no power over it, nor any of the material\nobstacles which limit an ordinary power. He willed, and his body obeyed.\nHe was here, He was there. He was visible, He was invisible. He was in\nthe midst of his disciples and they saw Him, and then he was gone\nwhither who could tell? At last He passed away to heaven; but while in\nheaven, He was still on earth. His body became the body of his Church on\nearth, not in metaphor, but in fact!--his very material body, in which\nand by which the faithful would be saved. His flesh and blood were\nthenceforth to be their food. They were to eat it as they would eat\nordinary meat. They were to take it into their system, a pure material\nsubstance, to leaven the old natural substance and assimilate it to\nitself. As they fed upon it it would grow into them, and it would become\ntheir own real body. Flesh grown in the old way was the body of death,\nbut the flesh of Christ was the life of the world, over which death had\nno power. Circumcision availed nothing, nor uncircumcision--but a _new\ncreature_--and this new creature, which the child first put on in\nbaptism, was born again into Christ of water and the Spirit. In the\nEucharist he was fed and sustained, and went on from strength to\nstrength; and ever as the nature of his body changed, being able to\nrender a more complete obedience, he would at last pass away to God\nthrough the gate of the grave, and stand holy and perfect in the\npresence of Christ. Christ had indeed been ever present with him; but\nbecause while life lasted some particles of the old Adam would\nnecessarily cling to every man, the Christian's mortal eye on earth\ncould not see Him. Hedged in by 'his muddy vesture of decay,' his eyes,\nlike the eyes of the disciples of Emmaus, are holden, and only in faith\nhe feels Him. But death, which till Christ had died had been the last\nvictory of evil, in virtue of his submission to it, became its own\ndestroyer, for it had power only over the tainted particles of the old\nsubstance, and there was nothing needed but that these should be washed\naway, and the elect would stand out at once pure and holy, clothed in\nimmortal bodies, like refined gold, the redeemed of God.\n\nThe being who accomplished a work so vast--a work compared to which the\nfirst creation appears but a trifling difficulty--what could He be but\nGod? God Himself! Who but God could have wrested his prize from a power\nwhich half the thinking world believed to be his coequal and coeternal\nadversary? He was God. He was man also, for He was the second Adam--the\nsecond starting-point of human growth. He was virgin born, that no\noriginal impurity might infect the substance which He assumed; and being\nHimself sinless, He showed, in the nature of his person, after his\nresurrection, what the material body would have been in all of us except\nfor sin, and what it will be when, after feeding on it in its purity,\nthe bodies of each of us are transfigured after its likeness. Here was\nthe secret of the spirit which set St. Simeon on his pillar and sent St.\nAnthony to the tombs--of the night watches, the weary fasts, the\npenitential scourgings, the life-long austerities which have been\nalternately the glory and the reproach of the mediaeval saints. They\ndesired to overcome their animal bodies, and anticipate in life the work\nof death in uniting themselves more completely to Christ by the\ndestruction of the flesh, which lay as a veil between themselves and\nHim.\n\nSuch I believe to have been the central idea of the beautiful creed\nwhich, for 1,500 years, tuned the heart and formed the mind of the\nnoblest of mankind. From this centre it radiated out and spread, as time\nwent on, into the full circle of human activity, flinging its own\nphilosophy and its own peculiar grace over the common details of the\ncommon life of all of us. Like the seven lamps before the Throne of God,\nthe seven mighty angels, and the seven stars, the seven sacraments shed\nover mankind a never-ceasing stream of blessed influences. The priests,\na holy order set apart and endowed with mysterious power, represented\nChrist and administered his gifts. Christ, in his twelfth year, was\npresented in the Temple, and first entered on his Father's business; and\nthe baptised child, when it has grown to an age to become conscious of\nits vow and of its privilege, again renews it in full knowledge of what\nit undertakes, and receives again sacramentally a fresh gift of grace to\nassist it forward on its way. In maturity it seeks a companion to share\nits pains and pleasures; and, again, Christ is present to consecrate the\nunion. Marriage, which, outside the Church, only serves to perpetuate\nthe curse and bring fresh inheritors of misery into the world, He made\nholy by his presence at Cana, and chose it as the symbol to represent\nhis own mystic union with his Church. Even saints cannot live without at\ntimes some spot adhering to them. The atmosphere in which we breathe and\nmove is soiled, and Christ has anticipated our wants. Christ did penance\nforty days in the wilderness, not to subdue his own flesh--for that\nwhich was already perfect did not need subduing--but to give to penance\na cleansing virtue to serve for our daily or our hourly ablution. Christ\nconsecrates our birth; Christ throws over us our baptismal robe of pure\nunsullied innocence. He strengthens us as we go forward. He raises us\nwhen we fall. He feeds us with the substance of his own most precious\nbody. In the person of his minister he does all this for us, in virtue\nof that which in his own person He actually performed when a man living\non this earth. Last of all, when time is drawing to its close with\nus--when life is past, when the work is done, and the dark gate is near,\nbeyond which the garden of an eternal home is waiting to receive us, his\ntender care has not forsaken us. He has taken away the sting of death,\nbut its appearance is still terrible; and He will not leave us without\nspecial help at our last need. He tried the agony of the moment; and He\nsweetens the cup for us before we drink it. We are dismissed to the\ngrave with our bodies anointed with oil, which He made holy in his last\nanointing before his passion, and then all is over. We lie down and seem\nto decay--to decay--but not all. Our natural body decays, being the last\nremains of the infected matter which we have inherited from Adam; but\nthe spiritual body, the glorified substance which has made our life, and\nis our real body as we are in Christ, that can never decay, but passes\noff into the kingdom which is prepared for it; that other world where\nthere is no sin, and God is all and in all!\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[C] From the _Leader_, 1851.\n\n\n\n\nA PLEA FOR THE FREE DISCUSSION OF THEOLOGICAL DIFFICULTIES.[D]\n\n\nIn the ordinary branches of human knowledge or enquiry, the judicious\nquestioning of received opinions has been regarded as the sign of\nscientific vitality, the principle of scientific advancement, the very\nsource and root of healthy progress and growth. If medicine had been\nregulated three hundred years ago by Act of Parliament; if there had\nbeen Thirty-nine Articles of Physic, and every licensed practitioner had\nbeen compelled, under pains and penalties, to compound his drugs by the\nprescriptions of Henry the Eighth's physician, Doctor Butts, it is easy\nto conjecture in what state of health the people of this country would\nat present be found. Constitutions have changed with habits of life, and\nthe treatment of disorders has changed to meet the new conditions. New\ndiseases have shown themselves of which Doctor Butts had no cognizance;\nnew continents have given us plants with medicinal virtues previously\nunknown; new sciences, and even the mere increase of recorded\nexperience, have added a thousand remedies to those known to the age of\nthe Tudors. If the College of Physicians had been organised into a board\nof orthodoxy, and every novelty of treatment had been regarded as a\ncrime against society, which a law had been established to punish, the\nhundreds who die annually from preventible causes would have been\nthousands and tens of thousands.\n\nAstronomy is the most perfect of the sciences. The accuracy of the\npresent theory of the planetary movements is tested daily and hourly by\nthe most delicate experiments, and the Legislature, if it so pleased,\nmight enact the first principles of these movements into a statute,\nwithout danger of committing the law of England to falsehood. Yet, if\nthe Legislature were to venture on any such paternal procedure in a few\nyears gravitation itself would be called in question, and the whole\nscience would wither under the fatal shadow. There are many phenomena\nstill unexplained to give plausibility to scepticism; there are others\nmore easily formularised for working purposes in the language of\nHipparchus; and there would be reactionists who would invite us to\nreturn to the safe convictions of our forefathers. What the world has\nseen the world may see again; and were it once granted that astronomy\nwere something to be ruled by authority, new popes would imprison new\nGalileos; the knowledge already acquired would be strangled in the cords\nwhich were intended to keep it safe from harm, and, deprived of the free\nair on which its life depends, it would dwindle and die.\n\nA few years ago, an Inspector of Schools--a Mr. Jellinger\nSymonds--opening, perhaps for the first time, an elementary book on\nastronomy, came on something which he conceived to be a difficulty in\nthe theory of lunar motion. His objection was on the face of it\nplausible. The true motions of the heavenly bodies are universally the\nopposite of the apparent motions. Mr. Symonds conceived that the moon\ncould not revolve on its axis, because the same side of it was\ncontinually turned towards the earth; and because if it were connected\nwith the earth by a rigid bar--which, as he thought, would deprive it of\npower of rotation--the relative aspects of the two bodies would remain\nunchanged. He sent his views to the 'Times.' He appealed to the common\nsense of the world, and common sense seemed to be on his side. The men\nof science were of course right; but a phenomenon, not entirely obvious,\nhad been hitherto explained in language which the general reader could\nnot readily comprehend. A few words of elucidation cleared up the\nconfusion. We do not recollect whether Mr. Symonds was satisfied or not;\nbut most of us who had before received what the men of science told us\nwith an unintelligent and languid assent, were set thinking for\nourselves, and, as a result of the discussion, exchanged a confused idea\nfor a clear one.\n\nIt was an excellent illustration of the true claims of authority and of\nthe value of open enquiry. The ignorant man has not as good a right to\nhis own opinion as the instructed man. The instructed man, however\nright he may be, must not deliver his conclusions as axioms, and merely\ninsist that they are true. The one asks a question, the other answers\nit, and all of us are the better for the business.\n\nNow, let us suppose the same thing to have happened when the only reply\nto a difficulty was an appeal to the Astronomer-Royal, where the\nrotation of the moon was an article of salvation decreed by the law of\nthe land, and where all persons admitted to hold office under the State\nwere required to subscribe to it. The Astronomer-Royal--as it was, if we\nremember right, he was a little cross at Mr. Symond's presumption--would\nhave brought an action against him in the Court of Arches; Mr. Symonds\nwould have been deprived of his inspectorship--for, of course, he would\nhave been obstinate in his heresy; the world outside would have had an\nantecedent presumption that truth lay with the man who was making\nsacrifices for it, and that there was little to be said in the way of\nargument for what could not stand without the help of the law. Everybody\ncould understand the difficulty; not everybody would have taken the\ntrouble to attend to the answer. Mr. Symonds would have been a Colenso,\nand a good many of us would have been convinced in our secret hearts\nthat the moon as little turned on its axis as the drawing-room table.\n\nAs it is in idea essential to a reverence for truth to believe in its\ncapacity for self-defence, so practically, in every subject except one,\nerrors are allowed free room to express themselves, and the liberty of\nopinion which is the life of knowledge, as surely becomes the death of\nfalsehood. A method--the soundness of which is so evident that to argue\nin favour of it is almost absurd--might be expected to have been\napplied, as a matter of course, to the one subject where mistake is\nsupposed to be fatal,--where to come to wrong conclusions is held to be\na crime for which the Maker of the universe has neither pardon nor pity.\nYet many reasons, not difficult to understand, have long continued to\nexclude theology from the region where free discussion is supposed to be\napplicable. That so many persons have a personal interest in the\nmaintenance of particular views, would of itself be fatal to fair\nargument. Though they know themselves to be right, yet right is not\nenough for them unless there is might to support it, and those who talk\nmost of faith show least that they possess it. But there are deeper and\nmore subtle objections. The theologian requires absolute certainty, and\nthere are no absolute certainties in science. The conclusions of science\nare never more than in a high degree probable; they are no more than the\nbest explanations of phenomena which are attainable in the existing\nstate of knowledge. The most elementary laws are called laws only in\ncourtesy. They are generalisations which are not considered likely to\nrequire modification, but which no one pretends to be in the nature of\nthe cause exhaustively and ultimately true. As phenomena become more\ncomplicated, and the data for the interpretation of them more\ninadequate, the explanations offered are put forward hypothetically, and\nare graduated by the nature of the evidence. Such modest hesitation is\naltogether unsuited to the theologian, whose certainty increases with\nthe mystery and obscurity of his matter; his convictions admit of no\nqualification; his truth is sure as the axioms of geometry; he knows\nwhat he believes, for he has the evidence in his heart; if he enquire,\nit is with a foregone conclusion, and serious doubt with him is sin. It\nis in vain to point out to him the thousand forms of opinions for each\nof which the same internal witness is affirmed. The Mayo peasant\ncrawling with bare knees over the splintered rocks on Croagh Patrick,\nthe nun prostrate before the image of St. Mary, the Methodist in the\nspasmodic ecstasy of a revival, alike are conscious of emotions in\nthemselves which correspond to their creed: the more passionate, or--as\nsome would say--the more unreasoning the piety, the louder and more\nclear is the voice within. But these varieties are no embarrassment to\nthe theologian. He finds no fault with the method which is identical in\nthem all. Whatever the party to which he himself belongs, he is equally\nsatisfied that he alone has the truth; the rest are under illusions of\nSatan.\n\nAgain, we hear--or we used to hear when the High Church party were more\nformidable than they are at present--much about 'the right of private\njudgment.' 'Why,' the eloquent Protestant would say, 'should I pin my\nfaith upon the Church? the Church is but a congregation of fallible men,\nno better able to judge than I am; I have a right to my own opinion.' It\nsounds like a paradox to say that free discussion is interfered with by\na cause which, above all others, would have been expected to further it;\nbut this in fact has been the effect, because it tends to remove the\ngrounds of theological belief beyond the province of argument. No one\ntalks of 'a right of private judgment' in anything but religion; no one\nbut a fool insists on his 'right to his own opinion' with his lawyer or\nhis doctor. Able men who have given their time to special subjects, are\nauthorities upon those subjects to be listened to with deference, and\nthe ultimate authority at any given time is the collective general sense\nof the wisest men living in the department to which they belong. The\nutmost 'right of private judgment' which anybody claims in such cases,\nis the choice of the physician to whom he will trust his body, or of the\ncounsel to whom he will commit the conduct of his cause. The expression,\nas it is commonly used, implies a belief that, in matters of religion,\nthe criteria of truth are different in kind from what prevail elsewhere,\nand the efforts which have been made to bring such a notion into harmony\nwith common sense and common subjects have not been the least\nsuccessful. The High Church party used to say, as a point against the\nEvangelicals, that either 'the right of private judgment' meant nothing,\nor it meant that a man had a right to be in the wrong. 'No,' said a\nwriter in the 'Edinburgh Review,' 'it means only that if a man chooses\nto be in the wrong, no one else has a right to interfere with him. A man\nhas no right to get drunk in his own house, but the policeman may not\nforce a way into his house and prevent him.' The illustration fails of\nits purpose.\n\nIn the first place, the Evangelicals never contemplated a wrong use of\nthe thing; they meant merely that they had a right to their own opinions\nas against the Church. They did not indeed put forward their claim quite\nso nakedly; they made it general, as sounding less invidious; but nobody\never heard an Evangelical admit a High Churchman's right to be a High\nChurchman, or a Catholic's right to be a Catholic.\n\nBut secondly, society has a most absolute right to prevent all manner of\nevil--drunkenness, and the rest of it, if it can--only in doing so,\nsociety must not use means which would create a greater evil than it\nwould remedy. As a man can by no possibility be doing anything but most\nfoul wrong to himself in getting drunk, society does him no wrong, but\nrather does him the greatest benefit, if it can possibly keep him sober;\nand in the same way, since a false belief in serious matters is among\nthe greatest of misfortunes, so to drive it out of man, by the whip, if\nit cannot be managed by persuasion, is an act of brotherly love and\naffection, provided the belief really and truly is false, and you have a\nbetter to give him in the place of it. The question is not what to do,\nbut merely 'how to do it;' although Mr. Mill in his love of 'liberty,'\nthinks otherwise. Mr. Mill demands for every man a right to say out his\nconvictions in plain language, whatever they may be; and so far as he\nmeans that there should be no Act of Parliament to prevent him, he is\nperfectly just in what he says. But when Mr. Mill goes from Parliament\nto public opinion--when he lays down as a general principle that the\nfree play of thought is unwholesomely interfered with by society, he\nwould take away the sole protection which we possess from the inroads of\nany kind of folly. His dread of tyranny is so great, that he thinks a\nman better off with a false opinion of his own than with a right opinion\ninflicted upon him from without; while, for our own part, we should be\ngrateful for tyranny or for anything else which would perform so useful\nan office for us.\n\nPublic opinion may be unjust at particular times and on particular\nsubjects; we believe it to be both unjust and unwise on the matter of\nwhich we are at present speaking: but, on the whole, it is like the\nventilation of a house, which keeps the air pure. Much in this world has\nto be taken for granted, and we cannot be for ever arguing over our\nfirst principles. If a man persists in talking of what he does not\nunderstand, he is put down; if he sports loose views on morals at a\ndecent dinner party, the better sort of people fight shy of him, and he\nis not invited again; if he profess himself a Buddhist or a Mahometan,\nit is assumed that he has not adopted those beliefs on serious\nconviction, but rather in wilful levity and eccentricity which does not\ndeserve to be tolerated. Men have no right to make themselves bores and\nnuisances; and the common sense of mankind inflicts wholesome\ninconveniences on those who carry their 'right of private judgment' to\nany such extremities. It is a check, the same in kind as that which\noperates so wholesomely in the sciences. Mere folly is extinguished in\ncontempt; objections reasonably urged obtain a hearing and are\nreasonably met. New truths, after encountering sufficient opposition to\ntest their value, make their way into general reception.\n\nA further cause which has operated to prevent theology from obtaining\nthe benefit of free discussion is the interpretation popularly placed\nupon the constitution of the Church Establishment. For fifteen centuries\nof its existence, the Christian Church was supposed to be under the\nimmediate guidance of the Holy Spirit, which miraculously controlled its\ndecisions, and precluded the possibility of error. This theory broke\ndown at the Reformation, but it left behind it a confused sense that\ntheological truth was in some way different from other truth; and,\npartly on grounds of public policy, partly because it was supposed to\nhave succeeded to the obligations and the rights of the Papacy, the\nState took upon itself to fix by statute the doctrines which should be\ntaught to the people. The distractions created by divided opinions were\nthen dangerous. Individuals did not hesitate to ascribe to themselves\nthe infallibility which they denied to the Church. Everybody was\nintolerant upon principle, and was ready to cut the throat of an\nopponent whom his arguments had failed to convince. The State, while it\nmade no pretensions to Divine guidance, was compelled to interfere in\nself-protection; and to keep the peace of the realm, and to prevent the\nnation from tearing itself in pieces, a body of formulas was enacted,\nfor the time broad and comprehensive, within which opinion might be\nallowed convenient latitude, while forbidden to pass beyond the border.\n\nIt might have been thought that in abandoning for itself, and formally\ndenying to the Church its pretensions to immunity from error, the State\ncould not have intended to bind the conscience. When this or that law is\npassed, the subject is required to obey it, but he is not required to\napprove of the law as just. The Prayer-Book and the Thirty-nine\nArticles, so far as they are made obligatory by Act of Parliament, are\nas much laws as any other statute. They are a rule to conduct; it is not\neasy to see why they should be more; it is not easy to see why they\nshould have been supposed to deprive clergymen of a right to their\nopinions, or to forbid discussion of their contents. The judge is not\nforbidden to ameliorate the law which he administers. If in discharge of\nhis duty he has to pronounce a sentence which he declares at the same\ntime that he thinks unjust, no indignant public accuses him of\ndishonesty, or requires him to resign his office. The soldier is asked\nno questions as to the legitimacy of the war on which he is sent to\nfight; nor need he throw up his commission if he think the quarrel a bad\none. Doubtless, if a law was utterly iniquitous--if a war was\nunmistakably wicked--honourable men might feel uncertain what to do, and\nwould seek some other profession rather than continue instruments of\nevil. But within limits, and in questions of detail, where the service\nis generally good and honourable, we leave opinion its free play, and\nexaggerated scrupulousness would be folly or something worse. Somehow or\nother, however, this wholesome freedom is not allowed to the clergyman.\nThe idea of absolute inward belief has been substituted for that of\nobedience; and the man who, in taking orders, signs the Articles and\naccepts the Prayer Book, does not merely undertake to use the services\nin the one, and abstain from contradicting to his congregation the\ndoctrines contained in the other; but he is held to promise what no\nhonest man, without presumption, can undertake to promise--that he will\ncontinue to think to the end of his life as he thinks when he makes his\nengagement.\n\nIt is said that if his opinions change, he may resign, and retire into\nlay communion. We are not prepared to say that either the Convocation of\n1562, or the Parliament which afterwards endorsed its proceedings, knew\nexactly what they meant, or did not mean; but it is quite clear that\nthey did not contemplate the alternative of a clergyman's retirement. If\nthey had, they would have provided means by which he could have\nabandoned his orders, and not have remained committed for life to a\nprofession from which he could not escape. If the popular theory of\nsubscription be true, and the Articles are articles of belief, a\nreasonable human being, when little more than a boy, pledges himself to\na long series of intricate and highly-difficult propositions of abstruse\ndivinity. He undertakes never to waver or doubt--never to allow his mind\nto be shaken, whatever the weight of argument or evidence brought to\nbear upon him. That is to say, he promises to do what no man living has\na right to promise to do. He is doing, on the authority of Parliament,\nprecisely what the Church of Rome required him to do on the authority of\na Council.\n\nIf a clergyman--in trouble amidst the abstruse subjects with which he\nhas to deal, or unable to reconcile some new-discovered truth of science\nwith the established formulas--puts forward his perplexities; if he\nventures a doubt of the omniscience of the statesmen and divines of the\nsixteenth century, which they themselves disowned, there is an instant\ncry to have him stifled, silenced, or trampled down; and if no longer\npunished in life and limb, to have him deprived of the means on which\nlife and limb can be supported, while with ingenious tyranny he is\nforbidden to maintain himself by any other occupation.\n\nSo far have we gone in this direction, that when the 'Essays and\nReviews' appeared, it was gravely said--and said by men who had no\nprofessional antipathy to them--that the writers had broken their faith.\nLaymen were free to say what they pleased on such subjects; clergymen\nwere the hired exponents of the established opinions, and were committed\nto them in thought and word. It was one more anomaly where there were\nenough already. To say that the clergy, who are set apart to study a\nparticular subject, are to be the only persons unpermitted to have an\nindependent opinion upon it, is like saying that lawyers must take no\npart in the amendment of the statute-book; that engineers must be silent\nupon mechanism; and if an improvement is wanted in the art of medicine,\nphysicians may have nothing to say to it.\n\nThese causes would, perhaps, have been insufficient to repress free\nenquiry, if there had been on the part of the really able men among us a\ndetermination to break the ice; in other words, if theology had\npreserved the same commanding interest for the more powerful minds with\nwhich it affected them three hundred years ago. But on the one hand, a\nsense, half serious, half languid, of the hopelessness of the subject\nhas produced an indisposition to meddle with it; on the other, there has\nbeen a creditable reluctance to disturb by discussion the minds of the\nuneducated or half-educated, to whom the established religion is simply\nan expression of the obedience which they owe to Almighty God, on the\ndetails of which they think little, and are therefore unconscious of its\ndifficulties, while in general it is the source of all that is best and\nnoblest in their lives and actions.\n\nThis last motive no doubt deserves respect, but the force which it once\npossessed it possesses no longer. The uncertainty which once affected\nonly the more instructed extends now to all classes of society. A\nsuperficial crust of agreement, wearing thinner day by day, is\nundermined everywhere by a vague misgiving; and there is an unrest\nwhich will be satisfied only when the sources of it are probed to the\ncore. The Church authorities repeat a series of phrases which they are\npleased to call answers to objections; they treat the most serious\ngrounds of perplexity as if they were puerile and trifling; while it is\nnotorious that for a century past extremely able men have either not\nknown what to say about them, or have not said what they thought. On the\nContinent the peculiar English view has scarcely a single educated\ndefender. Even in England the laity keep their judgment in suspense, or\nremain warily silent.\n\n'Of what religion are you, Mr. Rogers?' said a lady once.\n\n'What religion, madam? I am of the religion of all sensible men.'\n\n'And what is that?' she asked.\n\n'All sensible men, madam, keep that to themselves.'\n\nIf Mr. Rogers had gone on to explain himself, he would have said,\nperhaps, that where the opinions of those best able to judge are\ndivided, the questions at issue are doubtful. Reasonable men who are\nunable to give them special attention withhold their judgment, while\nthose who are able, form their conclusions with diffidence and modesty.\nBut theologians will not tolerate diffidence; they demand absolute\nassent, and will take nothing short of it; and they affect, therefore,\nto drown in foolish ridicule whatever troubles or displeases them. The\nBishop of Oxford talks in the old style of punishment. The Archbishop of\nCanterbury refers us to Usher as our guide in Hebrew chronology. The\nobjections of the present generation of 'infidels,' he says, are the\nsame which have been refuted again and again, and are such as a child\nmight answer. The young man just entering upon the possession of his\nintellect, with a sense of responsibility for his belief, and more\nanxious for truth than for success in life, finds, when he looks into\nthe matter, that the archbishop has altogether misrepresented it; that\nin fact, like other official persons, he had been using merely a\nstereotyped form of words, to which he attached no definite meaning. The\nwords are repeated year after year, but the enemies refuse to be\nexorcised. They come and come again, from Spinoza and Lessing to Strauss\nand Renan. The theologians have resolved no single difficulty; they\nconvince no one who is not convinced already; and a Colenso coming\nfresh to the subject with no more than a year's study, throws the Church\nof England into convulsions.\n\nIf there were any real danger that Christianity would cease to be\nbelieved, it would be no more than a fulfilment of prophecy. The state\nin which the Son of Man would find the world at his coming he did not\nsay would be a state of faith. But if that dark time is ever literally\nto come upon the earth, there are no present signs of it. The creed of\neighteen centuries is not about to fade away like an exhalation, nor are\nthe new lights of science so exhilarating that serious persons can look\nwith comfort to exchanging one for the other. Christianity has abler\nadvocates than its professed defenders, in those many quiet and humble\nmen and women who in the light of it and the strength of it live holy,\nbeautiful, and self-denying lives. The God that answers by fire is the\nGod whom mankind will acknowledge; and so long as the fruits of the\nSpirit continue to be visible in charity, in self-sacrifice, in those\ngraces which raise human creatures above themselves, and invest them\nwith that beauty of holiness which only religion confers, thoughtful\npersons will remain convinced that with them in some form or other is\nthe secret of truth. The body will not thrive on poison, or the soul on\nfalsehood; and as the vital processes of health are too subtle for\nscience to follow; as we choose our food, not by the most careful\nchemical analysis, but by the experience of its effects upon the system;\nso when a particular belief is fruitful in nobleness of character, we\nneed trouble ourselves very little with scientific demonstrations that\nit is false. The most deadly poison may be chemically undistinguishable\nfrom substances which are perfectly innocent. Prussic acid, we are told,\nis formed of the same elements, combined in the same proportions, as\ngum-arabic.\n\nWhat that belief is for which the fruits speak thus so positively, it is\nless easy to define. Religion from the beginning of time has expanded\nand changed with the growth of knowledge. The religion of the prophets\nwas not the religion which was adapted to the hardness of heart of the\nIsraelites of the Exodus. The Gospel set aside the Law; the creed of the\nearly Church was not the creed of the Middle Ages, any more than the\ncreed of Luther and Cranmer was the creed of St. Bernard and Aquinas.\nOld things pass away, new things come in their place; and they in their\nturn grow old, and give place to others; yet in each of the many forms\nwhich Christianity has assumed in the world, holy men have lived and\ndied, and have had the witness of the Spirit that they were not far from\nthe truth. It may be that the faith which saves is the something held in\ncommon by all sincere Christians, and by those as well who should come\nfrom the east and the west, and sit down in the kingdom of God, when the\nchildren of the covenant would be cast out. It may be that the true\nteaching of our Lord is overlaid with doctrines; and theology, when\ninsisting on the reception of its huge catena of formulas, may be\nbinding a yoke upon our necks which neither we nor our fathers were able\nto bear.\n\nBut it is not the object of this paper to put forward either this or any\nother particular opinion. The writer is conscious only that he is\npassing fast towards the dark gate which soon will close behind him. He\nbelieves that some kind of sincere and firm conviction on these things\nis of infinite moment to him, and, entirely diffident of his own power\nto find his way towards such a conviction, he is both ready and anxious\nto disclaim 'all right of private judgment' in the matter. He wishes\nonly to learn from those who are able to teach him. The learned prelates\ntalk of the presumptuousness of human reason; they tell us that doubts\narise from the consciousness of sin and the pride of the unregenerate\nheart. The present writer, while he believes generally that reason,\nhowever inadequate, is the best faculty to which we have to trust, yet\nis most painfully conscious of the weakness of his own reason; and once\nlet the real judgment of the best and wisest men be declared--let those\nwho are most capable of forming a sound opinion, after reviewing the\nwhole relations of science, history, and what is now received as\nrevelation, tell us fairly how much of the doctrines popularly taught\nthey conceive to be adequately established, how much to be uncertain,\nand how much, if anything, to be mistaken; there is scarcely, perhaps, a\nsingle serious enquirer who would not submit with delight to a court\nwhich is the highest on earth.\n\nMr. Mansell tells us that in the things of God reason is beyond its\ndepth, that the wise and the unwise are on the same level of incapacity,\nand that we must accept what we find established, or we must believe\nnothing. We presume that Mr. Mansell's dilemma itself is a conclusion\nof reason. Do what we will, reason is and must be our ultimate\nauthority; and were the collective sense of mankind to declare Mr.\nMansell right, we should submit to that opinion as readily as to\nanother. But the collective sense of mankind is less acquiescent. He has\nbeen compared to a man sitting on the end of a plank and deliberately\nsawing off his seat. It seems never to have occurred to him that, if he\nis right, he has no business to be a Protestant. What Mr. Mansell says\nto Professor Jowett, Bishop Gardiner in effect replied to Frith and\nRidley. Frith and Ridley said that transubstantiation was unreasonable;\nGardiner answered that there was the letter of Scripture for it, and\nthat the human intellect was no measure of the power of God. Yet the\nReformers somehow believed, and Mr. Mansell by his place in the Church\nof England seems to agree with them, that the human intellect was not so\nwholly incompetent. It might be a weak guide, but it was better than\nnone; and they declared on grounds of mere reason, that Christ being in\nheaven and not on earth, 'it was contrary to the truth for a natural\nbody to be in two places at once.' The common sense of the country was\nof the same opinion, and the illusion was at an end.\n\nThere have been 'Aids to Faith' produced lately, and 'Replies to the\nSeven Essayists,' 'Answers to Colenso,' and much else of the kind. We\nregret to say that they have done little for us. The very life of our\nsouls is at issue in the questions which have been raised, and we are\nfed with the professional commonplaces of the members of a close guild,\nmen holding high office in the Church, or expecting to hold high office\nthere; in either case with a strong temporal interest in the defence of\nthe institution which they represent. We desire to know what those of\nthe clergy think whose love of truth is unconnected with their prospects\nin life; we desire to know what the educated laymen, the lawyers, the\nhistorians, the men of science, the statesmen think; and these are for\nthe most part silent, or confess themselves modestly uncertain. The\nprofessional theologians alone are loud and confident; but they speak in\nthe old angry tone which rarely accompanies deep and wise convictions.\nThey do not meet the real difficulties; they mistake them, misrepresent\nthem, claim victories over adversaries with whom they have never even\ncrossed swords, and leap to conclusions with a precipitancy at which we\ncan only smile. It has been the unhappy manner of their class from\nimmemorial time; they call it zeal for the Lord, as if it were beyond\nall doubt that they were on God's side--as if serious enquiry after\ntruth was something which they were entitled to resent. They treat\nintellectual difficulties as if they deserved rather to be condemned and\npunished than considered and weighed, and rather stop their ears and run\nwith one accord upon anyone who disagrees with them than listen\npatiently to what he has to say.\n\nWe do not propose to enter in detail upon the particular points which\ndemand re-discussion. It is enough that the more exact habit of thought\nwhich science has engendered, and the closer knowledge of the value and\nnature of evidence, has notoriously made it necessary that the grounds\nshould be reconsidered on which we are to believe that one country and\none people was governed for sixteen centuries on principles different\nfrom those which we now find to prevail universally. One of many\nquestions, however, shall be briefly glanced at, on which the real issue\nseems habitually to be evaded.\n\nMuch has been lately said and written on the authenticity of the\nPentateuch and the other historical books of the Old Testament. The\nBishop of Natal has thrown out in a crude form the critical results of\nthe enquiries of the Germans, coupled with certain arithmetical\ncalculations, for which he has a special aptitude. He supposes himself\nto have proved that the first five books of the Bible are a compilation\nof uncertain date, full of inconsistencies and impossibilities. The\napologists have replied that the objections are not absolutely\nconclusive, that the events described in the Book of Exodus might\npossibly, under certain combinations of circumstances, have actually\ntaken place; and they then pass to the assumption that because a story\nis not necessarily false, therefore it is necessarily true. We have no\nintention of vindicating Dr. Colenso. His theological training makes his\narguments very like those of his opponents, and he and Dr. M'Call may\nsettle their differences between themselves. The question is at once\nwider and simpler than any which has been raised in that controversy.\nWere it proved beyond possibility of error that the Pentateuch was\nwritten by Moses, that those and all the books of the Old and New\nTestaments were really the work of the writers whose names they bear;\nwere the Mosaic cosmogony in harmony with physical discoveries; and were\nthe supposed inconsistencies and contradictions shown to have no\nexistence except in Dr. Colenso's imagination--we should not have\nadvanced a single step towards making good the claim put forward for the\nBible, that it is absolutely and unexceptionably true in all its parts.\nThe 'genuineness and authenticity' argument is irrelevant and needless.\nThe clearest demonstration of the human authorship of the Pentateuch\nproves nothing about its immunity from errors. If there are no mistakes\nin it, it was not the workmanship of man; and if it was inspired by the\nHoly Spirit, there is no occasion to show that the hand of Moses was the\ninstrument made use of. To the most excellent of contemporary histories,\nto histories written by eye-witnesses of the facts which they describe,\nwe accord but a limited confidence. The highest intellectual competence,\nthe most admitted truthfulness, immunity from prejudice, and the absence\nof temptation to misstate the truth; these things may secure great\ncredibility, but they are no guarantee for minute and circumstantial\nexactness. Two historians, though with equal gifts and equal\nopportunities, never describe events in exactly the same way. Two\nwitnesses in a court of law, while they agree in the main, invariably\ndiffer in some particulars. It appears as if men could not relate facts\nprecisely as they saw or as they heard them. The different parts of a\nstory strike different imaginations unequally; and the mind, as the\ncircumstances pass through it, alters their proportions unconsciously,\nor shifts the perspective. The credit which we give to the most\nauthentic work of a man has no resemblance to that universal acceptance\nwhich is demanded for the Bible. It is not a difference of degree: it is\na difference in kind; and we desire to know on what ground this\ninfallibility, which we do not question, but which is not proved,\ndemands our belief. Very likely, the Bible is thus infallible. Unless it\nis, there can be no moral obligation to accept the facts which it\nrecords; and though there may be intellectual error in denying them,\nthere can be no moral sin. Facts may be better or worse authenticated;\nbut all the proofs in the world of the genuineness and authenticity of\nthe human handiwork cannot establish a claim upon the conscience. It\nmight be foolish to question Thucydides' account of Pericles, but no\none would call it sinful. Men part with all sobriety of judgment when\nthey come on ground of this kind. When Sir Henry Rawlinson read the name\nof Sennacherib on the Assyrian marbles, and found allusions there to the\nIsraelites in Palestine, we were told that a triumphant answer had been\nfound to the cavils of sceptics, and a convincing proof of the inspired\ntruth of the Divine Oracles. Bad arguments in a good cause are a sure\nway to bring distrust upon it. The Divine Oracles may be true, and may\nbe inspired; but the discoveries at Nineveh certainly do not prove them\nso. No one supposes that the Books of Kings or the prophecies of Isaiah\nand Ezekiel were the work of men who had no knowledge of Assyria or the\nAssyrian Princes. It is possible that in the excavations at Carthage\nsome Punic inscription may be found confirming Livy's account of the\nbattle of Cannae; but we shall not be obliged to believe therefore in the\ninspiration of Livy, or rather (for the argument comes to that) in the\ninspiration of the whole Latin literature.\n\nWe are not questioning the fact that the Bible is infallible; we desire\nonly to be told on what evidence that great and awful fact concerning it\nproperly rests. It would seem, indeed, as if instinct had been wiser\nthan argument--as if it had been felt that nothing short of this literal\nand close inspiration could preserve the facts on which Christianity\ndepends. The history of the early world is a history everywhere of\nmarvels. The legendary literature of every nation upon earth tells the\nsame stories of prodigies and wonders, of the appearances of the gods\nupon earth, and of their intercourse with men. The lives of the saints\nof the Catholic Church, from the time of the Apostles till the present\nday, are a complete tissue of miracles resembling and rivalling those of\nthe Gospels. Some of these stories are romantic and imaginative; some\nclear, literal, and prosaic; some rest on mere tradition; some on the\nsworn testimony of eye-witnesses; some are obvious fables; some are as\nwell authenticated as facts of such a kind can be authenticated at all.\nThe Protestant Christian rejects every one of them--rejects them without\nenquiry--involves those for which there is good authority and those for\nwhich there is none or little in one absolute, contemptuous, and\nsweeping denial. The Protestant Christian feels it more likely, in the\nwords of Hume, that men should deceive or be deceived, than that the\nlaws of nature should be violated. At this moment we are beset with\nreports of conversations with spirits, of tables miraculously lifted, of\nhands projected out of the world of shadows into this mortal life. An\nunusually able, accomplished person, accustomed to deal with\ncommon-sense facts, a celebrated political economist, and notorious for\nbusiness-like habits, assured this writer that a certain mesmerist, who\nwas my informant's intimate friend, had raised a dead girl to life. We\nshould believe the people who tell us these things in any ordinary\nmatter: they would be admitted in a court of justice as good witnesses\nin a criminal case, and a jury would hang a man on their word. The\nperson just now alluded to is incapable of telling a wilful lie; yet our\nexperience of the regularity of nature on one side is so uniform, and\nour experience of the capacities of human folly on the other is so\nlarge, that when people tell us these wonderful stories, most of us are\ncontented to smile; and we do not care so much as to turn out of our way\nto examine them.\n\nThe Bible is equally a record of miracles; but as from other histories\nwe reject miracles without hesitation, so of those in the Bible we\ninsist on the universal acceptance: the former are all false, the latter\nare all true. It is evident that, in forming conclusions so sweeping as\nthese, we cannot even suppose that we are being guided by what is called\nhistorical evidence. Were it admitted that, as a whole, the miracles of\nthe Bible are better authenticated than the miracles of the saints, we\nshould be far removed still from any large inference, that in the one\nset there is no room for falsehood, in the other no room for truth. The\nwriter or writers of the Books of Kings are not known. The books\nthemselves are in fact confessedly taken from older writings which are\nlost; and the accounts of the great prophets of Israel are a\ncounterpart, curiously like, of those of the mediaeval saints. In many\ninstances the authors of the lives of these saints were their companions\nand friends. Why do we feel so sure that what we are told of Elijah or\nElisha took place exactly as we read it? Why do we reject the account of\nSt. Columba or St. Martin as a tissue of idle fable? Why should not God\ngive a power to the saint which He had given to the prophet? We can\nproduce no reason from the nature of things, for we know not what the\nnature of things is; and if down to the death of the Apostles the\nministers of religion were allowed to prove their commission by working\nmiracles, what right have we, on grounds either of history or\nphilosophy, to draw a clear line at the death of St. John--to say that\nbefore that time all such stories were true, and after it all were\nfalse?\n\nThere is no point on which Protestant controversialists evade the real\nquestion more habitually than on that of miracles. They accuse those who\nwithhold that unreserved and absolute belief which they require for all\nwhich they accept themselves, of denying that miracles are possible.\nThey assume this to be the position taken up by the objector, and\nproceed easily to argue that man is no judge of the power of God. Of\ncourse he is not. No sane man ever raised his narrow understanding into\na measure of the possibilities of the universe; nor does any person with\nany pretensions to religion disbelieve in miracles of some kind. To pray\nis to expect a miracle. When we pray for the recovery of a sick friend,\nfor the gift of any blessing, or the removal of any calamity, we expect\nthat God will do something by an act of his personal will which\notherwise would not have been done--that he will suspend the ordinary\nrelations of natural cause and effect; and this is the very idea of a\nmiracle. The thing we pray for may be given us, and no miracle may have\ntaken place. It may be given to us by natural causes, and would have\noccurred whether we had prayed or not. But prayer itself in its very\nessence implies a belief in the possible intervention of a power which\nis above nature. The question about miracles is simply one of\nevidence--whether in any given case the proof is so strong that no room\nis left for mistake, exaggeration, or illusion, while more evidence is\nrequired to establish a fact antecedently improbable than is sufficient\nfor a common occurrence.\n\nIt has been said recently by 'A Layman,' in a letter to Mr. Maurice,\nthat the resurrection of our Lord is as well authenticated as the death\nof Julius Caesar. It is far better authenticated, unless we are mistaken\nin supposing the Bible inspired; or if we admit as evidence that inward\nassurance of the Christian, which would make him rather die than\ndisbelieve a truth so dear to him. But if the layman meant that there\nwas as much proof of it, in the sense in which proof is understood in a\ncourt of justice, he could scarcely have considered what he was saying.\nJulius Caesar was killed in a public place, in the presence of friend\nand foe, in a remarkable but still perfectly natural manner. The\ncircumstances were minutely known to all the world, and were never\ndenied or doubted by any one. Our Lord, on the other hand, seems\npurposely to have withheld such public proof of his resurrection as\nwould have left no room for unbelief. He showed himself, 'not to all the\npeople'--not to his enemies, whom his appearance would have\noverwhelmed--but 'to witnesses chosen before;' to the circle of his own\nfriends. There is no evidence which a jury could admit that he was ever\nactually dead. So unusual was it for persons crucified to die so soon,\nthat Pilate, we are told, 'marvelled.' The subsequent appearances were\nstrange, and scarcely intelligible. Those who saw Him did not recognise\nHim till He was made known to them in the breaking of bread. He was\nvisible and invisible. He was mistaken by those who were most intimate\nwith Him for another person; nor do the accounts agree which are given\nby the different Evangelists. Of investigation in the modern sense\n(except in the one instance of St. Thomas, and St. Thomas was rather\nrebuked than praised) there was none, and could be none. The evidence\noffered was different in kind, and the blessing was not to those who\nsatisfied themselves of the truth of the fact by a searching enquiry,\nbut who gave their assent with the unhesitating confidence of love.\n\nSt. Paul's account of his own conversion is an instance of the kind of\ntestimony which then worked the strongest conviction. St. Paul, a fiery\nfanatic on a mission of persecution with the midday Syrian sun streaming\ndown upon his head, was struck to the ground, and saw in a vision our\nLord in the air. If such a thing were to occur at the present day, and\nif a modern physician were consulted about it, he would say, without\nhesitation, that it was an effect of an overheated brain and that there\nwas nothing in it extraordinary or unusual. If the impression left by\nthe appearance had been too strong for such an explanation to be\nsatisfactory, the person to whom it occurred, especially if he was a man\nof St Paul's intellectual stature, would have at once examined into the\nfacts otherwise known, connected with the subject of what he had seen.\nSt. Paul had evidently before disbelieved our Lord's resurrection--had\ndisbelieved it fiercely and passionately; we should have expected that\nhe would at once have sought for those who could best have told him the\ndetails of the truth. St. Paul, however, did nothing of the kind. He\nwent for a year into Arabia, and when at last he returned to Jerusalem,\nhe rather held aloof from those who had been our Lord's companions, and\nwho had witnessed his ascension. He saw Peter, he saw James; 'of the\nrest of the apostles saw he none.' To him evidently the proof of the\nresurrection was the vision which he had himself seen. It was to that\nwhich he always referred when called on for a defence of his faith.\n\nOf evidence for the resurrection, in the common sense of the word, there\nmay be enough to show that something extraordinary occurred; but not\nenough, unless we assume the fact to be true on far other grounds, to\nproduce any absolute and unhesitating conviction; and inasmuch as the\nresurrection is the keystone of Christianity, the belief in it must be\nsomething far different from that suspended judgment in which history\nalone would leave us.\n\nHuman testimony, we repeat, under the most favourable circumstances\nimaginable, knows nothing of 'absolute certainty;' and if historical\nfacts are bound up with the creed, and if they are to be received with\nthe same completeness as the laws of conscience, they rest, and must\nrest, either on the divine truth of Scripture, or on the divine witness\nin ourselves. On human evidence the miracles of St. Teresa and St.\nFrancis of Assisi are as well established as those of the New Testament.\n\nM. Ernest Renan has recently produced an account of the Gospel story\nwhich, written as it is by a man of piety, intellect, and imagination,\nis spreading rapidly through the educated world. Carrying out the\nprinciples with which Protestants have swept modern history clear of\nmiracles to their natural conclusions, he dismisses all that is\nmiraculous from the life of our Lord, and endeavours to reproduce the\noriginal Galilean youth who lived and taught, and died in Palestine\neighteen hundred years ago. We have no intention of reviewing M. Renan.\nHe will be read soon enough by many who would better consider their\npeace of mind by leaving him alone. For ourselves, we are unable to see\nby what right, if he rejects the miraculous part of the narrative, he\nretains the rest; the imagination and the credulity which invent\nextraordinary incidents, invent ordinary incidents also; and if the\ndivine element in the life is legendary, the human may be legendary\nalso. But there is one lucid passage in the introduction which we\ncommend to the perusal of controversial theologians:--\n\n'No miracle such as those of which early histories are full has taken\nplace under conditions which science can accept. Experience shows,\nwithout exception, that miracles occur only in times and in countries in\nwhich miracles are believed in, and in the presence of persons who are\ndisposed to believe them. No miracle has ever been performed before an\nassemblage of spectators capable of testing its reality. Neither\nuneducated people, nor even men of the world, have the requisite\ncapacity; great precautions are needed, and a long habit of scientific\nresearch. Have we not seen men of the world in our own time become the\ndupes of the most childish and absurd illusions? And if it be certain\nthat no contemporary miracles will bear investigation, is it not\npossible that the miracles of the past, were we able to examine into\nthem in detail, would be found equally to contain an element of error?\nIt is not in the name of this or that philosophy, it is in the name of\nan experience which never varies, that we banish miracles from history.\nWe do not say a miracle is impossible--we say only that no miracle has\never yet been proved. Let a worker of miracles come forward to-morrow\nwith pretensions serious enough to deserve examination. Let us suppose\nhim to announce that he is able to raise a dead man to life. What would\nbe done? A committee would be appointed, composed of physiologists,\nphysicians, chemists, and persons accustomed to exact investigation; a\nbody would then be selected which the committee would assure itself was\nreally dead; and a place would be chosen where the experiment was to\ntake place. Every precaution would be taken to leave no opening for\nuncertainty; and if, under those conditions, the restoration to life was\neffected, a probability would be arrived at which would be almost equal\nto certainty. An experiment, however, should always admit of being\nrepeated. What a man has done once he should be able to do again; and in\nmiracles there can be no question of ease or difficulty. The performer\nwould be requested to repeat the operation under other circumstances\nupon other bodies; and if he succeeded on every occasion, two points\nwould be established: first, that there may be in this world such things\nas supernatural operations; and, secondly, that the power to perform\nthem is delegated to, or belongs to, particular persons. But who does\nnot perceive that no miracle was ever performed under such conditions as\nthese?'\n\nWe have quoted this passage because it expresses with extreme precision\nand clearness the common-sense principle which we apply to all\nsupernatural stories of our own time, which Protestant theologians\nemploy against the whole cycle of Catholic miracles, and which M. Renan\nis only carrying to its logical conclusions in applying to the history\nof our Lord, if the Gospels are tried by the mere tests of historical\ncriticism. The Gospels themselves tell us why M. Renan's conditions were\nnever satisfied. Miracles were not displayed in the presence of sceptics\nto establish scientific truths. When the adulterous generation sought\nafter a sign, the sign was not given; nay, it is even said that in the\npresence of unbelief, our Lord was not able to work miracles. But\nscience has less respect for that undoubting and submissive willingness\nto believe; and it is quite certain that if we attempt to establish the\ntruth of the New Testament on the principles of Paley--if with Professor\nJowett 'we interpret the Bible as any other book,' the element of\nmiracle which has evaporated from the entire surface of human history\nwill not maintain itself in the sacred ground of the Gospels, and the\nfacts of Christianity will melt in our hands like a snowball.\n\nNothing less than a miraculous history can sustain the credibility of\nmiracles, and nothing could be more likely, if revelation be a reality\nand not a dream, than that the history containing it should be saved in\nits composition from the intermixture of human infirmity. This is the\nposition in which instinct long ago taught Protestants to entrench\nthemselves, and where alone they can hope to hold their ground: once\nestablished in these lines, they were safe and unassailable, unless it\ncould be demonstrated that any fact or facts related in the Bible were\ncertainly untrue.\n\nNor would it be necessary to say any more upon the subject. Those who\nbelieved Christianity would admit the assumption; those who disbelieved\nChristianity would repudiate it. The argument would be narrowed to that\nplain and single issue, and the elaborate treatises upon external\nevidence would cease to bring discredit upon the cause by their\nfeebleness. Unfortunately--and this is the true secret of our present\ndistractions--it seems certain that in some way or other this belief in\ninspiration itself requires to be revised. We are compelled to examine\nmore precisely what we mean by the word. The account of the creation of\nman and the world which is given in Genesis, and which is made by St.\nPaul the basis of his theology, has not yet been reconciled with facts\nwhich science knows to be true. Death was in the world before Adam's\nsin, and unless Adam's age be thrust back to a distance which no\ningenuity can torture the letter of Scripture into recognising, men and\nwomen lived and died upon the earth whole millenniums before the Eve of\nSacred History listened to the temptation of the snake. Neither has any\nsuch deluge as that from which, according to the received\ninterpretation, the ark saved Noah, swept over the globe within the\nhuman period. We are told that it was not God's purpose to anticipate\nthe natural course of discovery: as the story of the creation was\nwritten in human language, so the details of it may have been adapted to\nthe existing state of human knowledge. The Bible, it is said, was not\nintended to teach men science, but to teach them what was necessary for\nthe moral training of their souls. It may be that this is true.\nSpiritual grace affects the moral character of men, but leaves their\nintellect unimproved. The most religious men are as liable as atheists\nto ignorance of ordinary facts, and inspiration may be only infallible\nwhen it touches on truths necessary to salvation. But if it be so, there\nare many things in the Bible which must become as uncertain as its\ngeology or its astronomy. There is the long secular history of the\nJewish people. Let it be once established that there is room for error\nanywhere, and we have no security for the accuracy of this history. The\ninspiration of the Bible is the foundation of our whole belief; and it\nis a grave matter if we are uncertain to what extent it reaches, or how\nmuch and what it guarantees to us as true. We cannot live on\nprobabilities. The faith in which we can live bravely and die in peace\nmust be a certainty, so far as it professes to be a faith at all, or it\nis nothing. It may be that all intellectual efforts to arrive at it are\nin vain; that it is given to those to whom it is given, and withheld\nfrom those from whom it is withheld. It may be that the existing belief\nis undergoing a silent modification, like those to which the\ndispensations of religion have been successively subjected; or, again,\nit may be that to the creed as it is already established there is\nnothing to be added, and nothing any more to be taken from it. At this\nmoment, however, the most vigorous minds appear least to see their way\nto a conclusion; and notwithstanding all the school and church building,\nthe extended episcopate, and the religious newspapers, a general doubt\nis coming up like a thunderstorm against the wind, and blackening the\nsky. Those who cling most tenaciously to the faith in which they were\neducated, yet confess themselves perplexed. They know what they believe;\nbut why they believe it, or why they should require others to believe,\nthey cannot tell or cannot agree. Between the authority of the Church\nand the authority of the Bible, the testimony of history and the\ntestimony of the Spirit, the ascertained facts of science and the\ncontradictory facts which seem to be revealed, the minds of men are\ntossed to and fro, harassed by the changed attitude in which scientific\ninvestigation has placed us all towards accounts of supernatural\noccurrences. We thrust the subject aside; we take refuge in practical\nwork; we believe, perhaps, that the situation is desperate, and hopeless\nof improvement; we refuse to let the question be disturbed. But we\ncannot escape from our shadow, and the spirit of uncertainty will haunt\nthe world like an uneasy ghost, till we take it by the throat like men.\n\nWe return then to the point from which we set out. The time is past for\nrepression. Despotism has done its work; but the day of despotism is\ngone, and the only remedy is a full and fair investigation. Things will\nnever right themselves if they are let alone. It is idle to say peace\nwhen there is no peace; and the concealed imposthume is more dangerous\nthan an open wound. The law in this country has postponed our trial, but\ncannot save us from it; and the questions which have agitated the\nContinent are agitating us at last. The student who twenty years ago was\ncontented with the Greek and Latin fathers and the Anglican divines, now\nreads Ewald and Renan. The Church authorities still refuse to look their\ndifficulties in the face: they prescribe for mental troubles the\nestablished doses of Paley and Pearson; they refuse dangerous questions\nas sinful, and tread the round of commonplace in placid comfort. But it\nwill not avail. Their pupils grow to manhood, and fight the battle for\nthemselves, unaided by those who ought to have stood by them in their\ntrial, and could not or would not; and the bitterness of those\nconflicts, and the end of most of them in heart-broken uncertainty or\ncareless indifference, is too notorious to all who care to know about\nsuch things.\n\nWe cannot afford year after year to be distracted with the tentative\nscepticism of essayists and reviewers. In a healthy condition of public\nopinion such a book as Bishop Colenso's would have passed unnoticed, or\nrather would never have been written, for the difficulties with which it\ndeals would have been long ago met and disposed of. When questions rose\nin the early and middle ages of the Church, they were decided by\ncouncils of the wisest: those best able to judge met together, and\ncompared their thoughts, and conclusions were arrived at which\nindividuals could accept and act upon. At the beginning of the English\nReformation, when Protestant doctrine was struggling for reception, and\nthe old belief was merging in the new, the country was deliberately held\nin formal suspense. Protestants and Catholics were set to preach on\nalternate Sundays in the same pulpit; subjects were discussed freely in\nthe ears of the people; and at last, when all had been said on both\nsides, Convocation and Parliament embodied the result in formulas.\nCouncils will no longer answer the purpose; the clergy have no longer a\nsuperiority of intellect or cultivation; and a conference of prelates\nfrom all parts of Christendom, or even from all departments of the\nEnglish Church, would not present an edifying spectacle. Parliament may\nno longer meddle with opinions unless it be to untie the chains which it\nforged three centuries ago. But better than councils, better than\nsermons, better than Parliament, is that free discussion through a free\npress which is the best instrument for the discovery of truth, and the\nmost effectual means for preserving it.\n\nWe shall be told, perhaps, that we are beating the air--that the press\nis free, and that all men may and do write what they please. It is not\nso. Discussion is not free so long as the clergy who take any side but\none are liable to be prosecuted and deprived of their means of living;\nit is not free so long as the expression of doubt is considered as a sin\nby public opinion and as a crime by the law. So far are we from free\ndiscussion, that the world is not yet agreed that a free discussion is\ndesirable; and till it be so agreed, the substantial intellect of the\ncountry will not throw itself into the question. The battle will\ncontinue to be fought by outsiders, who suffice to disturb a repose\nwhich they cannot restore; and that collective voice of the national\nunderstanding, which alone can give back to us a peaceful and assured\nconviction, will not be heard.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[D] _Fraser's Magazine_, 1863.\n\n\n\n\nCRITICISM AND THE GOSPEL HISTORY.[E]\n\n\nThe spirit of criticism is not the spirit of religion. The spirit of\ncriticism is a questioning spirit; the spirit of religion is a spirit of\nfaith, of humility and submission. Other qualities may go to the\nformation of a religious character in the highest and grandest sense of\nthe word; but the virtues which religious teachers most generally\napprove, which make up the ideal of a Catholic saint, which the Catholic\nand all other churches endeavour most to cultivate in their children,\nare those of passive and loyal obedience, a devotion without reserve or\nqualification; or to use the technical word, 'a spirit of\nteachableness.' A religious education is most successful when it has\nformed a mind to which difficulties are welcome as an opportunity for\nthe triumph of faith--which regards doubts as temptations to be resisted\nlike the suggestions of sensuality, and which alike in action or opinion\nfollows the path prescribed to it with affectionate and unhesitating\nconfidence.\n\nTo men or women of the tender and sensitive piety which is produced by\nsuch a training, an enquiry into the grounds of its faith appears\nshocking and profane. To demand an explanation of ambiguities or\nmysteries of which they have been accustomed to think only upon their\nknees, is as it were to challenge the Almighty to explain his ways to\nhis creatures, and to refuse obedience unless human presumption has been\nfirst gratified.\n\nUndoubtedly, not in religion only, but in any branch of human knowledge,\nteachableness is the condition of growth. We augur ill for the future of\nthe youth who sets his own judgment against that of his instructors, and\nrefuses to believe what cannot be at once made plain to him. Yet again,\nthe wise instructor will not lightly discourage questions which are\nprompted by an intelligent desire of knowledge. That an unenquiring\nsubmission produces characters of great and varied beauty; that it has\ninspired the most splendid acts of endurance which have given a lustre\nto humanity, no one will venture to deny. A genial faith is one of that\ngroup of qualities which commend themselves most to the young, the\ngenerous, and the enthusiastic--to those whose native and original\nnobleness has suffered least from contact with the world--which belong\nrather to the imagination than the reason, and stand related to truth\nthrough the emotions rather than through the sober calculations of\nprobability. It is akin to loyalty, to enthusiasm, to hero-worship, to\nthat deep affection to a person or a cause which can see no fault in\nwhat it loves.\n\n'Belief,' says Mr. Sewell, 'is a virtue; doubt is a sin.' Iago is\nnothing if not critical; and the sceptical spirit--_der Geist der stets\nverneint_--which is satisfied with nothing, which sees in everything\ngood the seed of evil, and the weak spot in every great cause or nature,\nhas been made the special characteristic--we all feel with justice--of\nthe devil.\n\nAnd yet this devotedness or devotion, this reverence for authority, is\nbut one element of excellence. To reverence is good; but on the one\ncondition that the object of it be a thing which deserves reverence; and\nthe necessary complement, the security that we are not bestowing our\nbest affections where they should not be given, must be looked for in\nsome quality which, if less attractive, is no less essential for our\ntrue welfare. To prove all things--to try the spirits whether they be of\nGod--is a duty laid upon us by the highest authority; and what is called\nprogress in human things--religious as well as material--has been due\nuniformly to a dissatisfaction with them as they are. Every advance in\nscience, every improvement in the command of the mechanical forces of\nnature, every step in political or social freedom, has risen in the\nfirst instance from an act of scepticism, from an uncertainty whether\nthe formulas, or the opinions, or the government, or the received\npractical theories were absolutely perfect; or whether beyond the circle\nof received truths there might not lie something broader, deeper, truer,\nand thus better deserving the acceptance of mankind.\n\nSubmissiveness, humility, obedience, produce if uncorrected, in politics\na nation of slaves, whose baseness becomes an incentive to tyranny; in\nreligion, they produce the consecration of falsehood, poperies,\nimmaculate conceptions, winking images, and the confessional. The spirit\nof enquiry if left to itself becomes in like manner a disease of\nuncertainty, and terminates in universal scepticism. It seems as if in a\nhealthy order of things, to the willingness to believe there should be\nchained as its inseparable companion a jealousy of deception; and there\nis no lesson more important for serious persons to impress upon\nthemselves than that each of these temperaments must learn to tolerate\nthe other; faith accepting from reason the sanction of its service, and\nreason receiving in return the warm pulsations of life. The two\nprinciples exist together in the highest natures; and the man who in the\nbest sense of the word is devout, is also the most cautious to whom or\nto what he pays his devotion. Among the multitude, the units of which\nare each inadequate and incomplete, the elements are disproportionately\nmixed; some men are humble and diffident, some are sceptical and\nenquiring; yet both are filling a place in the great intellectual\neconomy; both contribute to make up the sum and proportion of qualities\nwhich are required to hold the balance even; and neither party is\nentitled to say to the other, 'Stand by; I am holier than thou.'\n\nAnd as it is with individuals, so is it also with whole periods and\ncycles. For centuries together the believing spirit held undisputed\nsovereignty; and these were what are called 'ages of faith;' ages, that\nis, in which the highest business of the intellect was to pray rather\nthan to investigate; when for every unusual phenomenon a supernatural\ncause was instinctively assumed; when wonders were credible in\nproportion to their magnitude; and theologians, with easy command of\nbelief, added miracle to miracle and piled dogma upon dogma. Then the\ntide changed; a fresh era opened, which in the eyes of those who\nconsidered the old system the only right one, was the letting loose of\nthe impersonated spirit of evil; when profane eyes were looking their\nidols in the face; when men were saying to the miraculous images, 'You\nare but stone and wood,' and to the piece of bread, 'You are but dust as\nI am dust;' and then the huge mediaeval fabric crumbled down in ruin.\n\nAll forms of thought, all objects of devotion, are made thus liable to\nperpetual revision, if only that belief shall not petrify into habit,\nbut remain the reasonable conviction of a reasonable soul. The change of\ntimes and the change of conditions change also the appearance of things\nwhich in themselves are the same which they always were. Facts supposed\nonce to be as fixed as the stars melt into fiction. A closer\nacquaintance with the phenomena of experience has revealed to us the\naction of forces before undreamt of working throughout nature with\nunerring uniformity; and to the mediaeval stories of magic, witchcraft,\nor the miracles of saints, we are thus placed in a new relation. The\ndirect evidence on which such stories were received may remain\nunimpaired, but it no longer produces the same conviction. Even in\nordinary human things where the evidence is lost--as in some of our own\nState trials, and where we know only that it was such as brought\nconviction to judges, juries, and parliaments--historians do not\nhesitate to call their verdicts into question, thinking it more likely\nthat whole masses of men should have been led away by passion or fraud\nor cowardice than that this or that particular crime should have been\ncommitted. That we often go beyond our office and exaggerate the value\nof our new criteria of truth may be possible enough; but it is no less\ncertain that this is the tendency of modern thought. Our own age, like\nevery age which has gone before it, judges the value of testimony, not\nby itself merely, but by the degree to which it corresponds with our own\nsense of the laws of probability; and we consider events probable or\nimprobable by the habit of mind which is the result of our general\nknowledge and culture. To the Catholic of the middle ages a miracle was\nmore likely than not; and when he was told that a miracle had been\nworked, he believed it as he would have believed had he been told that a\nshower of rain had fallen, or that the night frost had killed the buds\nupon his fruit trees. If his cattle died, he found the cause in the\nmalice of Satan or the evil eye of a witch; and if two or more witnesses\ncould have been found to swear that they had heard an old woman curse\nhim, she would have been burnt for a sorceress. The man of science, on\nthe other hand, knows nothing of witches and sorcerers; when he can find\na natural cause he refuses to entertain the possibility of the\nintervention of a cause beyond nature; and thus that very element of\nmarvel which to the more superstitious temperament was an evidence of\ntruth, becomes to the better informed a cause of suspicion.\n\nSo it has been that throughout history, as between individuals among\nourselves, we trace two habits of thought, one of which has given us\nchurches, creeds, and the knowledge of God; the other has given us\nfreedom and science, has pruned the luxuriance of imaginative reverence,\nand reminds piety of what it is too ready to forget--that God is truth.\nYet, essential as they are to one another, each keeps too absolutely to\nthe circle of its own convictions, and, but half able to recognise the\nmerit of principles which are alien to its own, regards the other as its\nnatural enemy.\n\nTo the warm and enthusiastic pietist the enquirer appears as a hater of\nGod, an inveterate blasphemer of holy things, soiling with rude and\ninsolent hands what ought only to be humbly adored. The saint when he\nhas the power calls the sword to his aid, and in his zeal for what he\ncalls the honour of God, makes war upon such people with steel and fire.\nThe innovator, on the other hand, knowing that he is not that evil\ncreature which his rival represents him as being, knowing that he too\ndesires only truth--first suffers, suffers in rough times at stake and\nscaffold, suffers in our own later days in good name, in reputation, in\nworldly fortune; and as the whirligig of time brings round his turn of\ntriumph, takes, in French revolutions and such other fits of madness,\nhis own period of wild revenge. The service of truth is made to appear\nas one thing, the service of God as another; and in that fatal\nseparation religion dishonours itself with unavailing enmity to what\nnevertheless it is compelled at last to accept in humiliation; and\nscience, welcoming the character which its adversary flings upon it,\nturns away with answering hostility from doctrines without which its own\nhighest achievements are but pyramids of ashes.\n\nIs this antagonism a law of humanity? As mankind move upwards through\nthe ascending circles of progress, is it for ever to be with them as\nwith the globe which they inhabit--of which one hemisphere is\nperpetually dark? Have the lessons of the Reformation been thrown away?\nIs knowledge always to advance under the ban of religion? Is faith\nnever to cease to dread investigation? Is science chiefly to value each\nnew discovery as a victory gained over its rival? Is the spiritual world\nto revolve eternally upon an axis of which the two poles are materialism\nand superstition, to be buried in their alternate occultations in\nperiods of utter darkness, or lifted into an icy light where there is\nneither life nor warmth?\n\nHow it may be in the remote future it is idle to guess; for the present\nthe signs are not hopeful. We are arrived visibly at one of those\nrecurring times when the accounts are called in for audit; when the\ntitle-deeds are to be looked through, and established opinions again\ntested. It is a process which has been repeated more than once in the\nworld's history; the last occasion and greatest being the Reformation of\nthe sixteenth century; and the experience of that matter might have\nsatisfied the most timid that truth has nothing to fear; and that\nreligion emerges out of such trials stronger and brighter than before.\nYet Churchmen have not profited by the experience; the pulpits and the\nreligious press ring again with the old shrieks of sacrilege; the\nmachinery of the law courts is set creaking on its rusty hinges, and\ndenunciation and anathema in the old style take the place of reasoning.\nIt will not answer; and the worst danger to what is really true is the\nwant of wisdom in its defenders. The language which we sometimes hear\nabout these things seems to imply that while Christianity is\nindisputably true, it cannot stand nevertheless without bolt and\nshackle, as if the Author of our faith had left the evidence so weak\nthat an honest investigation would fail to find it.\n\nInevitably, the altered relation in which modern culture places the\nminds of all of us towards the supernatural, will compel a\nreconsideration of the grounds on which the acceptance of miracles is\nrequired. If the English learned clergy had faith as a grain of mustard\nseed, they would be the first to take possession of the field; they\nwould look the difficulty in the face fearlessly and frankly, and we\nshould not be tossing as we are now in an ocean of uncertainty, ignorant\nwhether, if things seem obscure to us, the fault is with our intellects\nor our hearts.\n\nIt might have been that Providence, anticipating the effect produced on\ndead testimony by time and change, had raised religion into a higher\nsphere, and had appointed on earth a living and visible authority which\ncould not err--guided by the Holy Spirit into truth, and divinely\nsustained in the possession of it. Such a body the Roman Catholic Church\nconceives itself to be; but in breaking away from its communion,\nProtestant Christians have declared their conviction that neither the\nChurch of Rome, nor they themselves, nor any other body of men on earth,\nare exempt from a liability to error. It is no longer competent for the\nAnglican communion to say that a doctrine or a fact is true because it\nforms a part of their teaching, because it has come down to them from\nantiquity, and because to deny it is sin. Transubstantiation came down\nto the fathers of the Reformation from antiquity; it was received and\ninsisted upon by the Catholic Church of Christendom; yet nevertheless it\nwas flung out from among us as a lie and an offence. The theory of the\nDivine authority of the Church was abandoned in the act of Protestantism\nthree centuries ago; it was the central principle of that great revolt\nthat the establishment of particular opinions was no guarantee for their\ntruth; and it becomes thus our duty as well as our right to examine\nperiodically our intellectual defences, to abandon positions which the\nalteration of time makes untenable, and to admit and invite into the\nservice of the sanctuary the fullest light of advancing knowledge. Of\nall positions the most fatally suicidal for Protestants to occupy is the\nassumption, which it is competent for Roman Catholics to hold, but not\nfor them, that beliefs once sanctioned by the Church are sacred, and\nthat to impugn them is not error but crime.\n\nWith a hope, then, that this reproach may be taken away from us; that,\nin this most wealthily-endowed Church of England, where so many of the\nmost gifted and most accomplished men among us are maintained in\nwell-paid leisure to attend to such things, we may not be left any\nlonger to grope our way in the dark, the present writer puts forward\nsome few perplexities of which it would be well if English divinity\ncontained a clearer solution than is found there. The laity, occupied in\nother matters, regard the clergy as the trustees of their spiritual\ninterests; but inasmuch as the clergy tell them that the safety of their\nsouls depends on the correctness of their opinions, they dare not close\ntheir eyes to the questions which are being asked in louder and even\nlouder tones; and they have a right to demand that they shall not be\nleft to their own unaided efforts to answer such questions. We go to our\nappointed teachers as to our physicians; we say to them, 'We feel pain\nhere, and here, and here: we do not see our way, and we require you to\nhelp us.'\n\nMost of these perplexities are not new: they were felt with the first\nbeginnings of critical investigation; but the fact that they have been\nso many years before the world without being satisfactorily encountered\nmakes the situation only the more serious. It is the more strange that\nas time passes on, and divine after divine is raised to honour and\noffice for his theological services, we should find only when we turn to\ntheir writings that loud promises end in no performance; that the chief\nobject which they set before themselves is to avoid difficult ground;\nand that the points on which we most cry out for satisfaction are passed\nover in silence, or are disposed of with ineffectual commonplaces.\n\nWith a temperament constitutionally religious, and with an instinctive\nsense of the futility of theological controversies, the English people\nhave long kept the enemy at bay by passive repugnance. To the\nwell-conditioned English layman the religion in which he has been\neducated is part of the law of the land; the truth of it is assumed in\nthe first principles of his personal and social existence; and attacks\non the credibility of his sacred books he has regarded with the same\nimpatience and disdain with which he treats speculations on the rights\nof property or the common maxims of right and wrong. Thus, while the\ninspiration of the Bible has been a subject of discussion for a century\nin Germany, Holland, and France; while even in the desolate villages in\nthe heart of Spain the priests find it necessary to placard the church\nwalls with cautions against rationalism, England hitherto has escaped\nthe trial; and it is only within a very few years that the note of\nspeculation has compelled our deaf ears to listen. That it has come at\nlast is less a matter of surprise than that it should have been so long\ndelayed; and though slow to move, it is likely that so serious a people\nwill not now rest till they have settled the matter for themselves in\nsome practical way. We are assured that if the truth be, as we are told,\nof vital moment--vital to all alike, wise and foolish, educated and\nuneducated--the road to it cannot lie through any very profound\nenquiries. We refuse to believe that every labourer or mechanic must\nbalance arduous historical probabilities and come to a just conclusion,\nunder pain of damnation. We are satisfied that these poor people are not\nplaced in so cruel a dilemma. Either these abstruse historical questions\nare open questions, and we are not obliged under those penalties to hold\na definite opinion upon them, or else there must be some general\nprinciple accessible and easily intelligible, by which the details can\nbe summarily disposed of.\n\nWe shall not be much mistaken, perhaps, if we say that the view of most\neducated English laymen at present is something of this kind. They are\naware that many questions may be asked, difficult or impossible to\nanswer satisfactorily, about the creation of the world, the flood, and\ngenerally on the historical portion of the Old Testament; but they\nsuppose that if the authority of the Gospel history can be well\nascertained, the rest may and must be taken for granted. If it be true\nthat of the miraculous birth, life, death, and resurrection of our Lord,\nwe have the evidence of two evangelists who were eye-witnesses of the\nfacts which they relate, and of two others who wrote under the direction\nof, or upon the authority of, eye-witnesses, we can afford to dispense\nwith merely curious enquiries. The subordinate parts of a divine economy\nwhich culminated in so stupendous a mystery may well be as marvellous as\nitself; and it may be assumed, we think, with no great want of charity,\nthat those who doubt the truth of the Old Testament extend their\nincredulity to the New; that the point of their disbelief, towards which\nthey are trenching their way through the weak places in the Pentateuch,\nis the Gospel narrative itself.[F] Whatever difficulty there may be in\nproving the ancient Hebrew books to be the work of the writers whose\nnames they bear, no one would have cared to challenge their genuineness\nwho was thoroughly convinced of the resurrection of our Lord. And the\nreal object of these speculations lies open before us in the now\nnotorious work of M. Renan, which is shooting through Europe with a\nrapidity which recalls the era of Luther.\n\nTo the question of the authenticity of the Gospels, therefore, the\ncommon sense of Englishmen has instinctively turned. If, as English\ncommentators confidently tell us, the Gospel of St. Matthew, such as we\nnow possess it, is undoubtedly the work of the publican who followed our\nLord from the receipt of custom, and remained with Him to be a witness\nof His ascension; if St. John's Gospel was written by the beloved\ndisciple who lay on Jesus' breast at supper; if the other two were\nindeed the composition of the companions of St. Peter and St. Paul; if\nin these four Gospels we have independent accounts of our Lord's life\nand passion, mutually confirming each other, and if it can be proved\nthat they existed and were received as authentic in the first century of\nthe Christian Church, a stronger man than M. Renan will fail to shake\nthe hold of Christianity in England.\n\nWe put the question hypothetically, not as meaning to suggest the fact\nas uncertain, but being--as the matter is of infinite moment--being, as\nit were, the hinge on which our faith depends, we are forced beyond our\noffice to trespass on ground which we leave usually to professional\ntheologians, and to tell them plainly that there are difficulties which\nit is their business to clear up, but to which, with worse than\nimprudence, they close their own eyes, and deliberately endeavour to\nkeep them from ours. Some of these it is the object of this paper to\npoint out, with an earnest hope that Dean Alford, or Dr. Ellicott, or\nsome other competent clergyman, may earn our gratitude by telling us\nwhat to think about them. Setting aside their duty to us, they will find\nfrank dealing in the long run their wisest policy. The conservative\ntheologians of England have carried silence to the point of\nindiscretion.\n\nLooking, then, to the three first Gospels, usually called the\nSynoptical, we are encountered immediately with a remarkable common\nelement which runs through them all--a resemblance too peculiar to be\nthe result of accident, and impossible to reconcile with the theory that\nthe writers were independent of each other. It is not that general\nsimilarity which we should expect in different accounts of the same\nscenes and events, but amidst many differences, a broad vein of\ncircumstantial identity extending both to substance and expression.\n\nAnd the identity is of several kinds.\n\nI. Although the three evangelists relate each of them some things\npeculiar to themselves, and although between them there are some\nstriking divergencies--as, for instance, between the account of our\nLord's miraculous birth in St. Matthew and St. Luke, and in the absence\nin St. Mark of any mention of the miraculous birth at all--nevertheless,\nthe body of the story is essentially the same. Out of those words and\nactions--so many, that if all were related the world itself could not\ncontain the books that should be written--the three evangelists select\nfor the most part the same; the same parables, the same miracles, and,\nmore or less complete, the same addresses. When the material from which\nto select was so abundant--how abundant we have but to turn to the\nfourth evangelist to see--it is at least singular that three writers\nshould have made so nearly the same choice.\n\nII. But this is not all. Not only are the things related the same, but\nthe language in which they are expressed is the same. Sometimes the\nresemblance is such as would have arisen had the evangelists been\ntranslating from a common document in another language. Sometimes, and\nmost frequently, there is an absolute verbal identity; sentences,\nparagraphs, long passages, are word for word the very same; a few\nexpressions have been slightly varied, a particle transposed, a tense or\na case altered, but the differences being no greater than would arise if\na number of persons were to write from memory some common passages which\nthey knew almost by heart. That there should have been this identity in\nthe account of the _words_ used by our Lord seems at first sight no more\nthan we should expect. But it extends to the narrative as well; and with\nrespect to the parables and discourses, there is this extraordinary\nfeature, that whereas our Lord is supposed to have spoken in the\nordinary language of Palestine, the resemblance between the evangelists\nis in the Greek translation of them; and how unlikely it is that a\nnumber of persons in translating from one language into another should\nhit by accident on the same expressions, the simplest experiment will\nshow.\n\nNow, waiving for a moment the inspiration of the Gospels; interpreting\nthe Bible, to use Mr. Jowett's canon, as any other book, what are we to\nconclude from phenomena of this kind? What in fact do we conclude when\nwe encounter them elsewhere? In the lives of the saints, in the monkish\nhistories, there are many parallel cases. A mediaeval chronicler, when he\nfound a story well told by his predecessor, seldom cared to recompose\nit; he transcribed the words as they stood into his own narrative,\ncontented perhaps with making a few trifling changes to add a finish or\na polish. Sometimes two chroniclers borrow from a third. There is the\nsame identity in particular expressions, the same general resemblance,\nthe same divergence, as each improves his original from his independent\nknowledge by addition or omission; but the process is so transparent,\nthat when the original is lost, the existence of it can be inferred with\ncertainty.\n\nOr to take a more modern parallel--we must entreat our readers to pardon\nany seeming irreverence which may appear in the comparison--if in the\nletters of the correspondents of three different newspapers written from\nAmerica or Germany, we were to read the same incidents told in the same\nlanguage, surrounded it might be with much that was unlike, but\nnevertheless in themselves identical, and related in words which, down\nto unusual and remarkable terms of expression, were exactly the same,\nwhat should we infer?\n\nSuppose, for instance, the description of a battle; if we were to find\nbut a single paragraph in which two out of three correspondents agreed\nverbally, we should regard it as a very strange coincidence. If all\nthree agreed verbally, we should feel certain it was more than accident.\nIf throughout their letters there was a recurring series of such\npassages, no doubt would be left in the mind of any one that either the\nthree correspondents had seen each other's letters, or that each had had\nbefore him some common narrative which he had incorporated in his own\naccount. It might be doubtful which of these two explanations was the\ntrue one; but that one or other of them was true, unless we suppose a\nmiracle, is as certain as any conclusion in human things can be certain\nat all. The sworn testimony of eye-witnesses who had seen the letters so\ncomposed would add nothing to the weight of a proof which without their\nevidence would be overwhelming; and were the writers themselves, with\ntheir closest friends and companions, to swear that there had been no\nintercommunication, and no story pre-existing of which they had made\nuse, and that each had written _bona fide_ from his own original\nobservation, an English jury would sooner believe the whole party\nperjured than persuade themselves that so extraordinary a coincidence\nwould have occurred.\n\nNor would it be difficult to ascertain from internal evidence which of\nthe two possible interpretations was the real one. If the writers were\nmen of evident good faith; if their stories were in parts widely\ndifferent; if they made no allusion to each other, nor ever referred to\none another as authorities; finally, if neither of them, in giving a\ndifferent account of any matter from that given by his companions,\nprofessed either to be supplying an omission or correcting a mistake,\nthen we should have little doubt that they had themselves not\ncommunicated with each other, but were supplementing, each of them from\nother sources of information, a central narrative which all alike had\nbefore them.\n\nHow far may we apply the parallel to the Synoptical Gospels? In one\nsense the inspiration lifts them above comparison, and disposes\nsummarily of critical perplexities; there is no difficulty which may not\nbe explained by a miracle; and in that aspect the points of disagreement\nbetween these accounts are more surprising than the similarities. It is\non the disagreements in fact that the labours of commentators have\nchiefly been expended. Yet it is a question whether, on the whole,\ninspiration does not leave unaffected the ordinary human phenomena; and\nit is hard to suppose that where the rules of judgment in ordinary\nwritings are so distinct, God would have thus purposely cast a\nstumbling-block in our way, and contrived a snare into which our reason\nshould mislead us. That is hard to credit; yet that and nothing else we\nmust believe if we refuse to apply to the Gospel the same canons of\ncriticism which with other writings would be a guide so decisive. It may\nbe assumed that the facts connected with them admit a natural\nexplanation; and we arrive, therefore, at the same conclusion as before:\nthat either two of the evangelists borrowed from the third, or else that\nthere was some other Gospel besides those which are now extant; existing\nperhaps both in Hebrew and Greek--existing certainly in Greek--the\nfragments of which are scattered up and down through St. Mark, St.\nMatthew, and St. Luke, in masses sufficiently large to be distinctly\nrecognisable.\n\nThat at an early period in the Christian Church many such Gospels\nexisted, we know certainly from the words of St. Luke. St. Paul alludes\nto words used by our Lord which are not mentioned by the evangelists,\nwhich he assumed nevertheless to be well known to his hearers. He\nspeaks, too, of an appearance of our Lord after His resurrection to five\nhundred brethren; on which the four Gospels are also silent. It is\nindisputable, therefore, that besides and antecedent to them there were\nother accounts of our Lord's life in use in the Christian Church. And\nindeed, what more natural, what more necessary, than that from the day\non which the apostles entered upon their public mission, some narrative\nshould have been drawn up of the facts which they were about to make\nknown? Then as little as now could the imagination of men be trusted to\nrelate accurately a story composed of stupendous miracles without\nmistake or exaggeration; and their very first step would have been to\ncompose an account of what had passed, to which they could speak with\ncertainty, and which they could invest with authoritative sanction. Is\nit not possible then that the identical passages in the Synoptical\nGospels are the remains of something of this kind, which the\nevangelists, in their later, fuller, and more complete histories,\nenlarged and expanded? The conjecture has been often made, and English\ncommentators have for the most part dismissed it slightingly; not\napparently being aware that in rejecting one hypothesis they were bound\nto suggest another; or at least to admit that there was something which\nrequired explanation, though this particular suggestion did not seem\nsatisfactory. Yet if it were so, the external testimony for the truth of\nthe Gospel history would be stronger than before. It would amount to the\ncollective view of the first congregation of Christians, who had all\nimmediate and personal knowledge of our Lord's miracles and death and\nresurrection.\n\nBut perhaps the external history of the four Gospels may throw some\nlight upon the question, if indeed we can speak of light where all is a\ncloud of uncertainty. It would seem as if the sources of Christianity,\nlike the roots of all other living things, were purposely buried in\nmystery. There exist no ancient writings whatever of such vast moment to\nmankind of which so little can be authentically known.\n\nThe four Gospels, in the form and under the names which they at present\nbear, become visible only with distinctness towards the end of the\nsecond century of the Christian era. Then it was that they assumed the\nauthoritative position which they have ever since maintained, and were\nselected by the Church out of the many other then existing narratives\nas the supreme and exclusive authorities for our Lord's life. Irenaeus is\nthe first of the Fathers in whom they are found attributed by name to\nSt. Matthew, St. Mark, St. Luke, and St. John. That there were four true\nevangelists, and that there could be neither more nor less than four,\nIrenaeus had persuaded himself because there were four winds or spirits,\nand four divisions of the earth, for which the Church being universal\nrequired four columns; because the cherubim had four faces, to each of\nwhich an evangelist corresponded; because four covenants had been given\nto mankind--one before the Deluge in Adam, one after the Deluge in Noah,\nthe third in Moses, the fourth and greatest in the New Testament; while\nagain the name of Adam was composed of four letters. It is not to be\nsupposed that the intellects of those great men who converted the world\nto Christianity were satisfied with arguments so imaginative as these;\nthey must have had other closer and more accurate grounds for their\ndecision; but the mere employment of such figures as evidence in any\nsense, shows the enormous difference between their modes of reasoning\nand ours, and illustrates the difficulty of deciding at our present\ndistance from them how far their conclusions were satisfactory.\n\nOf the Gospels separately the history is immediately lost in legend.\n\nThe first notice of a Gospel of St. Matthew is in the well-known words\nof Papias, a writer who in early life might have seen St. John. The\nworks of Papias are lost--a misfortune the more to be regretted because\nEusebius speaks of him as a man of very limited understanding, [Greek:\npanu smikros ton noun]. Understanding and folly are words of\nundetermined meaning; and when language like that of Irenaeus could seem\nprofound it is quite possible that Papias might have possessed\ncommonplace faculties which would have been supremely useful to us. A\nsurviving fragment of him says that St. Matthew put together the\ndiscourses of our Lord in Hebrew, and that every one interpreted them as\nhe could. Pantaenus, said by Eusebius to have been another contemporary\nof the apostles, was reported to have gone to India, to have found there\na congregation of Christians which had been established by St.\nBartholomew, and to have seen in use among them this Hebrew Gospel.\nOrigen repeats the story, which in his time had become the universal\nCatholic tradition, that St. Matthew's was the first Gospel, that it was\nwritten in Hebrew, and that it was intended for the use of the Jewish\nconverts. Jerome adds that it was unknown when or by whom it was\nrendered into a Greek version. That was all which the Church had to say;\nand what had become of that Hebrew original no one could tell.\n\nThat there existed _a_ Hebrew Gospel in very early times is well\nauthenticated; there was a Gospel called the Gospel of the Ebionites or\nNazarenes, of which Origen possessed a copy, and which St. Jerome\nthought it worth while to translate; this too is lost, and Jerome's\ntranslation of it also; but the negative evidence seems conclusive that\nit was not the lost Gospel of St. Matthew. Had it been so it could not\nhave failed to be recognised, although from such accounts of it as have\nbeen preserved, it possessed some affinity with St. Matthew's Gospel. In\none instance, indeed, it gave the right reading of a text which has\nperplexed orthodox commentators, and has induced others to suspect that\nthat Gospel in its present form could not have existed before the\ndestruction of Jerusalem. The Zachariah the son of Barachiah said by St.\nMatthew to have been slain between the temple and the altar, is unknown\nto Old Testament history, while during the siege of Jerusalem a\nZachariah the son of Barachiah actually was killed exactly in the manner\ndescribed. But in the Ebionite Gospel the same words are found with this\nslight but important difference, that the Zachariah in question is there\ncalled the son of Jehoiadah, and is at once identified with the person\nwhose murder is related in the Second Book of Chronicles. The later\ntranslator of St. Matthew had probably confused the names.\n\nOf St. Mark's Gospel the history is even more profoundly obscure.\nPapias, again the highest discoverable link of the Church tradition,\nsays that St. Mark accompanied St. Peter to Rome as his interpreter; and\nthat while there he wrote down what St. Peter told him, or what he could\nremember St. Peter to have said. Clement of Alexandria enlarges the\nstory. According to Clement, when St. Peter was preaching at Rome, the\nChristian congregation there requested St. Mark to write a Gospel for\nthem; St. Mark complied without acquainting St. Peter, and St. Peter\nwhen informed of it was uncertain whether to give or withhold his\nsanction till his mind was set at rest by a vision.\n\nIrenaeus, on the other hand, says that St. Mark's Gospel was not written\ntill after the death of St. Peter and St. Paul. St. Chrysostom says that\nafter it was written St. Mark went to Egypt and published it at\nAlexandria; Epiphanius again, that the Egyptian expedition was\nundertaken at the express direction of St. Peter himself.\n\nThus the Church tradition is inconsistent with itself, and in all\nprobability is nothing but a structure of air; it is bound up with the\npresence of St. Peter at Rome; and the only ground for supposing that\nSt. Peter was ever at Rome at all is the passage at the close of St.\nPeter's First Epistle, where it pleased the Fathers to assume that the\n'Babylon' there spoken of must have been the city of the Caesars. This\npassage alone, with the wild stories (now known to have originated in\nthe misreading of an inscription) of St. Peter's conflict with Simon\nMagus in the presence of the emperor, form together the light and airy\narches on which the huge pretences of the Church of Rome have reared\nthemselves. If the Babylon of the Epistle was Babylon on the\nEuphrates--and there is not the slightest historical reason to suppose\nit to have been anything else--the story of the origin of St. Mark's\nGospel perishes with the legend to which it was inseparably attached by\nChurch tradition.\n\nOf St. John's Gospel we do not propose to speak in this place; it forms\na subject by itself; and of that it is enough to say that the defects of\nexternal evidence which undoubtedly exist seem overborne by the\noverwhelming proofs of authenticity contained in the Gospel itself.\n\nThe faint traditionary traces which inform us that St. Matthew and St.\nMark were supposed to have written Gospels fail us with St. Luke. The\napostolic and the immediately post-apostolic Fathers never mention Luke\nas having written a history of our Lord at all. There was indeed a\nGospel in use among the Marcionites which resembled that of St. Luke, as\nthe Gospel of the Ebionites resembled that of St. Matthew. In both the\none and the other there was no mention of our Lord's miraculous birth;\nand later writers accused Marcion of having mutilated St. Luke. But\napparently their only reason for thinking so was that the two Gospels\nwere like each other; and for all that can be historically proved, the\nGospel of the Marcionites may have been the older of the two. What is\nwanting externally, however, is supposed to be more than made up by the\nlanguage of St. Luke himself. The Gospel was evidently composed in its\npresent form by the same person who wrote the Acts of the Apostles. In\nthe latter part of the Acts of the Apostles the writer speaks in the\nfirst person as the companion of St. Paul; and the date of this Gospel\nseems to be thus conclusively fixed at an early period in the apostolic\nage. There is at least a high probability that this reasoning is sound;\nyet it has seemed strange that a convert so eminent as 'the most\nexcellent' Theophilus, to whom St. Luke addressed himself, should be\nfound impossible to identify. 'Most excellent' was a title given only to\npersons of high rank; and it is singular that St. Paul himself should\nnever have mentioned so considerable a name. And again, there is\nsomething peculiar in the language of the introduction to the Gospel\nitself. Though St. Luke professes to be writing on the authority of\neye-witnesses, he does not say he had spoken with eye-witnesses; so far\nfrom it, that the word translated in the English version 'delivered' is\nliterally 'handed down;' it is the verb which corresponds to the\ntechnical expression for 'tradition;' and the words translated 'having\nhad perfect understanding of all things from the first,' might be\nrendered more properly, 'having traced or followed up all things from\nthe beginning.' And again, as it is humanly speaking certain that in St.\nLuke's Gospel there are passages, however they are to be explained,\nwhich were embodied in it from some other source, so, though extremely\nprobable, it is not absolutely certain that those passages in the Acts\nin which the writer speaks in the first person are by the same hand as\nthe body of the narrative. If St. Luke had anywhere directly introduced\nhimself--if he had said plainly that he, the writer who was addressing\nTheophilus, had personally joined St. Paul, and in that part of his\nstory was relating what he had seen and heard, there would be no room\nfor uncertainty. But, so far as we know, there is no other instance in\nliterature of a change of person introduced abruptly without\nexplanation. The whole book is less a connected history than a series of\nepisodes and fragments of the proceedings of the apostles; and it is to\nbe noticed that the account of St. Paul's conversion, as given in its\nplace in the first part of the narrative, differs in one material point\nfrom the second account given later in the part which was unquestionably\nthe work of one of St. Paul's companions. There is a possibility--it\namounts to no more, and the suggestion is thrown out for the\nconsideration of those who are better able than this writer to judge of\nit--that in the Gospel and the Acts we have the work of a careful editor\nof the second century. Towards the close of that century a prominent\nactor in the great movement which gave their present authority to the\nfour Gospels was Theophilus, Bishop of Antioch; he it was who brought\nthem together, incorporated into a single work--_in unum opus_; and it\nmay be, after all, that in him we have the long-sought person to whom\nSt. Luke was writing; that the Gospel which we now possess was compiled\nat his desire out of other imperfect Gospels in use in the different\nChurches; and that it formed a part of his scheme to supersede them by\nan account more exhaustive, complete, and satisfactory.\n\nTo this hypothesis indeed there is an answer which if valid at all is\nabsolutely fatal. We are told that although the names of the writers of\nthe Gospels may not be mentioned until a comparatively late period, yet\nthat the Gospels themselves can be shown to have existed, because they\nare habitually quoted in the authentic writings of the earliest of the\nFathers. If this be so, the slightness of the historical thread is of\nlittle moment, and we may rest safely on the solid ground of so\nconclusive a fact. But is it so? That the early Fathers quoted some\naccounts of our Lord's life is abundantly clear; but did they quote\nthese? We proceed to examine this question--again tentatively only--we\ndo but put forward certain considerations on which we ask for fuller\ninformation.\n\nIf any one of the primitive Christian writers was likely to have been\nacquainted with the authentic writings of the evangelists, that one was\nindisputably Justin Martyr. Born in Palestine in the year 89, Justin\nMartyr lived to the age of seventy-six; he travelled over the Roman\nworld as a missionary; and intellectually he was more than on a level\nwith most educated Oriental Christians. He was the first distinctly\ncontroversial writer which the Church produced; and the great facts of\nthe Gospel history were obviously as well known to him as they are to\nourselves. There are no traces in his writings of an acquaintance with\nanything peculiar either to St. John or St. Mark; but there are extracts\nin abundance often identical with and generally nearly resembling\npassages in St. Matthew and St. Luke. Thus at first sight it would be\ndifficult to doubt that with these two Gospels at least he was\nintimately familiar. And yet in all his citations there is this\npeculiarity, that Justin Martyr never speaks of either of the\nevangelists by name; he quotes or seems to quote invariably from\nsomething which he calls [Greek: apomnemoneumata ton Apostolon], or\n'Memoirs of the Apostles.' It is no usual habit of his to describe his\nauthorities vaguely: when he quotes the Apocalypse he names St. John;\nwhen he refers to a prophet he specifies Isaiah, Jeremiah, or Daniel.\nWhy, unless there was some particular reason for it, should he use so\nsingular an expression whenever he alludes to the sacred history of the\nNew Testament? why, if he knew the names of the evangelists, did he\nnever mention them even by accident? Nor is this the only singularity in\nJustin Martyr's quotations. There are those slight differences between\nthem and the text of the Gospels which appear between the Gospels\nthemselves. When we compare an extract in Justin with the parallel\npassage in St. Matthew, we find often that it differs from St. Matthew\njust as St. Matthew differs from St. Luke, or both from St. Mark--great\nverbal similarity--many paragraphs agreeing word for word--and then\nother paragraphs where there is an alteration of expression, tense,\norder, or arrangement.\n\nAgain, just as in the midst of the general resemblance between the\nSynoptical Gospels, each evangelist has something of his own which is\nnot to be found in the others, so in these 'Memoirs of the Apostles'\nthere are facts unknown to either of the evangelists. In the account\nextracted by Justin from 'the Memoirs,' of the baptism in the Jordan,\nthe words heard from heaven are not as St. Matthew gives them--'Thou art\nmy beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased'--but the words of the psalm,\n'Thou art my Son, this day have I begotten Thee;' a reading which,\nsingularly enough, was to be found in the Gospel of the Ebionites.\n\nAnother curious addition to the same scene is in the words [Greek: kai\npur anephthe en Iordane], 'and a fire was kindled in Jordan.'\n\nAgain, Justin Martyr speaks of our Lord having promised 'to clothe us\nwith garments made ready for us if we keep his commandments'--[Greek:\nkai aionion basileian pronoesai]--whatever those words may precisely\nmean.\n\nThese and other peculiarities in Justin may be explained if we suppose\nhim to have been quoting from memory. The evangelical text might not as\nyet have acquired its verbal sanctity; and as a native of Palestine he\nmight well have been acquainted with other traditions which lay outside\nthe written word. The silence as to names, however, remains unexplained;\nand as the facts actually stand there is the same kind of proof, and no\nmore, that Justin Martyr was acquainted with St. Matthew and St. Luke as\nthere is that one of these evangelists made extracts from the other, or\nboth from St. Mark. So long as one set of commentators decline to\nrecognise the truth of this relation between the Gospels, there will be\nothers who with as much justice will dispute the relation of Justin to\nthem. He too might have used another Gospel, which, though like them,\nwas not identical with them.\n\nAfter Justin Martyr's death, about the year 170, appeared Tatian's\n'Diatessaron,' a work which, as its title implies, was a harmony of four\nGospels, and most likely of _the_ four; yet again not exactly as we have\nthem. Tatian's harmony, like so many others of the early evangelical\nhistories, was silent on the miraculous birth, and commenced only with\nthe public ministration. The text was in other places different, so much\nso that Theodoret accuses Tatian of having mutilated the Gospels; but of\nthis Theodoret had probably no better means of judging than we have. The\n'Diatessaron' has been long lost, and the name is the only clue to its\ncomposition.\n\nOf far more importance than either Justin or Tatian are such writings as\nremain of the immediate successors of the apostles--Barnabas, Clement of\nRome, Polycarp, and Ignatius: it is asserted confidently that in these\nthere are quotations from the Gospels so exact that they cannot be\nmistaken.\n\nWe will examine them one by one.\n\nIn an epistle of Barnabas there is one passage--it is the only one of\nthe kind to be found in him--agreeing word for word with the Synoptical\nGospels, 'I came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.'\nIt is one of the many passages in which the Greek of the three\nevangelists is exactly the same; it was to be found also in Justin's\n'Memoirs;' and there can be no doubt that Barnabas either knew those\nGospels or else the common source--if common source there was--from\nwhich the evangelists borrowed. More than this such a quotation does not\nenable us to say; and till some satisfactory explanation has been\noffered of the agreement between the evangelists, the argument can\nadvance no further. On the other hand, Barnabas like St. Paul had other\nsources from which he drew his knowledge of our Lord's words. He too\nascribes words to Him which are not recorded by the evangelists, [Greek:\nhouto phesin Iesous; hoi thelontes me idein kai hapsasthai mou tes\nbasileias opheilousi thlibentes kai pathontes labein me]. The thought is\neverywhere in the Gospels, the words nowhere, nor anything like them.\n\nBoth Ignatius and Polycarp appear to quote the Gospels, yet with them\nalso there is the same uncertainty; while Ignatius quotes as genuine an\nexpression which, so far as we know, was peculiar to a translation of\nthe Gospel of the Ebionites--'Handle me and see, for I am not a spirit\nwithout body,' [Greek: hoti ouk eimi daimonion asomaton].\n\nClement's quotations are still more free, for Clement nowhere quotes the\ntext of the evangelists exactly as it at present stands; often he\napproaches it extremely close; at times the agreement is rather in\nmeaning than words, as if he were translating from another language. But\nagain Clement more noticeably than either of the other apostolic Fathers\ncites expressions of our Lord of which the evangelists knew nothing.\n\nFor instance--\n\n'The Lord saith, \"If ye be with me gathered into my bosom, and do not\nafter my commandments, I will cast you off, and I will say unto you,\nDepart from me, I know you not, ye workers of iniquity.\"'\n\nAnd again:--\n\n'The Lord said, \"Ye shall be as sheep in the midst of wolves.\" Peter\nanswered and said unto Him, \"Will the wolves then tear the sheep?\" Jesus\nsaid unto Peter, \"The sheep need not fear the wolves after they (the\nsheep) be dead: and fear not ye those who kill you and can do nothing to\nyou; but fear Him who after you be dead hath power over soul and body to\ncast them into hell-fire.\"'\n\nIn these words we seem to have the lost link in a passage which appears\nin a different connection in St. Matthew and St. Luke. It may be said,\nas with Justin Martyr, that Clement was quoting from memory in the sense\nrather than in the letter; although even so it is difficult to suppose\nthat he could have invented an interlocution of St. Peter. Yet no\nhypothesis will explain the most strange words which follow:--\n\n'The Lord being asked when His kingdom should come, said, \"When two\nshall be one, and that which is without as that which is within, and the\nmale with the female neither male nor female.\"'\n\nIt is needless to say how remote are such expressions as these from any\nwhich have come down to us through the evangelists; but they were no\ninventions of Clement. The passage reappears later in Clement of\nAlexandria, who found it in something which he called the Gospel of the\nEgyptians.\n\nIt will be urged that because Clement quoted other authorities beside\nthe evangelists, it does not follow that he did not know and quote from\nthem. If the citation of a passage which appears in almost the same\nwords in another book is not to be accepted as a proof of an\nacquaintance with that book, we make it impossible, it may be said, to\nprove from quotations at all the fact of any book's existence. But this\nis not the case. If a Father, in relating an event which is told\nvariously in the Synoptical Gospels, had followed one of them minutely\nin its verbal peculiarities, it would go far to prove that he was\nacquainted with that one; if the same thing was observed in all his\nquotations, the proof would amount to demonstration. If he agreed\nminutely in one place with one Gospel, minutely in a second with\nanother, minutely in a third with another, there would be reason to\nbelieve that he was acquainted with them all; but when he merely relates\nwhat they also relate in language which approaches theirs and yet\ndiffers from it, as they also resemble yet differ from one another, we\ndo not escape from the circle of uncertainty, and we conclude either\nthat the early Fathers made quotations with a looseness irreconcileable\nwith the idea that the language of the Gospels possessed any verbal\nsacredness to them, or that there were in their times other narratives\nof our Lord's life standing in the same relation to the three Gospels as\nSt. Matthew stands to St. Mark and St. Luke.\n\nThus the problem returns upon us; and it might almost seem as if the\nexplanation was laid purposely beyond our reach. We are driven back upon\ninternal criticism; and we have to ask again what account is to be given\nof that element common to the Synoptical Gospels, common also to those\nother Gospels of which we find traces so distinct--those verbal\nresemblances, too close to be the effect of accident--those differences\nwhich forbid the supposition that the evangelists copied one another. So\nmany are those common passages, that if all which is peculiar to each\nevangelist by himself were dropped, if those words and those actions\nonly were retained which either all three or two at least share\ntogether, the figure of our Lord from His baptism to His ascension would\nremain with scarcely impaired majesty.\n\nOne hypothesis, and so far as we can see one only, would make the\nmystery intelligible, that immediately on the close of our Lord's life\nsome original sketch of it was drawn up by the congregation, which\ngradually grew and gathered round it whatever His mother, His relations,\nor His disciples afterwards individually might contribute. This primary\nhistory would thus not be the work of any one mind or man; it would be\nthe joint work of the Church, and thus might well be called 'Memoirs of\nthe Apostles;' and would naturally be quoted without the name of either\none of them being specially attached to it. As Christianity spread over\nthe world, and separate Churches were founded by particular apostles,\ncopies would be multiplied, and copies of those copies; and, unchecked\nby the presence (before the invention of printing impossible) of any\nauthoritative text, changes would creep in--passages would be left out\nwhich did not suit the peculiar views of this or that sect; others would\nbe added as this or that apostle recollected something which our Lord\nhad said that bore on questions raised in the development of the creed.\nTwo great divisions would form themselves between the Jewish and the\nGentile Churches; there would be a Hebrew Gospel and a Greek Gospel, and\nthe Hebrew would be translated into Greek, as Papias says St. Matthew's\nGospel was. Eventually the confusion would become intolerable; and among\nthe conflicting stories the Church would have been called on to make its\nformal choice.\n\nThis fact at least is certain from St. Luke's words, that at the time\nwhen he was writing many different narratives did actually exist. The\nhypothesis of a common origin for them has as yet found little favour\nwith English theologians; yet rather perhaps because it would be\ninconvenient for certain peculiar forms of English thought than because\nit has not probability on its side. That the Synoptical Gospels should\nhave been a natural growth rather than the special and independent work\nof three separate writers, would be unfavourable to a divinity which has\nbuilt itself up upon particular texts, and has been more concerned with\ndoctrinal polemics than with the broader basements of historic truth.\nYet the text theory suffers equally from the mode in which the first\nFathers treated the Gospels, if it were these Gospels indeed which they\nused. They at least could have attributed no importance to words and\nphrases; while again, as we said before, a narrative dating from the\ncradle of Christianity, with the testimony in its favour of such broad\nand deep reception, would, however wanting in some details, be an\nevidence of the truth of the main facts of the Gospel history very much\nstronger than that of three books composed we know not when, and the\norigin of which it is impossible to trace, which it is impossible to\nregard as independent, and the writers of which in any other view of\nthem must be assumed to have borrowed from each other.\n\nBut the object of this article is not to press either this or any other\ntheory; it is but to ask from those who are able to give it an answer to\nthe most serious of questions. The truth of the Gospel history is now\nmore widely doubted in Europe than at any time since the conversion of\nConstantine. Every thinking person who has been brought up a Christian\nand desires to remain a Christian, yet who knows anything of what is\npassing in the world, is looking to be told on what evidence the New\nTestament claims to be received. The state of opinion proves of itself\nthat the arguments hitherto offered produce no conviction. Every other\nmiraculous history is discredited as legend, however exalted the\nauthority on which it seems to be rested. We crave to have good reason\nshown us for maintaining still the one great exception. Hard worked in\nother professions, and snatching with difficulty sufficient leisure to\nlearn how complicated is the problem, the laity can but turn to those\nfor assistance who are set apart and maintained as their theological\ntrustees. We can but hope and pray that some one may be found to give us\nan edition of the Gospels in which the difficulties will neither be\nslurred over with convenient neglect or noticed with affected\nindifference. It may or may not be a road to a bishopric; it may or may\nnot win the favour of the religious world; but it will earn at least the\nrespectful gratitude of those who cannot trifle with holy things, and\nwho believe that true religion is the service of truth.\n\nThe last words were scarcely written when an advertisement appeared, the\nimportance of which can scarcely be over-estimated. A commentary is\nannounced on the Old and New Testaments, to be composed with a view to\nwhat are called the 'misrepresentations' of modern criticism. It is to\nbe brought out under the direction of the heads of the Church, and is\nthe nearest approach to an official act in these great matters which\nthey have ventured for two hundred years. It is not for us to anticipate\nthe result. The word 'misrepresentations' is unfortunate; we should have\naugured better for the work if instead of it had been written 'the\nsincere perplexities of honest minds.' But the execution may be better\nthan the promise. If these perplexities are encountered honourably and\nsuccessfully, the Church may recover its supremacy over the intellect of\nthe country; if otherwise, the archbishop who has taken the command will\nhave steered the vessel direct upon the rocks.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[E] _Fraser's Magazine_, 1864.\n\n[F] I do not speak of individuals; I speak of _tendency_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BOOK OF JOB.[G]\n\n\nIt will be matter some day of curious enquiry to ascertain why,\nnotwithstanding the high reverence with which the English people regard\nthe Bible, they have done so little in comparison with their continental\ncontemporaries towards arriving at a proper understanding of it. The\nbooks named below[H] form but a section of a long list which has\nappeared during the last few years in Germany on the Book of Job alone;\nand this book has not received any larger share of attention than the\nothers, either of the Old or the New Testament. Whatever be the nature\nor the origin of these books (and on this point there is much difference\nof opinion among the Germans as among ourselves) they are all agreed,\northodox and unorthodox, that at least we should endeavour to understand\nthem; and that no efforts can be too great, either of research or\ncriticism, to discover their history, or elucidate their meaning.\n\nWe shall assent, doubtless, eagerly, perhaps noisily and indignantly, to\nso obvious a truism; but our own efforts in the same direction will not\nbear us out. Able men in England employ themselves in matters of a more\npractical character; and while we refuse to avail ourselves of what has\nbeen done elsewhere, no book, or books, which we produce on the\ninterpretation of Scripture acquire more than a partial or an ephemeral\nreputation. The most important contribution to our knowledge on this\nsubject which has been made in these recent years is the translation of\nthe 'Library of the Fathers,' by which it is about as rational to\nsuppose that the analytical criticism of modern times can be superseded,\nas that the place of Herman and Dindorf could be supplied by an edition\nof the old scholiasts.\n\nIt is, indeed, reasonable that as long as we are persuaded that our\nEnglish theory of the Bible, as a whole, is the right one, we should\nshrink from contact with investigations which, however ingenious in\nthemselves, are based on what we know to be a false foundation. But\nthere are some learned Germans whose orthodoxy would pass examination at\nExeter Hall; and there are many subjects, such, for instance, as the\npresent, on which all their able men are agreed in conclusions that\ncannot rationally give offence to any one. With the Book of Job,\nanalytical criticism has only served to clear up the uncertainties which\nhave hitherto always hung about it. It is now considered to be, beyond\nall doubt, a genuine Hebrew original, completed by its writer almost in\nthe form in which it now remains to us. The questions on the\nauthenticity of the Prologue and Epilogue, which once were thought\nimportant, have given way before a more sound conception of the dramatic\nunity of the entire poem; and the volumes before us contain merely an\nenquiry into its meaning, bringing, at the same time, all the resources\nof modern scholarship and historical and mythological research to bear\nupon the obscurity of separate passages. It is the most difficult of all\nthe Hebrew compositions--many words occurring in it, and many thoughts,\nnot to be found elsewhere in the Bible. How difficult our translators\nfound it may be seen by the number of words which they were obliged to\ninsert in italics, and the doubtful renderings which they have suggested\nin the margin. One instance of this, in passing, we will notice in this\nplace--it will be familiar to every one as the passage quoted at the\nopening of the English burial service, and adduced as one of the\ndoctrinal proofs of the resurrection of the body:--'I know that my\nRedeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter _day_ upon the\nearth; and _though_, after my skin _worms_ destroy this _body_, yet in\nmy flesh I shall see God.' So this passage stands in the ordinary\nversion. But the words in italics have nothing answering to them in the\noriginal--they were all added by the translators[I] to fill out their\ninterpretation; and for _in my flesh_, they tell us themselves in the\nmargin that we may read (and, in fact, we ought to read, and must read)\n'_out of_,' or _'without' my flesh_. It is but to write out the verses,\nomitting the conjectural additions, and making that one small but vital\ncorrection, to see how frail a support is there for so large a\nconclusion: 'I know that my Redeemer liveth, and shall stand at the\nlatter       upon the earth; and after my skin       destroy\nthis       ; yet without my flesh I shall see God.' If there is any\ndoctrine of a resurrection here, it is a resurrection precisely _not_ of\nthe body, but of the spirit. And now let us only add, that the word\ntranslated Redeemer is the technical expression for the 'avenger of\nblood;' and that the second paragraph ought to be rendered--'and one to\ncome after me (my next of kin, to whom the avenging my injuries belongs)\nshall stand upon my dust,' and we shall see how much was to be done\ntowards the mere exegesis of the text. This is an extreme instance, and\nno one will question the general beauty and majesty of our translation;\nbut there are many mythical and physical allusions scattered over the\npoem, which, in the sixteenth century, there were positively no means of\nunderstanding; and perhaps, too, there were mental tendencies in the\ntranslators themselves which prevented them from adequately apprehending\neven the drift and spirit of the composition. The form of the story was\ntoo stringent to allow such tendencies any latitude; but they appear,\nfrom time to time, sufficiently to produce serious confusion. With these\nrecent assistances, therefore, we propose to say something of the nature\nof this extraordinary book--a book of which it is to say little to call\nit unequalled of its kind, and which will one day, perhaps, when it is\nallowed to stand on its own merits, be seen towering up alone, far away\nabove all the poetry of the world. How it found its way into the canon,\nsmiting as it does through and through the most deeply-seated Jewish\nprejudices, is the chief difficulty about it now; to be explained only\nby a traditional acceptance among the sacred books, dating back from the\nold times of the national greatness, when the minds of the people were\nhewn in a larger type than was to be found among the Pharisees of the\ngreat synagogue. But its authorship, its date, and its history, are\nalike a mystery to us; it existed at the time when the canon was\ncomposed; and this is all that we know beyond what we can gather out of\nthe language and contents of the poem itself.\n\nBefore going further, however, we must make room for a few remarks of a\nvery general kind. Let it have been written when it would, it marks a\nperiod in which the religious convictions of thinking men were passing\nthrough a vast crisis; and we shall not understand it without having\nbefore us clearly something of the conditions which periods of such a\nkind always and necessarily exhibit.\n\nThe history of religious speculation appears in extreme outline to have\nbeen of the following character. We may conceive mankind to have been\noriginally launched into the universe with no knowledge either of\nthemselves or of the scene in which they were placed; with no actual\nknowledge, but distinguished from the rest of the creation by a faculty\nof gaining knowledge; and first unconsciously, and afterwards\nconsciously and laboriously, to have commenced that long series of\nexperience and observation which has accumulated in thousands of years\nto what we now see around us. Limited on all sides by conditions which\nthey must have felt to be none of their own imposing, and finding\neverywhere forces working, over which they had no control, the fear\nwhich they would naturally entertain of these invisible and mighty\nagents assumed, under the direction of an idea which we may perhaps call\ninborn and inherent in human nature, a more generous character of\nreverence and awe. The laws of the outer world, as they discovered them,\nthey regarded as the decrees, or as the immediate energies of personal\nbeings; and as knowledge grew up among them, they looked upon it, not as\nknowledge of nature, but of God, or the gods. All early paganism\nappears, on careful examination, to have arisen out of a consecration of\nthe first rudiments of physical or speculative science. The twelve\nlabours of Hercules are the labours of the sun, of which Hercules is an\nold name, through the twelve signs. Chronos, or _time_, being measured\nby the apparent motion of the heavens, is figured as their child; Time,\nthe universal parent, devours its own offspring, yet is again itself, in\nthe high faith of a human soul conscious of its power and its\nendurance, supposed to be baffled and dethroned by Zeus, or _life_; and\nso on through all the elaborate theogonies of Greece and Egypt. They are\nno more than real insight into real phenomena, allegorised as time went\non, elaborated by fancy, or idealised by imagination, but never losing\ntheir original character.\n\nThus paganism, in its very nature, was expansive, self-developing, and,\nas Mr. Hume observed, tolerant; a new god was welcomed to the Pantheon\nas a new scientific discovery is welcomed by the Royal Society; and the\nvarious nations found no difficulty in interchanging their divinities--a\nnew god either representing a new power not hitherto discovered, or one\nwith which they were already familiar under a new name. With such a\npower of adaptation and enlargement, if there had been nothing more in\nit than this, such a system might have gone on accommodating itself to\nthe change of times, and keeping pace with the growth of human\ncharacter. Already in its later forms, as the unity of nature was more\nclearly observed, and the identity of nature throughout the known world,\nthe separate powers were subordinating themselves to a single supreme\nking; and, as the poets had originally personified the elemental forces,\nthe thinkers were reversing the earlier process, and discovering the law\nunder the person. Happily or unhappily, however, what they could do for\nthemselves they could not do for the multitude. Phoebus and Aphrodite\nhad been made too human to be allegorised. Humanised, and yet, we may\nsay, only half-humanised, retaining their purely physical nature, and\nwithout any proper moral attribute at all, these gods and goddesses\nremained to the many examples of sensuality made beautiful; and, as soon\nas right and wrong came to have a meaning, it was impossible to worship\nany more these idealised despisers of it. The human caprices and\npassions which served at first to deepen the illusion, justly revenged\nthemselves; paganism became a lie, and perished.\n\nIn the meantime, the Jews (and perhaps some other nations, but the Jews\nchiefly and principally) had been moving forward along a road wholly\ndifferent. Breaking early away from the gods of nature, they advanced\nalong the line of their moral consciousness; and leaving the nations to\nstudy physics, philosophy, and art, they confined themselves to man and\nto human life. Their theology grew up round the knowledge of good and\nevil, and God, with them, was the supreme Lord of the world, who stood\ntowards man in the relation of a ruler and a judge. Holding such a\nfaith, to them the toleration of paganism was an impossibility; the laws\nof nature might be many, but the law of conduct was one; there was one\nlaw and one king; and the conditions under which he governed the world,\nas embodied in the Decalogue or other similar code, were looked upon as\niron and inflexible certainties, unalterable revelations of the will of\nan unalterable Being. So far there was little in common between this\nprocess and the other; but it was identical with it in this one\nimportant feature, that moral knowledge, like physical, admitted of\ndegrees; and the successive steps of it were only purchasable by\nexperience. The dispensation of the law, in the language of modern\ntheology, was not the dispensation of grace, and the nature of good and\nevil disclosed itself slowly as men were able to comprehend it. Thus, no\nsystem of law or articles of belief were or could be complete and\nexhaustive for all time. Experience accumulates; new facts are observed,\nnew forces display themselves, and all such formulae must necessarily be\nfrom period to period broken up and moulded afresh. And yet the steps\nalready gained are a treasure so sacred, so liable are they at all times\nto be attacked by those lower and baser elements in our nature which it\nis their business to hold in check, that the better part of mankind have\nat all times practically regarded their creed as a sacred total to which\nnothing may be added, and from which nothing may be taken away; the\nsuggestion of a new idea is resented as an encroachment, punished as an\ninsidious piece of treason, and resisted by the combined forces of all\ncommon practical understandings, which know too well the value of what\nthey have, to risk the venture upon untried change. Periods of religious\ntransition, therefore, when the advance has been a real one, always have\nbeen violent, and probably will always continue to be so. They to whom\nthe precious gift of fresh light has been given are called upon to\nexhibit their credentials as teachers in suffering for it. They, and\nthose who oppose them, have alike a sacred cause; and the fearful\nspectacle arises of earnest, vehement men contending against each other\nas for their own souls, in fiery struggle. Persecutions come, and\nmartyrdoms, and religions wars; and, at last, the old faith, like the\nphoenix, expires upon its altar, and the new rises out of the ashes.\n\nSuch, in briefest outline, has been the history of religions, natural\nand moral; the first, indeed, being in no proper sense a religion at\nall, as we understand religion; and only assuming the character of it in\nthe minds of great men whose moral sense had raised them beyond their\ntime and country, and who, feeling the necessity of a real creed, with\nan effort and with indifferent success, endeavoured to express, under\nthe systems which they found, emotions which had no proper place in\nthem.\n\nOf the transition periods which we have described as taking place under\nthe religion which we call moral, the first known to us is marked at its\nopening by the appearance of the Book of Job, the first fierce collision\nof the new fact with the formula which will not stretch to cover it.\n\nThe earliest phenomenon likely to be observed connected with the moral\ngovernment of the world is the general one, that on the whole, as things\nare constituted, good men prosper and are happy, bad men fail and are\nmiserable. The cause of such a condition is no mystery, and lies very\nnear the surface. As soon as men combine in society, they are forced to\nobey certain laws under which alone society is possible, and these laws,\neven in their rudest form, approach the laws of conscience. To a certain\nextent, every one is obliged to sacrifice his private inclinations; and\nthose who refuse to do so are punished, or are crushed. If society were\nperfect, the imperfect tendency would carry itself out till the two sets\nof laws were identical; but perfection so far has been only in Utopia,\nand, as far as we can judge by experience hitherto, they have\napproximated most nearly in the simplest and most rudimentary forms of\nlife. Under the systems which we call patriarchal, the modern\ndistinction between sins and crimes had no existence. All gross sins\nwere offences against society, as it then was constituted, and, wherever\nit was possible, were punished as being so; chicanery and those subtle\nadvantages which the acute and unscrupulous can take over the simple,\nwithout open breach of enacted statutes, became only possible under the\ncomplications of more artificial polities; and the oppression or injury\nof man by man was open, violent, obvious, and therefore easily\nunderstood. Doubtless, therefore, in such a state of things it would,\non the whole, be true to experience that, judging merely by outward\nprosperity or the reverse, good and bad men would be rewarded and\npunished as such in this actual world; so far, that is, as the\nadministration of such rewards and punishments was left in the power of\nmankind. But theology could not content itself with general tendencies.\nTheological propositions then, as much as now, were held to be absolute,\nuniversal, admitting of no exceptions, and explaining every phenomenon.\nSuperficial generalisations were construed into immutable decrees; the\nGod of this world was just and righteous, and temporal prosperity or\nwretchedness were dealt out by Him immediately by His own will to His\nsubjects according to their behaviour. Thus the same disposition towards\ncompleteness which was the ruin of paganism, here, too, was found\ngenerating the same evils; the half truth rounding itself out with\nfalsehoods. Not only the consequences of ill actions which followed\nthrough themselves, but the accidents, as we call them, of\nnature--earthquakes, storms, and pestilences--were the ministers of\nGod's justice, and struck sinners only with discriminating accuracy.\nThat the sun should shine alike on the evil and the good was a creed too\nhigh for the early divines, or that the victims of a fallen tower were\nno greater offenders than their neighbours. The conceptions of such men\ncould not pass beyond the outward temporal consequence; and if God's\nhand was not there it was nowhere. We might have expected that such a\ntheory of things could not long resist the accumulated contradictions of\nexperience; but the same experience shows also what a marvellous power\nis in us of thrusting aside phenomena which interfere with our cherished\nconvictions; and when such convictions are consecrated into a creed\nwhich it is a sacred duty to believe, experience is but like water\ndropping upon a rock, which wears it away, indeed, at last, but only in\nthousands of years. This theory was and is the central idea of the\nJewish polity, the obstinate toughness of which has been the perplexity\nof Gentiles and Christians from the first dawn of its existence; it\nlingers among ourselves in our Liturgy and in the popular belief; and in\nspite of the emphatic censure of Him after whose name we call ourselves,\nis still the instant interpreter for us of any unusual calamity, a\npotato blight, a famine, or an epidemic: such vitality is there in a\nmoral faith, though now, at any rate, contradicted by the experience of\nall mankind, and at issue even with Christianity itself.\n\nAt what period in the world's history misgivings about it began to show\nthemselves it is now impossible to say; it was at the close, probably,\nof the patriarchal period, when men who really _thought_ must have found\nthe ground palpably shaking under them. Indications of such misgivings\nare to be found in the Psalms, those especially passing under the name\nof Asaph; and all through Ecclesiastes there breathes a spirit of\ndeepest and saddest scepticism. But Asaph thrusts his doubts aside, and\nforces himself back into his old position; and the scepticism of\nEcclesiastes is confessedly that of a man who had gone wandering after\nenjoyment; searching after pleasures--pleasures of sense and pleasures\nof intellect--and who, at last, bears reluctant testimony that, by such\nmethods, no pleasures can be found which will endure; that he had\nsquandered the power which might have been used for better things, and\nhad only strength remaining to tell his own sad tale as a warning to\nmankind. There is nothing in Ecclesiastes like the misgivings of a noble\nnature. The writer's own personal happiness had been all for which he\nhad cared; he had failed, as all men gifted as he was gifted are sure to\nfail, and the lights of heaven were extinguished by the disappointment\nwith which his own spirit had been clouded.\n\nUtterly different from these, both in character and in the lesson which\nit teaches, is the Book of Job. Of unknown date, as we said, and unknown\nauthorship, the language impregnated with strange idioms and strange\nallusions, un-Jewish in form, and in fiercest hostility with Judaism, it\nhovers like a meteor over the old Hebrew literature, in it, but not of\nit, compelling the acknowledgment of itself by its own internal majesty,\nyet exerting no influence over the minds of the people, never alluded\nto, and scarcely ever quoted, till at last the light which it had\nheralded rose up full over the world in Christianity.\n\nThe conjectures which have been formed upon the date of this book are so\nvarious, that they show of themselves on how slight a foundation the\nbest of them must rest. The language is no guide, for although\nunquestionably of Hebrew origin, the poem bears no analogy to any of the\nother books in the Bible; while of its external history nothing is\nknown at all, except that it was received into the canon at the time of\nthe great synagogue. Ewald decides, with some confidence, that it\nbelongs to the great prophetic period, and that the writer was a\ncontemporary of Jeremiah. Ewald is a high authority in these matters,\nand this opinion is the one which we believe is now commonly received\namong biblical scholars. In the absence of proof, however (and the\nreasons which he brings forward are really no more than conjectures),\nthese opposite considerations may be of moment. It is only natural that\nat first thought we should ascribe the grandest poem in a literature to\nthe time at which the poetry of the nation to which it belongs was\ngenerally at its best; but, on reflection, the time when the poetry of\nprophecy is the richest, is not likely to be favourable to compositions\nof another kind. The prophets wrote in an era of decrepitude,\ndissolution, sin, and shame, when the glory of Israel was falling round\nthem into ruin, and their mission, glowing as they were with the ancient\nspirit, was to rebuke, to warn, to threaten, and to promise. Finding\nthemselves too late to save, and only, like Cassandra, despised and\ndisregarded, their voices rise up singing the swan song of a dying\npeople, now falling away in the wild wailing of despondency over the\nshameful and desperate present, now swelling in triumphant hope that God\nwill not leave them for ever, and in His own time will take His chosen\nto Himself again. But such a period is an ill occasion for searching\ninto the broad problems of human destiny; the present is all-important\nand all-absorbing; and such a book as that of Job could have arisen only\nout of an isolation of mind, and life, and interest, which we cannot\nconceive of as possible under such conditions.\n\nThe more it is studied, the more the conclusion forces itself upon us\nthat, let the writer have lived when he would, in his struggle with the\ncentral falsehood of his own people's creed, he must have divorced\nhimself from them outwardly as well as inwardly; that he travelled away\ninto the world, and lived long, perhaps all his matured life, in exile.\nEverything about the book speaks of a person who had broken free from\nthe narrow littleness of 'the peculiar people.' The language, as we\nsaid, is full of strange words. The hero of the poem is of strange land\nand parentage--a Gentile certainly, not a Jew. The life, the manners,\nthe customs are of all varieties and places--Egypt, with its river and\nits pyramids, is there; the description of mining points to Phoenicia;\nthe settled life in cities, the nomad Arabs, the wandering caravans, the\nheat of the tropics, and the ice of the north, all are foreign to\nCanaan, speaking of foreign things and foreign people. No mention, or\nhint of mention, is there throughout the poem of Jewish traditions or\nJewish certainties. We look to find the three friends vindicate\nthemselves, as they so well might have done, by appeals to the fertile\nannals of Israel, to the Flood, to the cities of the plain, to the\nplagues of Egypt, or the thunders of Sinai. But of all this there is not\na word; they are passed by as if they had no existence; and instead of\nthem, when witnesses are required for the power of God, we have strange\nun-Hebrew stories of the eastern astronomic mythology, the old wars of\nthe giants, the imprisoned Orion, the wounded dragon, 'the sweet\ninfluences of the seven stars,' and the glittering fragments of the\nsea-snake Rahab[J] trailing across the northern sky. Again, God is not\nthe God of Israel, but the father of mankind; we hear nothing of a\nchosen people, nothing of a special revelation, nothing of peculiar\nprivileges; and in the court of heaven there is a Satan, not the prince\nof this world and the enemy of God, but the angel of judgment, the\naccusing spirit whose mission was to walk to and fro over the earth, and\ncarry up to heaven an account of the sins of mankind. We cannot believe\nthat thoughts of this kind arose out of Jerusalem in the days of Josiah.\nIn this book, if anywhere, we have the record of some [Greek: aner\npolutropos] who, like the old hero of Ithaca,\n\n    [Greek:\n    pollon anthropon iden astea kai noon egno,\n    polla d' hog' en ponto pathen algea hon kata thumon,\n    arnumenos psuchen.... ]\n\nbut the scenes, the names, and the incidents, are all contrived as if to\nbaffle curiosity--as if, in the very form of the poem, to teach us that\nit is no story of a single thing which happened once, but that it\nbelongs to humanity itself, and is the drama of the trial of man, with\nAlmighty God and the angels as the spectators of it.\n\nNo reader can have failed to have been struck with the simplicity of\nthe opening. Still, calm, and most majestic, it tells us everything\nwhich is necessary to be known in the fewest possible words. The history\nof Job was probably a tradition in the East; his name, like that of\nPriam in Greece, the symbol of fallen greatness, and his misfortunes the\nproblem of philosophers. In keeping with the current belief, he is\ndescribed as a model of excellence, the most perfect and upright man\nupon the earth, 'and the same was the greatest man in all the east.' So\nfar, greatness and goodness had gone hand in hand together, as the\npopular theory required. The details of his character are brought out in\nthe progress of the poem. He was 'the father of the oppressed, and of\nthose who had none to help them.' When he sat as a judge in the\nmarket-places, 'righteousness clothed him' there, and 'his justice was a\nrobe and a diadem.' He 'broke the jaws of the wicked, and plucked the\nspoil out of his teeth;' and, humble in the midst of his power, he 'did\nnot despise the cause of his manservant, or his maidservant, when they\ncontended with him,' knowing (and amidst those old people where the\nmultitude of mankind were regarded as the born slaves of the powerful,\nto be carved into eunuchs or polluted into concubines at their master's\npleasure, it was no easy matter to know it)--knowing that 'He who had\nmade him had made them,' and _one_ 'had fashioned them both in the\nwomb.' Above all, he was the friend of the poor; 'the blessing of him\nthat was ready to perish came upon him,' and he 'made the widow's heart\nto sing for joy.'\n\nSetting these characteristics of his daily life by the side of his\nunaffected piety, as it is described in the first chapter, we have a\npicture of the best man who could then be conceived; not a hard ascetic,\nliving in haughty or cowardly isolation, but a warm figure of flesh and\nblood, a man full of all human loveliness, and to whom, that no room\nmight be left for any possible Calvinistic falsehood, God Himself bears\nthe emphatic testimony, that 'there was none like him upon the earth, a\nperfect and upright man, who feared God and eschewed evil.' If such a\nperson as this, therefore, could be made miserable, necessarily the\ncurrent belief of the Jews was false to the root; and tradition\nfurnished the fact that he had been visited by every worst calamity. How\nwas it then to be accounted for? Out of a thousand possible\nexplanations, the poet introduces a single one. He admits us behind the\nveil which covers the ways of Providence, and we hear the accusing angel\ncharging Job with an interested piety, and of being obedient because it\nwas his policy. 'Job does not serve God for nought,' he says; 'strip him\nof his splendour, and see if he will care for God then. Humble him into\npoverty and wretchedness, so only we shall know what is in his heart.'\nThe cause thus introduced is itself a rebuke to the belief which, with\nits 'rewards and punishments,' immediately fostered selfishness; and the\npoem opens with a double action, on one side to try the question whether\nit is possible for man to love God disinterestedly--the issue of which\ntrial is not foreseen or even foretold, and we watch the progress of it\nwith an anxious and fearful interest; on the other side, to bring out,\nin contrast to the truth which we already know, the cruel falsehood of\nthe popular faith--to show how, instead of leading men to mercy and\naffection, it hardens their heart, narrows their sympathies, and\nenhances the trials of the sufferer, by refinements which even Satan had\nnot anticipated. The combination of evils, as blow falls on blow,\nsuddenly, swiftly, and terribly, has all the appearance of a purposed\nvisitation (as indeed it was); if ever outward incidents might with\njustice be interpreted as the immediate action of Providence, those\nwhich fell on Job might be so interpreted. The world turns disdainfully\nfrom the fallen in the world's way; but far worse than this, his chosen\nfriends, wise, good, pious men, as wisdom and piety were then, without\none glimpse of the true cause of his sufferings, see in them a judgment\nupon his secret sins. He becomes to them an illustration, and even (such\nare the paralogisms of men of this description) a proof of their theory\nthat 'the prosperity of the wicked is but for a while;' and instead of\nthe comfort and help which they might have brought him, and which in the\nend they were made to bring him, he is to them no more than a text for\nthe enunciation of solemn falsehood. And even worse again, the sufferer\nhimself had been educated in the same creed; he, too, had been taught to\nsee the hand of God in the outward dispensation; and feeling from the\nbottom of his heart, that he, in his own case, was a sure contradiction\nof what he had learnt to believe, he himself finds his very faith in God\nshaken from its foundation. The worst evils which Satan had devised\nwere distanced far by those which had been created by human folly.\n\nThe creed in which Job had believed was tried and found wanting, and, as\nit ever will be when the facts of experience come in contact with the\ninadequate formula, the true is found so mingled with the false, that\nthey can hardly be disentangled, and are in danger of being swept away\ntogether.\n\nA studied respect is shown, however, to orthodoxy, even while it is\narraigned for judgment. It may be doubtful whether the writer purposely\nintended it. He probably cared only to tell the real truth; to say for\nthe old theory the best which could be said, and to produce as its\ndefenders the best and wisest men whom in his experience he had known to\nbelieve and defend it. At any rate, he represents the three friends, not\nas a weaker person would have represented them, as foolish, obstinate\nbigots, but as wise, humane, and almost great men, who, at the outset,\nat least, are animated only by the kindest feelings, and speak what they\nhave to say with the most earnest conviction that it is true. Job is\nvehement, desperate, reckless. His language is the wild, natural\noutpouring of suffering. The friends, true to the eternal nature of man,\nare grave, solemn, and indignant, preaching their half truth, and\nmistaken only in supposing that it is the whole; speaking, as all such\npersons would speak and still do speak, in defending what they consider\nsacred truth against the assaults of folly and scepticism. How beautiful\nis their first introduction:--\n\n'Now when Job's three friends heard of all this evil which was come upon\nhim, they came every one from his own place; Eliphaz the Temanite, and\nBildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite: for they had made an\nappointment together to come to mourn with him and to comfort him. And\nwhen they lifted up their eyes afar off, and knew him not, they lifted\nup their voice and wept, and they rent every one his mantle, and\nsprinkled dust upon their heads towards heaven. So they sat down with\nhim upon the ground seven days and seven nights, and none spake a word\nunto him, for they saw that his grief was very great.'\n\nWhat a picture is there! What majestic tenderness! His wife had scoffed\nat his faith, bidding him 'leave God and die.' 'His acquaintance had\nturned from him.' He 'had called his servant, and he had given him no\nanswer.' Even the children, in their unconscious cruelty, had gathered\nround and mocked him as he lay among the ashes. But 'his friends\nsprinkle dust towards heaven, and sit silently by him, and weep for him\nseven days and seven nights upon the ground.' That is, they were\ntrue-hearted, truly loving, devout, religious men; and yet they, with\ntheir religion, were to become the instruments of the most poignant\nsufferings, the sharpest temptations, which he had to endure. So it was,\nand is, and will be--of such materials is this human life of ours\ncomposed.\n\nAnd now, remembering the double action of the drama--the actual trial of\nJob, the result of which is uncertain; and the delusion of these men,\nwhich is, at the outset, certain--let us go rapidly through the\ndialogue. Satan's share in the temptation had already been overcome.\nLying sick in the loathsome disease which had been sent upon him, his\nwife, in Satan's own words, had tempted Job to say, 'Farewell to\nGod,'--think no more of God or goodness, since this was all which came\nof it; and Job had told her that she spoke as one of the foolish women.\nHe 'had received good at the hand of the Lord, and should he not receive\nevil?' But now, when real love and real affection appear, his heart\nmelts in him; he loses his forced self-composure, and bursts into a\npassionate regret that he had ever been born. In the agony of his\nsufferings, hope of better things had died away. He does not complain of\ninjustice; as yet, and before his friends have stung and wounded him, he\nmakes no questioning of Providence,--but why was life given to him at\nall, if only for this? Sick in mind, and sick in body, but one wish\nremains to him, that death will come quickly and end all. It is a cry\nfrom the very depths of a single and simple heart. But for such\nsimplicity and singleness his friends could not give him credit;\npossessed beforehand with their idea, they see in his misery only a\nfatal witness against him; such calamities could not have befallen a\nman, the justice of God would not have permitted it, unless they had\nbeen deserved. Job had sinned and he had suffered, and this wild passion\nwas but impenitence and rebellion.\n\nBeing as certain that they were right in this opinion as they were that\nGod Himself existed, that they should speak what they felt was only\nnatural and necessary; and their language at the outset is, all which\nwould be dictated by the tenderest sympathy. Eliphaz opens, the oldest\nand most important of the three, in a soft, subdued, suggestive strain,\ncontriving in every way to spare the feelings of the sufferer, to the\nextreme to which his love will allow him. All is general, impersonal,\nindirect,--the rule of the world, the order of Providence. He does not\naccuse Job, but he describes his calamities, and leaves him to gather\nfor himself the occasion which had produced them; and then passes off,\nas if further to soften the blow, to the mysterious vision in which the\ninfirmity of mortal nature had been revealed to him, the universal\nweakness which involved both the certainty that Job had shared in it,\nand the excuse for him, if he would confess and humble himself: the\nblessed virtue of repentance follows, and the promise that all shall be\nwell.\n\nThis is the note on which each of the friends strikes successively, in\nthe first of the three divisions into which the dialogue divides itself,\nbut each with increasing peremptoriness and confidence, as Job, so far\nfrom accepting their interpretation of what had befallen him, hurls it\nfrom him in anger and disdain. Let us observe (and the Calvinists should\nconsider this), he will hear as little of the charges against mankind as\nof charges against himself. He will not listen to the 'corruption of\nhumanity,' because in the consciousness of his own innocency, he knows\nthat it is not corrupt: he knows that he is himself just and good, and\nwe know it, the Divine sentence upon him having been already passed. He\nwill not acknowledge his sin, for he knows not of what to repent. If he\ncould have reflected calmly, he might have foreseen what they would say.\nHe knew all that as well as they: it was the old story which he had\nlearnt, and could repeat, if necessary, as well as anyone: and if it had\nbeen no more than a philosophical discussion, touching himself no more\nnearly than it touched his friends, he might have allowed for the\ntenacity of opinion in such matters, and listened to it and replied to\nit with equanimity. But, as the proverb says, 'It is ill talking between\na full man and a fasting:' and in Job such equanimity would have been\nbut Stoicism, or the affectation of it, and unreal as the others'\ntheories. Possessed with the certainty that he had not deserved what had\nbefallen him, harassed with doubt, and worn out with pain and\nunkindness, he had assumed (and how natural that he should assume it)\nthat those who loved him should not have been hasty to believe evil of\nhim; he had spoken to them as he really felt, and he thought that he\nmight have looked to them for something warmer and more sympathising\nthan such dreary eloquence. So when the revelation comes upon him of\nwhat was passing in them, he attributes it (and now he is unjust to\nthem) to a falsehood of heart, and not to a blindness of understanding.\nTheir sermons, so kindly intended, roll past him as a dismal mockery.\nThey had been shocked (and how true again is this to nature) at his\npassionate cry for death. 'Do ye reprove words?' he says, 'and the\nspeeches of one that is desperate, which are as wind?' It was but poor\nfriendship and narrow wisdom. He had looked to them for pity, for\ncomfort, and love. He had longed for it as the parched caravans in the\ndesert for the water-streams, and 'his brethren had dealt deceitfully\nwith him.' The brooks, in the cool winter, roll in a full turbid\ntorrent; 'what time it waxes warm they vanish, when it is hot they are\nconsumed out of their place; the caravans of Tema looked for them, the\ncompanies of Sheba waited for them; they were confounded because they\nhad hoped; they came thither, and there was nothing.' If for once these\npoor men could have trusted their hearts, if for once they could have\nbelieved that there might be 'more things in heaven and earth' than were\ndreamt of in their philosophy--but this is the one thing which they\ncould not do, which the theologian proper never has done or will do. And\nthus whatever of calmness or endurance Job alone, on his ash-heap, might\nhave conquered for himself, is all scattered away; and as the strong\ngusts of passion sweep to and fro across his heart, he pours himself out\nin wild fitful music, so beautiful because so true, not answering them\nor their speeches, but now flinging them from him in scorn, now\nappealing to their mercy, or turning indignantly to God; now praying for\ndeath; now in perplexity doubting whether, in some mystic way which he\ncannot understand, he may not, perhaps, after all, really have sinned,\nand praying to be shown his fault; and then staggering further into the\ndarkness, and breaking out into upbraidings of the Power which has\nbecome so dreadful an enigma to him. 'Thou enquirest after my iniquity,\nthou searchest after my sin, and thou knowest that I am not wicked. Why\ndidst thou bring me forth out of the womb? Oh, that I had given up the\nghost, and no eye had seen me. Cease, let me alone. It is but a little\nwhile that I have to live. Let me alone, that I may take comfort a\nlittle before I go, whence I shall not return to the land of darkness\nand the shadow of death.' In what other poem in the world is there\npathos deep as this? With experience so stern as his, it was not for Job\nto be calm, and self-possessed, and delicate in his words. He speaks not\nwhat he knows, but what he feels; and without fear the writer allows him\nto throw out his passion all genuine as it rises, not overmuch caring\nhow nice ears might be offended, but contented to be true to the real\nemotion of a genuine human heart. So the poem runs on to the end of the\nfirst answer to Zophar.\n\nBut now, with admirable fitness, as the contest goes forward, the\nrelative position of the speakers begins to change. Hitherto, Job only\nhad been passionate; and his friends temperate and collected. Now,\nbecoming shocked at his obstinacy, and disappointed in the result of\ntheir homilies, they stray still further from the truth in an endeavour\nto strengthen their position, and, as a natural consequence, visibly\ngrow angry. To them, Job's vehement and desperate speeches are damning\nevidence of the truth of their suspicion. Impiety is added to his first\nsin, and they begin to see in him a rebel against God. At first they had\nbeen contented to speak generally, and much which they had urged was\npartially true; now they step forward to a direct application, and\nformally and personally accuse himself. Here their ground is positively\nfalse; and with delicate art it is they who are now growing violent, and\nwounded self-love begins to show behind their zeal for God; while in\ncontrast to them, as there is less and less truth in what they say, Job\ngrows more and more collected. For a time it had seemed doubtful how he\nwould endure his trial. The light of his faith was burning feebly and\nunsteadily; a little more, and it seemed as if it might have utterly\ngone out. But at last the storm was lulling; as the charges are brought\npersonally home to him, the confidence in his own real innocence rises\nagainst them. He had before known that he was innocent; now he feels the\nstrength which lies in innocence, as if God were beginning to reveal\nHimself within him, to prepare the way for the after outward\nmanifestation of Himself.\n\nThe friends, as before, repeat one another with but little difference;\nthe sameness being of course intentional, as showing that they were not\nspeaking for themselves, but as representatives of a prevailing opinion.\nEliphaz, again, gives the note which the others follow. Hear this\nCalvinist of the old world: 'Thy own mouth condemneth thee, and thine\nown lips testify against thee. What is man that he should be clean, and\nhe that is born of a woman that he should be righteous? Behold, he\nputteth no trust in his saints; yea, the heavens are not clean in his\nsight; how much more abominable and filthy is man, which drinketh\niniquity like water.' Strange, that after all these thousands of years\nwe should still persist in this degrading confession, as a thing which\nit is impious to deny and impious to attempt to render otherwise, when\nScripture itself, in language so emphatic, declares that it is a lie.\nJob _is_ innocent, perfect, righteous. God Himself bears witness to it.\nIt is Job who is found at last to have spoken truth, and the friends to\nhave sinned in denying it. And he holds fast by his innocency, and with\na generous confidence thrusts away the misgivings which had begun to\ncling to him. Among his complainings he had exclaimed, that God was\nremembering upon him the sins of his youth--not denying them; knowing\nwell that he, like others, had gone astray before he had learnt to\ncontrol himself, but feeling that at least in an earthly father it is\nunjust to visit the faults of childhood on the matured man; feeling that\nhe had long, long shaken them off from him, and they did not even impair\nthe probity of his after-life. But now these doubts, too, pass away in\nthe brave certainty that God is not less just than man. As the\ndenouncings grow louder and darker, he appeals from his narrow judges to\nthe Supreme Tribunal--calls on God to hear him and to try his cause--and\nthen, in the strength of this appeal the mist rises from before his\neyes. His sickness is mortal: he has no hope in life, and death is near;\nbut the intense feeling that justice must and will be done, holds to him\ncloser and closer. God may appear on earth for him; or if that be too\nbold a hope, and death finds him as he is--what is death then? God will\nclear his memory in the place where he lived; his injuries will be\nrighted over his grave; while for himself, like a sudden gleam of\nsunlight between clouds, a clear, bright hope beams up, that he too,\nthen, in another life, if not in this, when his skin is wasted off his\nbones, and the worms have done their work on the prison of his spirit,\nhe too, at last, may then see God; may see Him, and have his pleadings\nheard.\n\nWith such a hope, or even the shadow of one, he turns back to the world\nagain to look at it. Facts against which he had before closed his eyes\nhe allows and confronts, and he sees that his own little experience is\nbut the reflection of a law. You tell me, he seems to say, that the good\nare rewarded, and that the wicked are punished; that God is just, and\nthat this is always so. Perhaps it is, or will be, but not in the way\nwhich you imagine. You have known me, you have known what my life has\nbeen; you see what I am, and it is no difficulty to you. You prefer\nbelieving that I, whom you call your friend, am a deceiver or a\npretender, to admitting the possibility of the falsehood of your\nhypothesis. You will not listen to my assurance, and you are angry with\nme because I will not lie against my own soul, and acknowledge sins\nwhich I have not committed. You appeal to the course of the world in\nproof of your faith, and challenge me to answer you. Well, then, I\naccept your challenge. The world is not what you say. You have told me\nwhat you have seen of it: I will tell you what I have seen.\n\n'Even while I remember I am afraid, and trembling taketh hold upon my\nflesh. Wherefore do the wicked become old, yea, and are mighty in power?\nTheir seed is established in their sight with them, and their offspring\nbefore their eyes. Their houses are safe from fear, neither is the rod\nof God upon them. Their bull gendereth and faileth not; their cow\ncalveth, and casteth not her calf. They send forth their little ones\nlike a flock, and their children dance. They take the timbrel and harp,\nand rejoice at the sound of the organ. They spend their days in wealth,\nand in a moment go down into the grave. Therefore they say unto God,\nDepart from us, for we desire not the knowledge of Thy ways. What is the\nAlmighty that we should serve Him? and what profit should we have if we\npray to Him?'\n\nWill you quote the weary proverb? Will you say that 'God layeth up His\niniquity for His children?' (Our translators have wholly lost the sense\nof this passage, and endeavour to make Job acknowledge what he is\nsteadfastly denying.) Well, and what then? What will he care? 'Will his\nown eye see his own fall? Will he drink the wrath of the Almighty? What\nare the fortunes of his house to him if the number of his own months is\nfulfilled?' One man is good and another wicked, one is happy and another\nis miserable. In the great indifference of nature they share alike in\nthe common lot. 'They lie down alike in the dust, and the worms cover\nthem.'\n\nEwald, and many other critics, suppose that Job was hurried away by his\nfeelings to say all this; and that in his calmer moments he must have\nfelt that it was untrue. It is a point on which we must decline\naccepting even Ewald's high authority. Even then, in those old times, it\nwas beginning to be terribly true. Even then the current theory was\nobliged to bend to large exceptions; and what Job saw as exceptions we\nsee round us everywhere. It was true then, it is infinitely more true\nnow, that what is called virtue in the common sense of the word, still\nmore that nobleness, godliness, or heroism of character in any form\nwhatsoever, have nothing to do with this or that man's prosperity, or\neven happiness. The thoroughly vicious man is no doubt wretched enough;\nbut the worldly, prudent, self-restraining man, with his five senses,\nwhich he understands how to gratify with tempered indulgence, with a\nconscience satisfied with the hack routine of what is called\nrespectability,--such a man feels no wretchedness; no inward uneasiness\ndisturbs him, no desires which he cannot gratify; and this though he be\nthe basest and most contemptible slave of his own selfishness.\nProvidence will not interfere to punish him. Let him obey the laws under\nwhich prosperity is obtainable, and he will obtain it, let him never\nfear. He will obtain it, be he base or noble. Nature is indifferent; the\nfamine and the earthquake, and the blight or the accident, will not\ndiscriminate to strike him. He may insure himself against casualties in\nthese days of ours, with the money perhaps which a better man would have\ngiven away, and he will have his reward. He need not doubt it.\n\nAnd, again, it is not true, as optimists would persuade us, that such\nprosperity brings no real pleasure. A man with no high aspirations, who\nthrives, and makes money, and envelops himself in comforts, is as happy\nas such a nature can be. If unbroken satisfaction be the most blessed\nstate for a man (and this certainly is the practical notion of\nhappiness), he is the happiest of men. Nor are those idle phrases any\ntruer, that the good man's goodness is a never-ceasing sunshine; that\nvirtue is its own reward, &c. &c. If men truly virtuous care to be\nrewarded for it, their virtue is but a poor investment of their moral\ncapital. Was Job so happy then on that ash-heap of his, the mark of the\nworld's scorn, and the butt for the spiritual archery of the theologian,\nalone in his forlorn nakedness, like some old dreary stump which the\nlightning has scathed, rotting away in the wind and the rain? If\nhappiness be indeed what we men are sent into this world to seek for,\nthose hitherto thought the noblest among us were the pitifullest and\nwretchedest. Surely it was no error in Job. It was that real insight\nwhich once was given to all the world in Christianity, however we have\nforgotten it now. Job was learning to see that it was not in the\npossession of enjoyment, no, nor of happiness itself, that the\ndifference lies between the good and the bad. True, it might be that God\nsometimes, even generally, gives such happiness--gives it in what\nAristotle calls an [Greek: epigignomenon telos], but it is no part of\nthe terms on which He admits us to His service, still less is it the end\nwhich we may propose to ourselves on entering His service. Happiness He\ngives to whom He will, or leaves to the angel of nature to distribute\namong those who fulfil the laws upon which _it_ depends. But to serve\nGod and to love Him is higher and better than happiness, though it be\nwith wounded feet, and bleeding brows, and hearts loaded with sorrow.\n\nInto this high faith Job is rising, treading his temptations under his\nfeet, and finding in them a ladder on which his spirit rises. Thus he is\npassing further and even further from his friends, soaring where their\nimaginations cannot follow him. To them he is a blasphemer whom they\ngaze at with awe and terror. They had charged him with sinning on the\nstrength of their hypothesis, and he has answered with a deliberate\ndenial of it. Losing now all mastery over themselves, they pour out a\ntorrent of mere extravagant invective and baseless falsehood, which in\nthe calmer outset they would have blushed to think of. They _know_ no\nevil of Job, but they do not hesitate to convert conjecture into\ncertainty, and specify in detail the particular crimes which he must\nhave committed. He _ought_ to have committed them, and so he had; the\nold argument then as now.--'Is not thy wickedness great?' says Eliphaz.\n'Thou hast taken a pledge from thy brother for nought, and stripped the\nnaked of their clothing; thou hast not given water to the weary, and\nthou hast withholden bread from the hungry;' and so on through a series\nof mere distracted lies. But the time was past when words like these\ncould make Job angry. Bildad follows them up with an attempt to frighten\nhim by a picture of the power of that God whom he was blaspheming; but\nJob cuts short his harangue, and ends it for him in a spirit of\nloftiness which Bildad could not have approached; and then proudly and\ncalmly rebukes them all, no longer in scorn and irony, but in high,\ntranquil self-possession. 'God forbid that I should justify you,' he\nsays; 'till I die I will not remove my integrity from me. My\nrighteousness I hold fast, and will not let it go. My heart shall not\nreproach me so long as I live.'\n\nSo far all has been clear, each party, with increasing confidence,\nhaving insisted on their own position, and denounced their adversaries.\nA difficulty now arises which, at first sight, appears insurmountable.\nAs the chapters are at present printed, the entire of the twenty-seventh\nis assigned to Job, and the paragraph from the eleventh to the\ntwenty-third verses is in direct contradiction to all which he has\nmaintained before--is, in fact, a concession of having been wrong from\nthe beginning. Ewald, who, as we said above, himself refuses to allow\nthe truth of Job's last and highest position, supposes that he is here\nreceding from it, and confessing what an over-precipitate passion had\nbetrayed him into denying. For many reasons, principally because we are\nsatisfied that Job said then no more than the real fact, we cannot think\nEwald right; and the concessions are too large and too inconsistent to\nbe reconciled even with his own general theory of the poem. Another\nsolution of the difficulty is very simple, although it is to be admitted\nthat it rather cuts the knot than unties it. Eliphaz and Bildad have\neach spoken a third time; the symmetry of the general form requires that\nnow Zophar should speak; and the suggestion, we believe, was first made\nby Dr. Kennicott, that he did speak, and that the verses in question\nbelong to him. Any one who is accustomed to MSS. will understand easily\nhow such a mistake, if it be one, might have arisen. Even in\nShakespeare, the speeches in the early editions are in many instances\nwrongly divided, and assigned to the wrong persons. It might have\narisen from inadvertence; it might have arisen from the foolishness of\nsome Jewish transcriber, who resolved, at all costs, to drag the book\ninto harmony with Judaism, and make Job unsay his heresy. This view has\nthe merit of fully clearing up the obscurity. Another, however, has been\nsuggested by Eichorn, who originally followed Kennicott, but discovered,\nas he supposed, a less violent hypothesis, which was equally\nsatisfactory. Eichorn imagines the verses to be a summary by Job of his\nadversaries' opinions, as if he said--'Listen now; you know what the\nfacts are as well as I, and yet you maintain this;' and then passed on\nwith his indirect reply to it. It is possible that Eichorn may be\nright--at any rate, either he is right, or else Dr. Kennicott is.\nCertainly, Ewald is not. Taken as an account of Job's own conviction,\nthe passage contradicts the burden of the whole poem. Passing it by,\ntherefore, and going to what immediately follows, we arrive at what, in\na human sense, is the final climax--Job's victory and triumph. He had\nappealed to God, and God had not appeared; he had doubted and fought\nagainst his doubts, and at last had crushed them down. He, too, had been\ntaught to look for God in outward judgments; and when his own experience\nhad shown him his mistake, he knew not where to turn. He had been\nleaning on a bruised reed, and it had run into his hand and pierced him.\nBut as soon as in the speeches of his friend he saw it all laid down in\nits weakness and its false conclusions--when he saw the defenders of it\nwandering further and further from what he knew to be true, growing\nevery moment, as if from a consciousness of the unsoundness of their\nstanding ground, more violent, obstinate, and unreasonable, the scales\nfell more and more from his eyes--he had seen the fact that the wicked\nmight prosper, and in learning to depend upon his innocency he had felt\nthat the good man's support was there, if it was anywhere; and at last,\nwith all his heart, was reconciled to the truth. The mystery of the\nouter world becomes deeper to him, but he does not any more try to\nunderstand it. The wisdom which can compass that mystery, he knows, is\nnot in man, though man search for it deeper and harder than the miner\nsearches for the hidden treasures of the earth; the wisdom which alone\nis attainable is resignation to God.\n\n'Where,' he cries, 'shall wisdom be found, and where is the place of\nunderstanding? Man knoweth not the price thereof, neither is it found\nin the land of the living. The depth said it is not with me; and the sea\nsaid it is not in me. It is hid from the eyes of all living, and kept\nclose from the fowls of the air.[K] God understandeth the way thereof,\nand He knoweth the place thereof [He, not man, understands the mysteries\nof the world which He has made]. And unto man He said, Behold! the fear\nof the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil, that is\nunderstanding.'\n\nHere, therefore, it might seem as if all was over. There is no clearer\nor purer faith possible for man; and Job had achieved it. His evil had\nturned to good; and sorrow had severed for him the last links which\nbound him to lower things. He had felt that he could do without\nhappiness, that it was no longer essential, and that he could live on,\nand still love God, and cling to Him. But he is not described as of\npreternatural, or at all Titanic nature, but as very man, full of all\nhuman tenderness and susceptibility. His old life was still beautiful to\nhim. He does not hate it because he can renounce it; and now that the\nstruggle is over, the battle fought and won, and his heart has flowed\nover in that magnificent song of victory, the note once more changes: he\nturns back to earth to linger over those old departed days, with which\nthe present is so hard a contrast; and his parable dies away in a strain\nof plaintive, but resigned melancholy. Once more he throws himself on\nGod, no longer in passionate expostulation, but in pleading humility.[L]\nAnd then comes (perhaps, as Ewald says, it _could not_ have come\nbefore) the answer out of the whirlwind. Job had called on God, and\nprayed that he might appear, that he might plead his cause with him; and\nnow he comes, and what will Job do? He comes not as the healing spirit\nin the heart of man; but, as Job had at first demanded, the outward God,\nthe Almighty Creator of the universe, and clad in the terrors and the\nglory of it. Job, in his first precipitancy, had desired to reason with\nhim on his government. The poet, in gleaming lines, describes for an\nanswer the universe as it then was known, the majesty and awfulness of\nit; and then asks whether it is this which he requires to have explained\nto him, or which he believes himself capable of conducting. The\nrevelation acts on Job as the sign of the Macrocosmos on the modern\nFaust; but when he sinks, crushed, it is not as the rebellious upstart,\nstruck down in his pride--for he had himself, partially at least,\nsubdued his own presumption--but as a humble penitent, struggling to\novercome his weakness. He abhors himself for his murmurs, and 'repents\nin dust and ashes.' It will have occurred to every one that the secret\nwhich has been revealed to the reader is not, after all, revealed to Job\nor to his friends, and for this plain reason: the burden of the drama\nis, not that we do, but that we do not, and cannot, know the mystery of\nthe government of the world--that it is not for man to seek it, or for\nGod to reveal it. We, the readers, are, in this one instance, admitted\nbehind the scenes--for once, in this single case--because it was\nnecessary to meet the received theory by a positive fact which\ncontradicted it. But the explanation of one case need not be the\nexplanation of another; our business is to do what we know to be right,\nand ask no questions. The veil which in the AEgyptian legend lay before\nthe face of Isis is not to be raised; and we are not to seek to\npenetrate secrets which are not ours.\n\nWhile, however, God does not condescend to justify his ways to man, he\ngives judgment on the past controversy. The self-constituted pleaders\nfor him, the acceptors of his person, were all wrong; and Job--the\npassionate, vehement, scornful, misbelieving Job--he had spoken the\ntruth; he at least had spoken facts, and they had been defending a\ntransient theory as an everlasting truth.\n\n'And it was so, that after the Lord had spoken these words to Job, the\nLord said to Eliphaz the Temanite, My wrath is kindled against thee and\nagainst thy two friends; for ye have not spoken of me the thing that is\nright, as my servant Job hath. Therefore take unto you now seven\nbullocks and seven rams, and go to my servant Job; and offer for\nyourselves a burnt-offering. And my servant Job shall pray for you, and\nhim will I accept. Lest I deal with you after your folly, for that ye\nhave not spoken of me the thing which is right, like my servant Job.'\n\nOne act of justice remains. Knowing as we do the cause of Job's\nmisfortunes, and that as soon as his trial was over it was no longer\noperative, our sense of fitness could not be satisfied unless he were\nindemnified outwardly for his outward sufferings. Satan is defeated, and\nJob's integrity proved; and there is no reason why the general law\nshould be interfered with, which, however large the exceptions, tends to\nconnect goodness and prosperity; or why obvious calamities, obviously\nundeserved, should remain any more unremoved. Perhaps, too, a deeper\nlesson still lies below his restoration--something perhaps of this kind.\nProsperity, enjoyment, happiness, comfort, peace, whatever be the name\nby which we designate that state in which life is to our own selves\npleasant and delightful, as long as they are sought or prized as things\nessential, so far have a tendency to disennoble our nature, and are a\nsign that we are still in servitude to selfishness. Only when they lie\noutside us, as ornaments merely to be worn or laid aside as God\npleases--only then may such things be possessed with impunity. Job's\nheart in early times had clung to them more than he knew, but now he was\npurged clean, and they were restored because he had ceased to need them.\n\nSuch in outline is this wonderful poem. With the material of which it is\nwoven we have not here been concerned, although it is so rich and\npregnant that we might with little difficulty construct out of it a\ncomplete picture of the world as then it was: its life, knowledge, arts,\nhabits, superstitions, hopes, and fears. The subject is the problem of\nall mankind, and the composition embraces no less wide a range. But what\nwe are here most interested upon is the epoch which it marks in the\nprogress of mankind, as the first recorded struggle of a new experience\nwith an established orthodox belief. True, for hundreds of years,\nperhaps for a thousand, the superstition against which it was directed\ncontinued. When Christ came it was still in its vitality. Nay, as we\nsaw, it is alive, or in a sort of mock life, among us at this very day.\nBut even those who retained their imperfect belief had received into\ntheir canon a book which treated it with contumely and scorn, so\nirresistible was the majesty of truth.\n\nIn days like these, when we hear so much of progress, it is worth while\nto ask ourselves what advances we have made further in the same\ndirection? and once more, at the risk of some repetition, let us look at\nthe position in which this book leaves us. It had been assumed that man,\nif he lived a just and upright life, had a right to expect to be happy.\nHappiness, 'his being's end and aim,' was his legitimate and covenanted\nreward. If God therefore was just, such a man would be happy; and\ninasmuch as God was just, the man who was not happy had not deserved to\nbe. There is no flaw in this argument; and if it is unsound, the fallacy\ncan only lie in the supposed right to happiness. It is idle to talk of\ninward consolations. Job felt them, but they were not everything. They\ndid not relieve the anguish of his wounds; they did not make the loss of\nhis children, or his friends' unkindness, any the less painful to him.\n\nThe poet, indeed, restores him in the book; but in life it need not have\nbeen so. He might have died upon his ash-heap, as thousands of good men\nhave died, and will die again, in misery. Happiness, therefore, is _not_\nwhat we are to look for. Our place is to be true to the best which we\nknow, to seek that and do that; and if by 'virtue its own reward' be\nmeant that the good man cares only to continue good, desiring nothing\nmore, then it is a true and noble saying. But if virtue be valued\nbecause it is politic, because in pursuit of it will be found most\nenjoyment and fewest sufferings, then it is not noble any more, and it\nis turning the truth of God into a lie. Let us do right, and whether\nhappiness come or unhappiness it is no very mighty matter. If it come,\nlife will be sweet; if it do not come, life will be bitter--bitter, not\nsweet, and yet to be borne. On such a theory alone is the government of\nthis world intelligibly just. The well-being of our souls depends only\non what we _are_; and nobleness of character is nothing else but steady\nlove of good and steady scorn of evil. The government of the world is a\nproblem while the desire of selfish enjoyment survives; and when\njustice is not done according to such standard (which will not be till\nthe day after doomsday, and not then), self-loving men will still ask,\nwhy? and find no answer. Only to those who have the heart to say, 'We\ncan do without that; it is not what we ask or desire,' is there no\nsecret. Man will have what he deserves, and will find what is really\nbest for him, exactly as he honestly seeks for it. Happiness may fly\naway, pleasure pall or cease to be obtainable, wealth decay, friends\nfail or prove unkind, and fame turn to infamy; but the power to serve\nGod never fails, and the love of Him is never rejected.\n\nMost of us, at one time or other of our lives, have known something of\nlove--of that only pure love in which no _self_ is left remaining. We\nhave loved as children, we have loved as lovers; some of us have learnt\nto love a cause, a faith, a country; and what love would that be which\nexisted only with a prudent view to after-interests. Surely there is a\nlove which exults in the power of self-abandonment, and can glory in the\nprivilege of suffering for what is good. _Que mon nom soit fletri,\npourvu que la France soit libre_, said Danton; and those wild patriots\nwho had trampled into scorn the faith in an immortal life in which they\nwould be rewarded for what they were suffering, went to their graves as\nbeds, for the dream of a people's liberty. Justice is done; the balance\nis not deranged. It only seems deranged, as long as we have not learnt\nto serve without looking to be paid for it.\n\nSuch is the theory of life which is to be found in the Book of Job; a\nfaith which has flashed up in all times and all lands, wherever\nhigh-minded men were to be found, and which passed in Christianity into\nthe acknowledged creed of half the world. The cross was the new symbol,\nthe Divine sufferer the great example; and mankind answered to the call,\nbecause the appeal was not to what was poor and selfish in them, but to\nwhatever of best and bravest was in their nature. The law of reward and\npunishment was superseded by the law of love. Thou shalt love God and\nthou shalt love man; and that was not love--men knew it once--which was\nbought by the prospect of reward. Times are changed with us now. Thou\nshalt love God and thou shalt love man, in the hands of a Paley, are\nfound to mean no more than, Thou shalt love thyself after an enlightened\nmanner. And the same base tone has saturated not only our common\nfeelings, but our Christian theologies and our Antichristian\nphilosophies. A prudent regard to our future interests; an abstinence\nfrom present unlawful pleasures, because they will entail the loss of\ngreater pleasure by-and-by, or perhaps be paid for with pain,--this is\ncalled virtue now; and the belief that such beings as men can be\ninfluenced by any more elevated feelings, is smiled at as the dream of\nenthusiasts whose hearts have outrun their understandings. Indeed, he\nwere but a poor lover whose devotion to his mistress lay resting on the\nfeeling that a marriage with her would conduce to his own comforts. That\nwere a poor patriot who served his country for the hire which his\ncountry would give to him. And we should think but poorly of a son who\nthus addressed his earthly father: 'Father, on whom my fortunes depend,\nteach me to do what pleases thee, that I, pleasing thee in all things,\nmay obtain those good things which thou hast promised to give to thy\nobedient children.' If any of us who have lived in so meagre a faith\nventure, by-and-by, to put in our claims, Satan will be likely to say of\nus (with better reason than he did of Job), 'Did they serve God for\nnought, then? Take their reward from them, and they will curse Him to\nHis face.' If Christianity had never borne itself more loftily than\nthis, do we suppose that those fierce Norsemen who had learnt, in the\nfiery war-songs of the Edda, of what stuff the hearts of heroes are\ncomposed, would have fashioned their sword-hilts into crosses, and\nthemselves into a crusading chivalry? Let us not dishonour our great\nfathers with the dream of it. The Christians, like the Stoics and the\nEpicureans, would have lived their little day among the ignoble sects of\nan effete civilisation, and would have passed off and been heard of no\nmore. It was in another spirit that those first preachers of\nrighteousness went out upon their warfare with evil. They preached, not\nenlightened prudence, but purity, justice, goodness; holding out no\npromises in this world except of suffering as their great Master had\nsuffered, and rejoicing that they were counted worthy to suffer for His\nsake. And that crown of glory which they did believe to await them in a\nlife beyond the grave, was no enjoyment of what they had surrendered in\nlife, was not enjoyment at all in any sense which human thought or\nlanguage can attach to the words; as little like it as the crown of love\nis like it, which the true lover looks for when at last he obtains his\nmistress. It was to be with Christ--to lose themselves in Him.\n\nHow these high feelings ebbed away, and Christianity became what we know\nit, we are partially beginning to see. The living spirit organised for\nitself a body of perishable flesh: not only the real gains of real\nexperience, but mere conjectural hypotheses, current at the day for the\nsolution of unexplained phenomena, became formulae and articles of faith.\nAgain, as before, the living and the dead were bound together, and the\nseeds of decay were already planted on the birth of a constructed\npolity.\n\nBut there was another cause allied to this, and yet different from it,\nwhich, though a law of human nature itself, seems nowadays altogether\nforgotten. In the rapid and steady advance of our knowledge of material\nthings, we are apt to believe that all our knowledge follows the same\nlaw; that it is merely generalised experience; that experience\naccumulates daily, and, therefore, that 'progress of the species,' _in\nall senses_, is an obvious and necessary fact. There is something which\nis true in this view, mixed with a great deal which is false. Material\nknowledge, the physical and mechanical sciences, make their way from\nstep to step, from experiment to experiment, and each advance is secured\nand made good, and cannot again be lost. One generation takes up the\ngeneral sum of experience where the last laid it down, adds to it what\nit has the opportunity of adding, and leaves it with interest to the\nnext. The successive positions, as they are gained, require nothing for\nthe apprehension of them but an understanding ordinarily cultivated.\nPrejudices have to be encountered, but prejudices of opinion merely, not\nprejudices of conscience or prejudices of self-love, like those which\nbeset our progress in the science of morality. But in morals we enter\nupon conditions wholly different--conditions in which age differs from\nage, man differs from man, and even from himself, at different moments.\nWe all have experienced times when, as we say, we should not know\nourselves; some, when we fall below our average level; some, when we are\nlifted above, and put on, as it were, a higher nature. At such intervals\nas these last (unfortunately, with most of us, of rare occurrence), many\nthings become clear to us which before were hard sayings; propositions\nbecome alive which, usually, are but dry words; our hearts seem purer,\nour motives loftier; our purposes, what we are proud to acknowledge to\nourselves.\n\nAnd, as man is unequal to himself, so is man to his neighbour, and\nperiod to period. The entire method of action, the theories of human\nlife which in one era prevail universally, to the next are unpractical\nand insane, as those of this next would have seemed mere baseness to the\nfirst, if the first could have anticipated them. One epoch, we may\nsuppose, holds some 'greatest nobleness principle,' the other some\n'greatest happiness principle;' and then their very systems of axioms\nwill contradict one another; their general conceptions and their\ndetailed interpretations, their rules, judgments, opinions, practices\nwill be in perpetual and endless collision. Our minds take shape from\nour hearts, and the facts of moral experience do not teach their own\nmeaning, but submit to many readings according to the power of the eye\nwhich we bring with us.\n\nThe want of a clear perception of so important a feature about us leads\nto many singular contradictions. A believer in popular Protestantism,\nwho is also a believer in progress, ought, if he were consistent, to\nregard mankind as growing every day towards a more and more advantageous\nposition with respect to the trials of life; and yet if he were asked\nwhether it was easier for him to 'save his soul' in the nineteenth\ncentury than it would have been in the first or second, or whether the\nsaid soul was necessarily better worth saving, he would be perplexed for\nan answer. There is hardly one of us who, in childhood, has not felt\nlike the Jews to whom Christ spoke, that if he had 'lived in the days of\nthe Fathers,' if he had had their advantages, he would have found duty a\nmuch easier matter; and some of us in mature life have felt that in old\nAthens, or old republican Rome, in the first ages of Christianity, in\nthe Crusades or at the Reformation, there was a contagious atmosphere of\nheroism, in which we should have been less troubled with the little\nfeelings which cling about us now. At any rate, it is at these rare\nepochs only that real additions are made to our moral knowledge. At such\ntimes, new truths are, indeed, sent down among us, and, for periods\nlonger or shorter, may be seen to exercise an elevating influence on\nmankind. Perhaps what is gained on these occasions is never entirely\nlost. The historical monuments of their effects are at least\nindestructible; and when the spirit which gave them birth reappears,\ntheir dormant energy awakens again.\n\nBut it seems from our present experience of what, in some at least of\nits modern forms, Christianity has been capable of becoming, that there\nis no doctrine in itself so pure, but what the meaner nature which is in\nus can disarm and distort it, and adapt it to its own littleness. The\nonce living spirit dries up into formulae, and formulae, whether of\nmass-sacrifice or vicarious righteousness, or 'reward and punishment,'\nare contrived ever so as to escape making over-high demands upon the\nconscience. Some aim at dispensing with obedience altogether, and those\nwhich insist on obedience rest the obligations of it on the poorest of\nmotives. So things go on till there is no life left at all; till, from\nall higher aspirations, we are lowered down to the love of self after an\nenlightened manner; and then nothing remains but to fight the battle\nover again. The once beneficial truth has become, as in Job's case, a\ncruel and mischievous deception, and the whole question of life and its\nobligations must again be opened.\n\nIt is now some three centuries since the last of such reopenings. If we\nask ourselves how much during this time has been actually added to the\nsum of our knowledge in these matters; what, in all the thousands upon\nthousands of sermons, and theologies, and philosophies with which Europe\nhas been deluged, has been gained for mankind beyond what we have found\nin this Book of Job, how far all this has advanced us in the 'progress\nof humanity,' it were hard, or rather it is easy, to answer. How far we\nhave fallen below, let Paley and the rest bear witness. But what moral\nquestion can be asked which admits now of a grander solution than was\noffered two, perhaps three, thousand years ago? The world has not been\nstanding still; experience of man and life has increased; questions have\nmultiplied on questions, while the answers of the established teachers\nto them have been growing every day more and more incredible. What other\nanswers have there been? Of all the countless books which have appeared,\nthere has been only one of enduring importance, in which an attempt is\nmade to carry on the solution of the great problem. Job is given over\ninto Satan's hand to be tempted; and though he shakes, he does not fall.\nTaking the temptation of Job for his model, Goethe has similarly\nexposed his Faust to trial, and with him the tempter succeeds. His hero\nfalls from sin to sin, from crime to crime; he becomes a seducer, a\nmurderer, a betrayer, following recklessly his evil angel wherever he\nchooses to lead him; and yet, with all this, he never wholly forfeits\nour sympathy. In spite of his weakness, his heart is still true to his\nhigher nature; sick and restless, even in the delirium of enjoyment he\nalways longs for something better, and he never can be brought to say of\nevil that it is good. And therefore, after all, the devil is balked of\nhis prey; in virtue of this one fact, that the evil in which he steeped\nhimself remained to the last hateful to him, Faust is saved by the\nangels.... It will be eagerly answered for the established belief, that\nsuch cases are its especial province. All men are sinners, and _it_\npossesses the blessed remedy for sin. But, among the countless numbers\nof those characters so strangely mixed among us, in which the dark and\nthe bright fibres cross like a meshwork; characters at one moment\ncapable of acts of heroic greatness, at another hurried by temptation\ninto actions which even common men may deplore, how many are there who\nhave never availed themselves of the conditions of reconciliation as\northodoxy proffers them, and of such men what is to be said? It was said\nonce of a sinner that to her 'much was forgiven, for she loved much.'\nBut this is language which theology has as little appropriated as the\nJews could appropriate the language of Job. It cannot recognise the\npower of the human heart. It has no balance in which to weigh the good\nagainst the evil; and when a great Burns or a Mirabeau comes before it,\nit can but tremblingly count up the offences committed, and then,\nlooking to the end, and finding its own terms not to have been complied\nwith, it faintly mutters its anathema. Sin only it can apprehend and\njudge; and for the poor acts of struggling heroism, 'Forasmuch as they\nwere not done,' &c., &c., it doubts not but they have the nature of\nsin.[M]\n\nSomething of the difficulty has been met by Goethe, but it cannot be\nsaid that he has resolved it; or at least that he has furnished others\nwith a solution which may guide their judgment. In the writer of the\nBook of Job there is an awful moral earnestness before which we bend as\nin the presence of a superior being. The orthodoxy against which he\ncontended is not set aside or denied; he sees what truth is in it; only\nhe sees more than it, and over it, and through it. But in Goethe, who\nneeded it more, inasmuch as his problem was more delicate and difficult,\nthe moral earnestness is not awful, is not even high. We cannot feel\nthat in dealing with sin he entertains any great horror of it; he looks\non it as a mistake, as undesirable, but scarcely as more. Goethe's great\npowers are of another kind; and this particular question, though in\nappearance the primary subject of the poem, is really only secondary. In\nsubstance, Faust is more like Ecclesiastes than it is like Job, and\ndescribes rather the restlessness of a largely-gifted nature which,\nmissing the guidance of the heart, plays experiments with life, trying\nknowledge, pleasure, dissipation, one after another, and hating them\nall; and then hating life itself as a weary, stale, flat, unprofitable\nmockery. The temper exhibited here will probably be perennial in the\nworld. But the remedy for it will scarcely be more clear under other\ncircumstances than it is at present, and lies in the disposition of the\nemotions, and not in any propositions which can be addressed to the\nunderstanding.\n\nFor that other question--how rightly to estimate a human being; what\nconstitutes a real vitiation of character, and how to distinguish,\nwithout either denying the good or making light of the evil; how to be\njust to the popular theories, and yet not to blind ourselves to their\nshallowness and injustice--that is a problem for us, for the solution of\nwhich we are at present left to our ordinary instinct, without any\nrecognised guidance whatsoever.\n\nNor is this the only problem which is in the same situation. There can\nscarcely be a more startling contrast between fact and theory than the\nconditions under which, practically, positions of power and influence\nare distributed among us--between the theory of human worth which the\nnecessities of life oblige us to act upon, and the theory which we\nbelieve that we believe. As we look around among our leading men, our\nstatesmen, our legislators, the judges on our bench, the commanders of\nour armies, the men to whom this English nation commits the conduct of\nits best interests, profane and sacred, what do we see to be the\nprinciples which guide our selection? How entirely do they lie beside\nand beyond the negative tests! and how little respect do we pay to the\nbreach of this or that commandment in comparison with ability! So wholly\nimpossible is it to apply the received opinions on such matters to\npractice--to treat men known to be guilty of what theology calls deadly\nsins, as really guilty of them, that it would almost seem we had fallen\ninto a moral anarchy; that ability _alone_ is what we regard, without\nany reference at all, except in glaring and outrageous cases, to moral\ndisqualifications. It is invidious to mention names of living men; it is\nworse than invidious to drag out of their graves men who have gone down\ninto them with honour, to make a point for an argument. But we know, all\nof us, that among the best servants of our country there have been, and\nthere are, many whose lives will not stand scrutiny by the negative\ntests, and who do not appear very greatly to repent, or to have\nrepented, of their sins according to recognised methods.\n\nOnce more: among our daily or weekly confessions, which we are supposed\nto repeat as if we were all of us at all times in precisely the same\nmoral condition, we are made to say that we have done those things which\nwe ought not to have done, and to have left undone those things which we\nought to have done. An earthly father to whom his children were day\nafter day to make this acknowledgment would be apt to enquire whether\nthey were trying to do better--whether, at any rate, they were\nendeavouring to learn; and if he were told that although they had made\nsome faint attempts to understand the negative part of their duty, yet\nthat of the positive part, of those things which they ought to do, they\nhad no notions at all, and had no idea that they were under obligation\nto form any, he would come to rather strange conclusions about them.\nBut, really and truly, what practical notions of duty have we beyond\nthat of abstaining from committing sins? Not to commit sin, we suppose,\ncovers but a small part of what is expected of us. Through the entire\ntissue of our employments there runs a good and a bad. Bishop Butler\ntells us, for instance, that even of our time there is a portion which\nis ours, and a portion which is our neighbour's; and if we spend more of\nit on personal interests than our own share, we are stealing. This\nsounds strange doctrine; we prefer making vague acknowledgments, and\nshrink from pursuing them into detail. We say vaguely, that in all we\ndo we should consecrate ourselves to God, and our own lips condemn us;\nfor which among us cares to learn the way to do it? The _devoir_ of a\nknight was understood in the courts of chivalry; the lives of heroic\nmen, Pagan and Christian, were once held up before the world as patterns\nof detailed imitation; and now, when such ideals are wanted more than\never, Protestantism stands with a drawn sword on the threshold of the\nenquiry, and tells us that it is impious. The law, we are told, has been\nfulfilled for us in condescension to our inherent worthlessness, and our\nbusiness is to appropriate another's righteousness, and not, like\nTitans, to be scaling heaven by profane efforts of our own. Protestants,\nwe know very well, will cry out in tones loud enough at such a\nrepresentation of their doctrines. But we know also that unless men may\nfeel a cheerful conviction that they can do right if they try,--that\nthey can purify themselves, can live noble and worthy lives,--unless\nthis is set before them as _the_ thing which they are to do, and _can_\nsucceed in doing, they will not waste their energies on what they know\nbeforehand will end in failure; and if they may not live for God, they\nwill live for themselves.\n\nAnd all this while the whole complex frame of society is a meshwork of\nduty woven of living fibre, and the condition of its remaining sound is,\nthat every thread of it, of its own free energy, shall do what it ought.\nThe penalties of duties neglected are to the full as terrible as those\nof sins committed; more terrible, perhaps, because more palpable and\nsure. A lord of the land, or an employer of labour, supposes that he has\nno duty except to keep what he calls the commandments in his own person,\nto go to church, and to do what he will with his own,--and Irish famines\nfollow, and trade strikes, and chartisms, and Paris revolutions. We look\nfor a remedy in impossible legislative enactments, and there is but one\nremedy which will avail--that the thing which we call public opinion\nlearn something of the meaning of human obligation, and demand some\napproximation to it. As things are, we have no idea of what a human\nbeing ought to be. After the first rudimental conditions we pass at once\ninto meaningless generalities; and with no knowledge to guide our\njudgment, we allow it to be guided by meaner principles; we respect\nmoney, we respect rank, we respect ability--character is as if it had no\nexistence.\n\nIn the midst of this loud talk of progress, therefore, in which so many\nof us at present are agreed to believe, which is, indeed, the common\nmeeting point of all the thousand sects into which we are split, it is\nwith saddened feelings that we see so little of it in so large a matter.\nProgress there is in knowledge; and science has enabled the number of\nhuman beings capable of existing upon this earth to be indefinitely\nmultiplied. But this is but a small triumph if the ratio of the good and\nbad, the wise and the foolish, the full and the hungry, remains\nunaffected. And we cheat ourselves with words when we conclude out of\nour material splendour an advance of the race.\n\nIn two things there is progress--progress in knowledge of the outward\nworld, and progress in material wealth. This last, for the present,\ncreates, perhaps, more evils than it relieves; but suppose this\ndifficulty solved--suppose the wealth distributed, and every peasant\nliving like a peer--what then? If this is all, one noble soul outweighs\nthe whole of it. Let us follow knowledge to the outer circle of the\nuniverse--the eye will not be satisfied with seeing, nor the ear with\nhearing. Let us build our streets of gold, and they will hide as many\naching hearts as hovels of straw. The well-being of mankind is not\nadvanced a single step. Knowledge is power, and wealth is power; and\nharnessed, as in Plato's fable, to the chariot of the soul, and guided\nby wisdom, they may bear it through the circle of the stars; but left to\ntheir own guidance, or reined by a fool's hand, the wild horses may\nbring the poor fool to Phaeton's end, and set a world on fire.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[G] _Westminster Review_, 1853.\n\n[H] 1. _Die poetischen Buecher des Alten Bundes._ Erklaert von Heinrich\nEwald. Goettingen: bei Vanderhoeck und Ruprecht. 1836.\n\n    2. _Kurz gefasstes exegetisches Handbuch zum Alten Testament._ Zweite\nLieferung. _Hiob._ Von Ludwig Hirzel. Zweite Auflage, durchgesehen von\nDr. Justus Olshausen. Leipzig. 1852.\n\n    3. _Quaestionum in Jobeidos locos vexatos Specimen._ Von D. Hermannus\nHupfeld. Halis Saxonum. 1853.\n\n[I] Or rather by St. Jerome, whom our translators have followed.\n\n[J] See Ewald on Job ix. 13, and xxvi. 14.\n\n[K] An allusion, perhaps, to the old bird auguries. The birds, as the\ninhabitants of the air, were supposed to be the messengers between\nheaven and earth.\n\n[L] The speech of Elihu, which lies between Job's last words and God's\nappearance, is now decisively pronounced by Hebrew scholars not to be\ngenuine. The most superficial reader will have been perplexed by the\nintroduction of a speaker to whom no allusion is made, either in the\nprologue or the epilogue; by a long dissertation, which adds nothing to\nthe progress of the argument, proceeding evidently on the false\nhypothesis of the three friends, and betraying not the faintest\nconception of the real cause of Job's sufferings. And the suspicions\nwhich such an anomaly would naturally suggest, are now made certainties\nby a fuller knowledge of the language, and the detection of a different\nhand. The interpolator has unconsciously confessed the feeling which\nallowed him to take so great a liberty. He, too, possessed with the old\nJew theory, was unable to accept in its fulness so great a contradiction\nto it: and, missing the spirit of the poem, he believed that God's\nhonour could still be vindicated in the old way. 'His wrath was kindled'\nagainst the friends, because they could not answer Job; and against Job,\nbecause he would not be answered; and conceiving himself 'full of\nmatter,' and 'ready to burst like new bottles,' he could not contain\nhimself, and delivered into the text a sermon on the _Theodice_, such,\nwe suppose, as formed the current doctrine of the time in which he\nlived.\n\n[M] See the Thirteenth Article.\n\n\n\n\nSPINOZA.[N]\n\n_Benedicti de Spinoza Tractatus de Deo et Homine ejusque Felicitate\nLineamenta. Atque Annotationes ad Tractatum Theologico-Politicum._\nEdidit et illustravit EDWARDUS BOEHMER. Halae ad Salam. J. F. Lippert.\n1852.\n\n\nThis little volume is one evidence among many of the interest which\ncontinues to be felt by the German students in Spinoza. The actual merit\nof the book itself is little or nothing; but it shows the industry with\nwhich they are gleaning among the libraries of Holland for any traces of\nhim which they can recover; and the smallest fragments of his writings\nare acquiring that factitious importance which attaches to the most\ninsignificant relics of acknowledged greatness. Such industry cannot be\notherwise than laudable, but we do not think it at present altogether\nwisely directed. Nothing is likely to be brought to light which will\nfurther illustrate Spinoza's philosophy. He himself spent the better\npart of his life in clearing his language of ambiguities; and such\nearlier sketches of his system as are supposed still to be extant in\nMS., and a specimen of which M. Boehmer believes himself to have\ndiscovered, contribute only obscurity to what is in no need of\nadditional difficulty. Of Spinoza's private history, on the contrary,\nrich as it must have been, and abundant traces of it as must be extant\nsomewhere in his own and his friends' correspondence, we know only\nenough to feel how vast a chasm remains to be filled. It is not often\nthat any man in this world lives a life so well worth writing as Spinoza\nlived; not for striking incidents or large events connected with it, but\nbecause (and no sympathy with his peculiar opinions disposes us to\nexaggerate his merit) he was one of the very best men whom these modern\ntimes have seen. Excommunicated, disinherited, and thrown upon the world\nwhen a mere boy to seek his livelihood, he resisted the inducements\nwhich on all sides were urged upon him to come forward in the world. He\nrefused pensions, legacies, money in many forms; he maintained himself\nwith grinding glasses for optical instruments, an art which he had been\ntaught in early life, and in which he excelled the best workmen in\nHolland; and when he died, which was at the early age of forty-four, the\naffection with which he was regarded showed itself singularly in the\nendorsement of a tradesman's bill which was sent in to his executors, in\nwhich he was described as M. Spinoza of 'blessed memory.'\n\nThe account which remains of him we owe, not to an admiring disciple,\nbut to a clergyman to whom his theories were detestable; and his\nbiographer allows that the most malignant scrutiny had failed to detect\na blemish in his character--that, except so far as his opinions were\nblameable, he had lived to outward appearance free from fault. We\ndesire, in what we are going to say of him, to avoid offensive collision\nwith popular prejudices; still less shall we place ourselves in\nantagonism with the earnest convictions of serious persons: our business\nis to relate what Spinoza was, and leave others to form their own\nconclusions. But one lesson there does seem to lie in such a life of\nsuch a man,--a lesson which he taught equally by example and in\nword,--that wherever there is genuine and thorough love for good and\ngoodness, no speculative superstructure of opinion can be so extravagant\nas to forfeit those graces which are promised, not to clearness of\nintellect, but to purity of heart. In Spinoza's own beautiful\nlanguage,--'Justitia et caritas unicum et certissimum verae fidei\nCatholicae signum est, et veri Spiritus Sancti fructus: et ubicumque haec\nreperiuntur, ibi Christus re vera est, et ubicumque haec desunt deest\nChristus: solo namque Christi Spiritu duci possumus in amorem justitiae\net caritatis.' We may deny his conclusions; we may consider his system\nof thought preposterous and even pernicious; but we cannot refuse him\nthe respect which is the right of all sincere and honourable men.\nWherever and on whatever questions good men are found ranged on opposite\nsides, one of three alternatives is always true:--either the points of\ndisagreement are purely speculative and of no moral importance--or\nthere is a misunderstanding of language, and the same thing is meant\nunder a difference of words--or else the real truth is something\ndifferent from what is held by any of the disputants, and each is\nrepresenting some important element which the others ignore or forget.\nIn either case, a certain calmness and good temper is necessary, if we\nwould understand what we disagree with, or would oppose it with success;\nSpinoza's influence over European thought is too great to be denied or\nset aside; and if his doctrines be false in part, or false altogether,\nwe cannot do their work more surely than by calumny or\nmisrepresentation--a most obvious truism, which no one now living will\ndeny in words, and which a century or two hence perhaps will begin to\nproduce some effect upon the popular judgment.\n\nBearing it in mind, then, ourselves, as far as we are able, we propose\nto examine the Pantheistic philosophy in the first and only logical form\nwhich as yet it has assumed. Whatever may have been the case with\nSpinoza's disciples, in the author of this system there was no\nunwillingness to look closely at it, or to follow it out to its\nconclusions; and whatever other merits or demerits belong to him, at\nleast he has done as much as with language can be done to make himself\nthoroughly understood.\n\nAnd yet, both in friend and enemy alike, there has been a reluctance to\nsee Spinoza as he really was. The Herder and Schleiermacher school have\nclaimed him as a Christian--a position which no little disguise was\nnecessary to make tenable; the orthodox Protestants and Catholics have\ncalled him an Atheist--which is still more extravagant; and even a man\nlike Novalis, who, it might have been expected, would have had something\nreasonable to say, could find no better name for him than a _Gott\ntrunkner Mann_--a God intoxicated man: an expression which has been\nquoted by everybody who has since written upon the subject, and which is\nabout as inapplicable as those laboriously pregnant sayings usually are.\nWith due allowance for exaggeration, such a name would describe\ntolerably the Transcendental mystics, a Toler, a Boehmen, or a\nSwedenborg; but with what justice can it be applied to the cautious,\nmethodical Spinoza, who carried his thoughts about with him for twenty\nyears, deliberately shaping them, and who gave them at last to the world\nin a form more severe than with such subjects had ever been so much as\nattempted before? With him, as with all great men, there was no effort\nafter sublime emotions. He was a plain, practical person; his object in\nphilosophy was only to find a rule by which to govern his own actions\nand his own judgment; and his treatises contain no more than the\nconclusions at which he arrived in this purely personal search, with the\ngrounds on which he rested them.\n\nWe cannot do better than follow his own account of himself as he has\ngiven it in the opening of his unfinished Tract, 'De Emendatione\nIntellectus.' His language is very beautiful, but it is elaborate and\nfull; and, as we have a long journey before us, we must be content to\nepitomise it.\n\nLooking round him on his entrance into life, and asking himself what was\nhis place and business there, he turned for examples to his fellow-men,\nand found little that he could venture to imitate. He observed them all\nin their several ways governing themselves by their different notions of\nwhat they thought desirable; while these notions themselves were resting\non no more secure foundation than a vague, inconsistent experience: the\nexperience of one was not the experience of another, and thus men were\nall, so to say, rather playing experiments with life than living, and\nthe larger portion of them miserably failing. Their mistakes arose, as\nit seemed to Spinoza, from inadequate knowledge; things which at one\ntime looked desirable, disappointed expectation when obtained, and the\nwiser course concealed itself often under an uninviting exterior. He\ndesired to substitute certainty for conjecture, and to endeavour to\nfind, by some surer method, where the real good of man actually lay. We\nmust remember that he had been brought up a Jew, and had been driven out\nof the Jews' communion; his mind was therefore in contact with the bare\nfacts of life, with no creed or system lying between them and himself as\nthe interpreter of experience. He was thrown on his own resources to\nfind his way for himself, and the question was, how to find it. Of all\nforms of human thought, one only, he reflected, would admit of the\ncertainty which he required. If certain knowledge were attainable at\nall, it must be looked for under the mathematical or demonstrative\nmethod; by tracing from ideas clearly conceived the consequences which\nwere formally involved in them. What, then, were these ideas--these\n_verae ideae_, as he calls them--and how were they to be obtained? If\nthey were to serve as the axioms of his system, they must be\nself-evident truths, of which no proof was required; and the\nillustration which he gives of the character of such ideas is ingenious\nand Platonic.\n\nIn order to produce any mechanical instrument, Spinoza says, we require\nothers with which to manufacture it; and others again to manufacture\nthose; and it would seem thus as if the process must be an infinite one,\nand as if nothing could ever be made at all. Nature, however, has\nprovided for the difficulty in creating of her own accord certain rude\ninstruments, with the help of which we can make others better; and\nothers again with the help of those. And so he thinks it must be with\nthe mind; there must be somewhere similar original instruments provided\nalso as the first outfit of intellectual enterprise. To discover these,\nhe examines the various senses in which men are said to know anything,\nand he finds that they resolve themselves into three, or, as he\nelsewhere divides it, four.\n\nWe know a thing--\n\n  1. i. _Ex mero auditu_: because we have heard it from some\n     person or persons whose veracity we have no reason to\n     question.\n\n     ii. _Ab experientia vaga_: from general experience: for\n     instance, all facts or phenomena which come to us through\n     our senses as phenomena, but of the causes of which we\n     are ignorant.\n\n  2. We know a thing as we have correctly conceived the laws\n     of its phenomena, and see them following in their\n     sequence in the order of nature.\n\n  3. Finally, we know a thing, _ex scientia intuitiva_, which\n     alone is absolutely clear and certain.\n\nTo illustrate these divisions, suppose it be required to find a fourth\nproportional which shall stand to the third of three numbers as the\nsecond does to the first. The merchant's clerk knows his rule; he\nmultiplies the second into the third and divides by the first. He\nneither knows nor cares to know why the result is the number which he\nseeks, but he has learnt the fact that it is so, and he remembers it.\n\nA person a little wiser has tried the experiment in a variety of simple\ncases; he has discovered the rule by induction, but still does not\nunderstand it.\n\nA third has mastered the laws of proportion mathematically, as he has\nfound them in Euclid or other geometrical treatise.\n\nA fourth, with the plain numbers of 1, 2, and 3, sees for himself by\nsimple intuitive force that 1:2=3:6.\n\nOf these several kinds of knowledge the third and fourth alone deserve\nto be called knowledge, the others being no more than opinions more or\nless justly founded. The last is the only real insight, although the\nthird, being exact in its form, may be depended upon as a basis of\ncertainty. Under this last, as Spinoza allows, nothing except the very\nsimplest truths, _non nisi simplicissimae veritates_, can be perceived;\nbut, such as they are, they are the foundation of all after-science; and\nthe true ideas, the _verae ideae_, which are apprehended by this faculty\nof intuition, are the primitive instruments with which nature has\nfurnished us. If we ask for a test by which to distinguish them, he has\nnone to give us. 'Veritas,' he says to his friends, in answer to their\nquestion, 'veritas index sui est et falsi. Veritas se ipsam patefacit.'\nAll original truths are of such a kind that they cannot without\nabsurdity even be conceived to be false; the opposites of them are\ncontradictions in terms.--'Ut sciam me scire, necessario debeo prius\nscire. Hinc patet quod certitudo nihil est praeter ipsam essentiam\nobjectivam.... Cum itaque veritas nullo egeat signo, sed sufficiat\nhabere essentiam rerum objectivam, aut quod idem est ideas, ut omne\ntollatur dubium; hinc sequitur quod vera non est methodus, signum\nveritatis quaerere post acquisitionem idearum; sed quod vera methodus est\nvia, ut ipsa veritas, aut essentiae objectivae rerum, aut ideae (omnia illa\nidem significant) debito ordine quaerantur.' (_De Emend. Intell._)\n\nSpinoza will scarcely carry with him the reasoner of the nineteenth\ncentury in arguments like these. When we remember the thousand\nconflicting opinions, the truth of which their several advocates have as\nlittle doubted as they have doubted their own existence, we require some\nbetter evidence than a mere feeling of certainty; and Aristotle's less\npretending canon promises a safer road. [Greek: Ho pasi dokei], 'what all\nmen think,' says Aristotle, [Greek: touto einai phamen] 'this we say\n_is_,'--'and if you will not have this to be a fair ground of\nconviction, you will scarcely find one which will serve you better.' We\nare to see, however, what these _ideae_ are which are offered to us as\nself-evident. Of course, if they are self-evident, if they do produce\nconviction, nothing more is to be said; but it does, indeed, appear\nstrange to us that Spinoza was not staggered as to the validity of his\ncanon, when his friends, everyone of them, so floundered and stumbled\namong what he regarded as his simplest propositions; when he found them,\nin spite of all that he could say, requiring endless _signa veritatis_,\nand unable for a long time even to understand their meaning, far less to\n'recognise them as elementary certainties.' Modern readers may, perhaps,\nbe more fortunate. We produce at length the definitions and axioms of\nthe first book of the 'Ethica,' and they may judge for themselves:--\n\nDEFINITIONS.\n\n    1. By a thing which is _causa sui_, its own cause, I mean a thing\n    the essence of which involves the existence of it, or a thing which\n    cannot be conceived except as existing.\n\n    2. I call a thing finite, _suo genere_, when it can be limited by\n    another (or others) of the same nature--_e.g._ a given body is\n    called finite, because we can always conceive another body\n    enveloping it; but body is not limited by thought, nor thought by\n    body.\n\n    3. By substance I mean what exists in itself and is conceived by\n    itself; the conception of which, that is, does not involve the\n    conception of anything else as the cause of it.\n\n    4. By attribute I mean whatever the intellect perceives of substance\n    as constituting the essence of substance.\n\n    5. Mode is an affection of substance, or is that which is in\n    something else, by and through which it is conceived.\n\n    6. God is a being absolutely infinite; a substance consisting of\n    infinite attributes, each of which expresses his eternal and\n    infinite essence.\n\n\nEXPLANATION.\n\n    I say _absolutely_ infinite, not infinite _suo genere_--for of what\n    is infinite _suo genere_ only, the attributes are not infinite but\n    finite; whereas what is infinite absolutely contains in its own\n    essence everything by which substance can be expressed, and which\n    involves no impossibility.\n\n    7. That thing is 'free' which exists by the sole necessity of its\n    own nature, and is determined in its operation by itself only. That\n    is 'not free' which is called into existence by something else, and\n    is determined in its operation according to a fixed and definite\n    method.\n\n    8. Eternity is existence itself, conceived as following necessarily\n    and solely from the definition of the thing which is eternal.\n\n\nEXPLANATION.\n\n    Because existence of this kind is conceived as an eternal verity,\n    and, therefore, cannot be explained by duration, even though the\n    duration be without beginning or end.\n\nSo far the definitions; then follow the\n\n\nAXIOMS.\n\n    1. All things that exist, exist either of themselves or in virtue of\n    something else.\n\n    2. What we cannot conceive of as existing in virtue of something\n    else, we must conceive through and in itself.\n\n    3. From a given cause an effect necessarily follows, and if there be\n    no given cause no effect can follow.\n\n    4. Things which have nothing in common with each other cannot be\n    understood through one another--_i.e._ the conception of one does\n    not involve the conception of the other.\n\n    5. To understand an effect implies that we understand the cause of\n    it.\n\n    6. A true idea is one which corresponds with its _ideate_.\n\n    7. The essence of anything which can be conceived as non-existent\n    does not involve existence.\n\nSuch is our metaphysical outfit of simple ideas with which to start upon\nour enterprise of learning. The larger number of them, so far from being\nsimple, must be absolutely without meaning to persons whose minds are\nundisciplined in metaphysical abstraction; they become only intelligible\npropositions as we look back upon them with the light of the system\nwhich they are supposed to contain.\n\nAlthough, however, we may justly quarrel with such unlooked-for\ndifficulties, the important question, after all, is not of the obscurity\nof these axioms, but of their truth. Many things in all the sciences are\nobscure to an unpractised understanding, which are true enough and clear\nenough to people acquainted with the subjects, and they may be fairly\nmade the foundations of a scientific system, although rudimentary\nstudents must be contented to accept them upon faith. Of course, also,\nit is entirely competent to Spinoza, or to any one, to define the terms\nwhich he intends to use just as he pleases, provided it be understood\nthat any conclusions which he derives out of them apply only to the\nideas so defined, and not to any supposed object existing which\ncorresponds with them. Euclid defines his triangles and circles, and\ndiscovers that to figures so described, certain properties previously\nunknown may be proved to belong. But as in nature there are no such\nthings as triangles and circles exactly answering the definition, his\nconclusions, as applied to actually existing objects, are either not\ntrue at all or only proximately so. Whether it be possible to bridge\nover the gulf between existing things and the abstract conception of\nthem, as Spinoza attempts to do, we shall presently see. It is a royal\nroad to certainty if it be a practicable one; but we cannot say that we\never met any one who could say honestly Spinoza's reasonings had\nconvinced him; and power of demonstration, like all other powers, can be\njudged only by its effects. Does it prove? does it produce conviction?\nIf not, it is nothing.\n\nWe need not detain our readers among these abstractions. The power of\nSpinozism does not lie so remote from ordinary appreciation, or we\nshould long ago have heard the last of it. Like all other systems which\nhave attracted followers, it addresses itself, not to the logical\nintellect, but to the imagination, which it affects to set aside. We\nrefuse to submit to the demonstrations by which it thrusts itself upon\nour reception; but regarding it as a whole, as an attempt to explain the\nnature of the world of which we are a part, we can still ask ourselves\nhow far the attempt is successful. Some account of these things we know\nthat there must be, and the curiosity which asks the question regards\nitself, of course, as competent in some degree to judge of the answer to\nit.\n\nBefore proceeding, however, to regard this philosophy in the aspect in\nwhich it is really powerful, we must clear our way through the fallacy\nof the method.\n\nThe system is evolved in a series of theorems in severely demonstrative\norder out of the definitions and axioms which we have translated. To\npropositions 1-6 we have nothing to object; they will not, probably,\nconvey any very clear ideas, but they are so far purely abstract, and\nseem to follow (as far as we can speak of 'following' in such subjects)\nby fair reasoning. 'Substance is prior in nature to its affections.'\n'Substances with different attributes have nothing in common,' and,\ntherefore, 'one cannot be the cause of the other.' 'Things really\ndistinct are distinguished by difference either of attribute or mode\n(there being nothing else by which they can be distinguished), and,\ntherefore, because things modally distinguished do not _qua_ substance\ndiffer from one another, there cannot be more than one substance of the\nsame attribute. Therefore (let us remind our readers that we are among\nwhat Spinoza calls _notiones simplicissimas_), since there cannot be two\nsubstances of the same attribute, and substances of different attributes\ncannot be the cause one of the other, it follows that no substance can\nbe produced by another substance.'\n\nThe existence of substance, he then concludes, is involved in the nature\nof the thing itself. Substance exists. It does and must. We ask, why?\nand we are answered, because there is nothing capable of producing it,\nand therefore it is self-caused--_i.e._ by the first definition the\nessence of it implies existence as part of the idea. It is astonishing\nthat Spinoza should not have seen that he assumes the fact that\nsubstance does exist in order to prove that it must. If it cannot be\nproduced _and_ exists, then, of course, it exists in virtue of its own\nnature. But supposing it does not exist, supposing it is all a delusion,\nthe proof falls to pieces. We have to fall back on the facts of\nexperience, on the obscure and unscientific certainty that the thing\nwhich we call the world, and the personalities which we call ourselves,\nare a real substantial something, before we find ground of any kind to\nstand upon. Conscious of the infirmity of his demonstration, Spinoza\nwinds round it and round it, adding proof to proof, but never escaping\nthe same vicious circle: substance exists because it exists, and the\nultimate experience of existence, so far from being of that clear kind\nwhich can be accepted as an axiom, is the most confused of all our\nsensations. What is existence? and what is that something which we say\nexists? Things--essences--existences! these are but the vague names with\nwhich faculties, constructed only to deal with conditional phenomena,\ndisguise their incapacity. The world in the Hindoo legend was supported\nupon the back of the tortoise. It was a step between the world and\nnothingness, and served to cheat the imagination with ideas of a\nfictitious resting-place.\n\n    If any one affirms (says Spinoza) that he has a clear,\n    distinct--that is to say, a true--idea of substance, but that\n    nevertheless he is uncertain whether any such substance exist, it is\n    the same as if he were to affirm that he had a true idea, but yet\n    was uncertain whether it was not false. Or if he says that\n    substance can be created, it is like saying that a false idea can\n    become a true idea--as absurd a thing as it is possible to conceive;\n    and therefore the existence of substance, as well as the essence of\n    it, must be acknowledged as an eternal verity.\n\nIt is again the same story. Spinoza speaks of a clear idea of substance;\nbut he has not proved that such an idea is within the compass of the\nmind. A man's own notion that he sees clearly, is no proof that he\nreally sees clearly; and the distinctness of a definition in itself is\nno evidence that it corresponds adequately with the object of it. No\ndoubt a man who professes to have an idea of substance as an existing\nthing, cannot doubt, as long as he has it, that substance so exists.\nThis is merely to say that as long as a man is certain of this or that\nfact, he has no doubt of it. But neither his certainty nor Spinoza's\nwill be of any use to a man who has no such idea, and who cannot\nrecognise the lawfulness of the method by which it is arrived at.\n\nFrom the self-existing substance it is a short step to the existence of\nGod. After a few more propositions, following one another with the same\nkind of coherence, we arrive successively at the conclusion that there\nis but one substance; that this substance being necessarily existent, it\nis also infinite; that it is therefore identical with the Being who had\nbeen previously defined as the 'Ens absolute perfectum.'\n\nDemonstrations of this kind were the characteristics of the period. Des\nCartes had set the example of constructing them, and was followed by\nCudworth, Clarke, Berkeley, and many others besides Spinoza. The\ninconclusiveness of the method may perhaps be observed most readily in\nthe strangely opposite conceptions formed by all these writers of the\nnature of that Being whose existence they nevertheless agreed, by the\nsame process, to gather each out of their ideas. It is important,\nhowever, to examine it carefully, for it is the very keystone of the\nPantheistic system.\n\nAs stated by Des Cartes, the argument stands something as follows:--God\nis an all-perfect Being,--perfection is the idea which we form of Him:\nexistence is a mode of perfection, and therefore God exists. The sophism\nwe are told is only apparent. Existence is part of the idea--as much\ninvolved in it as the equality of all lines drawn from the centre to the\ncircumference of a circle is involved in the idea of a circle. A\nnon-existent all-perfect Being is as inconceivable as a quadrilateral\ntriangle.\n\nIt is sometimes answered that in this way we may prove the existence of\nanything--Titans, Chimaeras, or the Olympian Gods; we have but to define\nthem as existing, and the proof is complete. But, this objection\nsummarily set aside; none of these beings are by hypothesis absolutely\nperfect, and, therefore, of their existence we can conclude nothing.\nWith greater justice, however, we may say, that of such terms as\nperfection and existence we know too little to speculate. Existence may\nbe an imperfection for all we can tell; we know nothing about the\nmatter. Such arguments are but endless _petitiones principii_--like the\nself-devouring serpent, resolving themselves into nothing. We wander\nround and round them, in the hope of finding some tangible point at\nwhich we can seize their meaning; but we are presented everywhere with\nthe same impracticable surface, from which our grasp glides off\nineffectual.\n\nSpinoza himself, however, obviously felt an intense conviction of the\nvalidity of his argument. His opinion is stated with sufficient\ndistinctness in one of his letters. 'Nothing is more clear,' he writes\nto his pupil De Vries, 'than that, on the one hand, everything which\nexists is conceived by or under some attribute or other; that the more\nreality, therefore, a being or thing has, the more attributes must be\nassigned to it;' 'and conversely' (and this he calls his _argumentum\npalmarium_ in proof of the existence of God), '_the more attributes I\nassign to a thing, the more I am forced to conceive it as existing_.'\nArrange the argument how we please, we shall never get it into a form\nclearer than this:--The more perfect a thing is, the more it must exist\n(as if existence could admit of more or less); and therefore the\nall-perfect Being must exist absolutely. There is no flaw, we are told,\nin the reasoning; and if we are not convinced, it is from the confused\nhabits of our own minds.\n\nSome persons may think that all arguments are good when on the right\nside, and that it is a gratuitous impertinence to quarrel with the\nproofs of a conclusion which it is so desirable that all should receive.\nAs yet, however, we are but inadequately acquainted with the idea\nattached by Spinoza to the word perfection; and if we commit ourselves\nto his logic, it may lead us out to unexpected consequences. All such\nreasonings presume, as a first condition, that we men possess faculties\ncapable of dealing with absolute ideas; that we can understand the\nnature of things external to ourselves as they really _are_ in their\nabsolute relation to one another, independent of our own conception. The\nquestion immediately before us is one which can never be determined. The\ntruth which is to be proved is one which we already believe; and if, as\nwe believe also, our conviction of God's existence is, like that of our\nown existence, intuitive and immediate, the grounds of it can never\nadequately be analysed; we cannot say exactly what they are, and\ntherefore we cannot say what they are not. Whatever we receive\nintuitively, we receive without proof; and stated as a naked\nproposition, it must involve a _petitio principii_. We have a right,\nhowever, to object at once to an argument in which the conclusion is\nmore obvious than the premises; and if it lead on to other consequences\nwhich we disapprove in themselves, we reject it without difficulty or\nhesitation. We ourselves believe that God is, because we experience the\ncontrol of a 'power' which is stronger than we; and our instincts teach\nus so much of the nature of that power as our own relation to it\nrequires us to know. God is the being to whom our obedience is due; and\nthe perfections which we attribute to him are those moral perfections\nwhich are the proper object of our reverence. Strange to say, the\nperfections of Spinoza, which appear so clear to him, are without any\nmoral character whatever; and for men to speak of the justice of God, he\ntells us, is but to see in him a reflection of themselves; as if a\ntriangle were to conceive of him as _eminenter triangularis_, or a\ncircle to give him the property of circularity.\n\nHaving arrived at existence, we next find ourselves among ideas, which\nat least are intelligible, if the character of them is as far removed as\nbefore from the circle of ordinary thought. Nothing exists except\nsubstance, the attributes under which substance is expressed, and the\nmodes or affections of those attributes. There is but one substance\nself-existent, eternal, necessary, and that is the absolutely Infinite\nall-perfect Being. Substance cannot produce substance, and therefore\nthere is no such thing as creation; and everything which exists is\neither an attribute of God, or an affection of some attribute of him,\nmodified in this manner or in that. Beyond him there is nothing, and\nnothing like him or equal to him; he therefore alone in himself is\nabsolutely free, uninfluenced by anything, for nothing is except\nhimself; and from him and from his supreme power, essence, intelligence\n(for these words mean the same thing), all things have necessarily\nflowed, and will and must flow for ever, in the same manner as from the\nnature of a triangle it follows, and has followed, and will follow from\neternity to eternity, that the angles of it are equal to two right\nangles. It would seem as if the analogy were but an artificial play upon\nwords, and that it was only metaphorically that in mathematical\ndemonstration we speak of one thing as following from another. The\nproperties of a curve or a triangle are what they are at all times, and\nthe sequence is merely in the order in which they are successively known\nto ourselves. But according to Spinoza, this is the only true sequence;\nand what we call the universe, and all the series of incidents in earth\nor planet, are involved formally and mathematically in the definition of\nGod.\n\nEach attribute is infinite _suo genere_; and it is time that we should\nknow distinctly the meaning which Spinoza attaches to that important\nword. Out of the infinite number of the attributes of God, two only, he\nsays, are known to us--'extension,' and 'thought,' or 'mind.' Duration,\neven though it be without beginning or end, is not an attribute; it is\nnot even a real thing. Time has no relation to Being, conceived\nmathematically; it would be absurd to speak of circles or triangles as\nany older to-day than they were at the beginning of the world. These and\neverything of the same kind are conceived, as Spinoza rightly says, _sub\nquadam specie aeternitatis_. But extension, or substance extended, and\nthought, or substance perceiving, are real, absolute, and objective. We\nmust not confound extension with body; for though body be a mode of\nextension, there is extension which is not body, and it is infinite\nbecause we cannot conceive it to be limited except by itself--or, in\nother words, to be limited at all. And as it is with extension, so it is\nwith mind, which is also infinite with the infinity of its object. Thus\nthere is no such thing as creation, and no beginning or end. All things\nof which our faculties are cognizant under one or other of these\nattributes are produced from God, and in him they have their being, and\nwithout him they would cease to be.\n\nProceeding by steps of rigid demonstration (and most admirably indeed is\nthe form of the philosophy adapted to the spirit of it), we learn that\nGod is the only _causa libera_; that no other thing or being has any\npower of self-determination; all moves by fixed laws of causation,\nmotive upon motive, act upon act; there is no free will, and no\ncontingency; and however necessary it may be for our incapacity to\nconsider future things as in a sense contingent (see _Tractat. Theol.\nPolit._ cap. iv., sec. 4), this is but one of the thousand convenient\ndeceptions which we are obliged to employ with ourselves. God is the\n_causa immanens omnium_; he is not a personal being existing apart from\nthe universe; but himself in his own reality, he is expressed in the\nuniverse, which is his living garment. Keeping to the philosophical\nlanguage of the time, Spinoza preserves the distinction between _natura\nnaturans_ and _natura naturata_. The first is being in itself, the\nattributes of substance as they are conceived simply and alone; the\nsecond is the infinite series of modifications which follow out of the\nproperties of these attributes. And thus all which _is_, is what it is\nby an absolute necessity, and could not have been other than it is. God\nis free, because no causes external to himself have power over him; and\nas good men are most free when most a law to themselves, so it is no\ninfringement on God's freedom to say that he _must_ have acted as he has\nacted, but rather he is absolutely free because absolutely a law himself\nto himself.\n\nHere ends the first book of Spinoza's Ethics--the book which contains,\nas we said, the _notiones simplicissimas_, and the primary and\nrudimental deductions from them. _His Dei naturam_, he says, in his\nlofty confidence, _ejusque proprietates explicui_. But, as if conscious\nthat his method will never convince, he concludes this portion of his\nsubject with an analytical appendix; not to explain or apologise, but to\nshow us clearly, in practical detail, the position into which he has led\nus. The root, we are told, of all philosophical errors lies in our\nnotion of final causes; we invert the order of nature, and interpret\nGod's action through our own; we speak of his intentions, as if he were\na man; we assume that we are capable of measuring them, and finally\nerect ourselves, and our own interests, into the centre and criterion of\nall things. Hence arises our notion of evil. If the universe be what\nthis philosophy has described it, the perfection which it assigns to\nGod is extended to everything, and evil is of course impossible; there\nis no shortcoming either in nature or in man; each person and each thing\nis exactly what it has the power to be, and nothing more. But men\nimagining that all things exist on their account, and perceiving their\nown interests, bodily and spiritual, capable of being variously\naffected, have conceived these opposite influences to result from\nopposite and contradictory powers, and call what contributes to their\nadvantage good, and whatever obstructs it, evil. For our convenience we\nform generic conceptions of human excellence, as archetypes after which\nto strive; and such of us as approach nearest to such archetypes are\nsupposed to be virtuous, and those who are most remote from them to be\nwicked. But such generic abstractions are but _entia imaginationis_, and\nhave no real existence. In the eyes of God each thing is what it has the\nmeans of being. There is no rebellion against him, and no resistance of\nhis will; in truth, therefore, there neither is nor can be such a thing\nas a bad action in the common sense of the word. Actions are good or\nbad, not in themselves, but as compared with the nature of the agent;\nwhat we censure in men, we tolerate and even admire in animals; and as\nsoon as we are aware of our mistake in assigning to man a power of free\nvolition, our notion of evil as a positive thing will cease to exist.\n\n    If I am asked (concludes Spinoza) why then all mankind were not\n    created by God, so as to be governed solely by reason? it was\n    because, I reply, there was to God no lack of matter to create all\n    things from the highest to the lowest grade of perfection; or, to\n    speak more properly, because the laws of God's nature were ample\n    enough to suffice for the production of all things which can be\n    conceived by an Infinite Intelligence.\n\nIt is possible that readers who have followed us so far will now turn\naway from a philosophy which issues in such conclusions; resentful,\nperhaps, that it should have been ever laid before them at all, in\nlanguage so little expressive of aversion and displeasure. We must\nclaim, however, in Spinoza's name, the right which he claims for\nhimself. His system must be judged as a whole; and whatever we may think\nourselves would be the moral effect of such doctrines if they were\ngenerally received, in his hands and in his heart they are worked into\nmaxims of the purest and loftiest morality. And at least we are bound\nto remember that some account of this great mystery of evil there must\nbe; and although familiarity with commonly-received explanations may\ndisguise from us the difficulties with which they too, as well as that\nof Spinoza, are embarrassed, such difficulties none the less exist. The\nfact is the grand perplexity, and for ourselves we acknowledge that of\nall theories about it Spinoza's would appear to us the least irrational,\nsetting conscience, and the voice of conscience, aside. The objections,\nwith the replies to them, are well drawn out in the correspondence with\nWilliam de Blyenburg. It will be seen at once with how little justice\nthe denial of evil as a positive thing can be called equivalent to\ndenying it relatively to man, or to confusing the moral distinctions\nbetween virtue and vice.\n\n    We speak (writes Spinoza, in answer to Blyenburg, who had urged\n    something of the kind), we speak of this or that man having done a\n    wrong thing, when we compare him with a general standard of\n    humanity; but inasmuch as God neither perceives things in such\n    abstract manner, nor forms to himself such generic definitions, and\n    since there is no more reality in anything than God has assigned to\n    it, it follows, surely, that the absence of good exists only in\n    respect of man's understanding, not in respect of God's.\n\n    If this be so, then (replies Blyenburg), bad men fulfil God's will\n    as well as good.\n\n    It is true (Spinoza answers) they fulfil it, yet not as the good nor\n    as well as the good, nor are they to be compared with them. The\n    better a thing or a person be, the more there is in him of God's\n    spirit, and the more he expresses God's will; while the bad, being\n    without that divine love which arises from the knowledge of God, and\n    through which alone we are called (in respect of our understandings)\n    his servants, are but as instruments in the hand of the\n    artificer--they serve unconsciously, and are consumed in their\n    service.\n\nSpinoza, after all, is but stating in philosophical language the extreme\ndoctrine of Grace; and St. Paul, if we interpret his real belief by the\none passage so often quoted, in which he compares us to 'clay in the\nhands of the potter, who maketh one vessel to honour and another to\ndishonour,' may be accused with justice of having held the same opinion.\nIf Calvinism be pressed to its logical consequences, it either becomes\nan intolerable falsehood, or it resolves itself into the philosophy of\nSpinoza. It is monstrous to call evil a positive thing, and to assert,\nin the same breath, that God has predetermined it,--to tell us that he\nhas ordained what he hates, and hates what he has ordained. It is\nincredible that we should be without power to obey him except through\nhis free grace, and yet be held responsible for our failures when that\ngrace has been withheld. And it is idle to call a philosopher\nsacrilegious who has but systematised the faith which so many believe,\nand cleared it of its most hideous features.\n\nSpinoza flinches from nothing, and disguises no conclusions either from\nhimself or from his readers. We believe for ourselves that logic has no\nbusiness with such questions; that the answer to them lies in the\nconscience and not in the intellect. Spinoza thinks otherwise; and he is\nat least true to the guide which he has chosen. Blyenburg presses him\nwith instances of monstrous crime, such as bring home to the heart the\nnatural horror of it. He speaks of Nero's murder of Agrippina, and asks\nif God can be called the cause of such an act as that.\n\n    God (replies Spinoza, calmly) is the cause of all things which have\n    reality. If you can show that evil, errors, crimes express any real\n    things, I agree readily that God is the cause of them; but I\n    conceive myself to have proved that what constitutes the essence of\n    evil is not a real thing at all, and therefore that God cannot be\n    the cause of it. Nero's matricide was not a crime, in so far as it\n    was a positive outward act. Orestes also killed his mother; and we\n    do not judge Orestes as we judge Nero. The crime of the latter lay\n    in his being without pity, without obedience, without natural\n    affection--none of which things express any positive essence, but\n    the absence of it; and therefore God was not the cause of these,\n    although he was the cause of the act and the intention.\n\n    But once for all (he adds), this aspect of things will remain\n    intolerable and unintelligible as long as the common notions of free\n    will remain unremoved.\n\nAnd of course, and we shall all confess it, if these notions are as\nfalse as Spinoza supposes them--if we have no power to be anything but\nwhat we are, there neither is nor can be such a thing as moral evil; and\nwhat we call crimes will no more involve a violation of the will of God,\nthey will no more impair his moral attributes if we suppose him to have\nwilled them, than the same actions, whether of lust, ferocity, or\ncruelty, in the inferior animals. There will be but, as Spinoza says, an\ninfinite gradation in created things, the poorest life being more than\nnone, the meanest active disposition something better than inertia, and\nthe smallest exercise of reason better than mere ferocity. 'The Lord has\nmade all things for himself, even the wicked for the day of evil.'\n\nThe moral aspect of the matter will be more clear as we proceed. We\npause, however, to notice one difficulty of a metaphysical kind, which\nis best disposed of in passing. Whatever obscurity may lie about the\nthing which we call Time (philosophers not being able to agree what it\nis, or whether properly it _is_ anything), the words past, present,\nfuture, do undoubtedly convey some definite idea with them: things will\nbe which are not yet, and have been which are no longer. Now, if\neverything which exists be a necessary mathematical consequence from the\nnature or definition of the One Being, we cannot see how there can be\nany time but the present, or how past and future have room for a\nmeaning. God is, and therefore all properties of him _are_, just as\nevery property of a circle exists in it as soon as the circle exists. We\nmay if we like, for convenience, throw our theorems into the future, and\nsay, _e.g._ that if two lines in a circle cut each other, the rectangle\nunder the parts of the one _will_ equal that under the parts of the\nother. But we only mean in reality that these rectangles _are_ equal;\nand the _future_ relates only to our knowledge of the fact. Allowing,\nhowever, as much as we please, that the condition of England a hundred\nyears hence lies already in embryo in existing causes, it is a paradox\nto say that such condition exists already in the sense in which the\nproperties of the circle exist; and yet Spinoza insists on the\nillustration.\n\nIt is singular that he should not have noticed the difficulty; not that\neither it or the answer to it (which no doubt would have been ready\nenough) are likely to interest any person except metaphysicians, a class\nof thinkers, happily, which is rapidly diminishing.\n\nWe proceed to more important matters--to Spinoza's detailed theory of\nnature as exhibited in man and in man's mind. His theory for its bold\ningenuity is by far the most remarkable which on this dark subject has\never been proposed. Whether we can believe it or not, is another\nquestion; yet undoubtedly it provides a solution for every difficulty;\nit accepts with equal welcome the extremes of materialism and of\nspiritualism: and if it be the test of the soundness of a philosophy\nthat it will explain phenomena and reconcile contradictions, it is hard\nto account for the fact that a system which bears such a test so\nadmirably, should nevertheless be so incredible as it is.\n\nMost people have heard of the 'Harmonie Pre-etablie' of Leibnitz; it is\nborrowed without acknowledgment from Spinoza, and adapted to the\nLeibnitzian philosophy. 'Man,' says Leibnitz, 'is composed of mind and\nbody; but what is mind and what is body, and what is the nature of their\nunion? Substances so opposite in kind cannot affect one another; mind\ncannot act on matter, or matter upon mind; and the appearance of their\nreciprocal operation is an appearance only and a delusion.' A delusion\nso general, however, required to be accounted for; and Leibnitz\naccounted for it by supposing that God, in creating a world composed of\nmaterial and spiritual phenomena, ordained that these several phenomena\nshould proceed from the beginning in parallel lines side by side in a\nconstantly corresponding harmony. The sense of seeing results, it\nappears to us, from the formation of a picture upon the retina. The\nmotion of the arm or the leg appears to result from an act of will; but\nin either case we mistake coincidence for causation. Between substances\nso wholly alien there can be no intercommunion; and we only suppose that\nthe object seen produces the idea, and that the desire produces the\nmovement, because the phenomena of matter and the phenomena of spirit\nare so contrived as to flow always in the same order and sequence. This\nhypothesis, as coming from Leibnitz, has been, if not accepted, at least\nlistened to respectfully; because while taking it out of its proper\nplace, he contrived to graft it upon Christianity; and succeeded, with a\nsort of speculative legerdemain, in making it appear to be in harmony\nwith revealed religion. Disguised as a philosophy of Predestination, and\nconnected with the Christian doctrine of Retribution, it steps forward\nwith an air of unconscious innocence, as if interfering with nothing\nwhich Christians generally believe. And yet, leaving as it does no\nlarger scope for liberty or responsibility than when in the hands of\nSpinoza,[O] Leibnitz, in our opinion, has only succeeded in making it\ninfinitely more revolting. Spinoza could not regard the bad man as an\nobject of Divine anger and a subject of retributory punishment. He was\nnot a Christian, and made no pretension to be considered such; and it\ndid not occur to him to regard the actions of a being which, both with\nLeibnitz and himself, is (to use his own expression) an _automaton\nspirituale_, as deserving a fiery indignation and everlasting vengeance.\n\n'Deus,' according to Spinoza's definition, 'est ens constans infinitis\nattributis quorum unumquodque aeternam et infinitam essentiam exprimit.'\nUnder each of these attributes _infinita sequuntur_, and everything\nwhich an infinite intelligence can conceive, and an infinite power can\nproduce,--everything which follows as a possibility out of the divine\nnature,--all things which have been, and are, and will be,--find\nexpression and actual existence, not under one attribute only, but under\neach and every attribute. Language is so ill adapted to explain such a\nsystem, that even to state it accurately is all but impossible, and\nanalogies can only remotely suggest what such expressions mean. But it\nis as if it were said that the same thought might be expressed in an\ninfinite variety of languages; and not in words only, but in action, in\npainting, in sculpture, in music, in any form of any kind which can be\nemployed as a means of spiritual embodiment. Of all these infinite\nattributes, two only, as we said, are known to us--extension and\nthought. Material phenomena are phenomena of extension; and to every\nmodification of extension an idea corresponds under the attribute of\nthought. Out of such a compound as this is formed man, composed of body\nand mind; two parallel and correspondent modifications eternally\nanswering one another. And not man only, but all other beings and things\nare similarly formed and similarly animated; the anima or mind of each\nvarying according to the complicity of the organism of its material\ncounterpart. Although body does not think, nor affect the mind's power\nof thinking, and mind does not control body, nor communicate to it\neither motion or rest or any influence from itself, yet body with all\nits properties is the object or ideate of mind: whatsoever body does,\nmind perceives; and the greater the energising power of the first, the\ngreater the perceiving power of the second. And this is not because they\nare adapted one to the other by some inconceivable preordinating power,\nbut because mind and body are _una et eadem res_, the one absolute being\naffected in one and the same manner, but expressed under several\nattributes; the modes and affections of each attribute having that being\nfor their cause, as he exists under that attribute of which they are\nmodes, and no other; idea being caused by idea, and body affected by\nbody; the image on the retina being produced by the object reflected\nupon it, the idea or image in our minds by the idea of that object, &c.\n&c.\n\nA solution so remote from all ordinary ways of thinking on these matters\nis so difficult to grasp, that one can hardly speak of it as being\nprobable, or as being improbable. Probability extends only to what we\ncan imagine as possible, and Spinoza's theory seems to lie beyond the\nrange within which our judgment can exercise itself. In our own opinion,\nindeed, as we have already said, the entire subject is one with which we\nhave no business; and the explanation of our nature, if it is ever to be\nexplained to us, is reserved till we are in some other state of\nexistence. We do not disbelieve Spinoza because what he suggests is in\nitself incredible. The chances may be millions to one against his being\nright; yet the real truth, if we knew it, would be probably at least as\nstrange as his conception of it. But we are firmly convinced that of\nthese questions, and of all like them, practical answers only lie\nwithin the reach of human faculties; and that in 'researches into the\nabsolute' we are on the road which ends nowhere.\n\nAmong the difficulties, however, most properly akin to this philosophy\nitself, there is one most obvious, viz., that if the attributes of God\nbe infinite, and each particular thing is expressed under them all, then\nmind and body express but an infinitesimal portion of the nature of each\nof ourselves; and this human nature exists (_i.e._, there exists\ncorresponding modes of substance) in the whole infinity of the divine\nnature under attributes differing each from each, and all from mind and\nall from body. That this must be so follows from the definition of the\nInfinite Being, and the nature of the distinction between the two\nattributes which are known to us; and if this be so, why does not the\nmind perceive something of all these other attributes? The objection is\nwell expressed by a correspondent (Letter 67):--'It follows from what\nyou say,' a friend writes to Spinoza, 'that the modification which\nconstitutes my mind, and that which constitutes my body, although it be\none and the same modification, yet must be expressed in an infinity of\nways: one way by thought, a second way by extension, a third by some\nattribute unknown to me, and so on to infinity; the attributes being\ninfinite in number, and the order and connexion of modes being the same\nin them all. Why, then, does the mind perceive the modes of but one\nattribute only?'\n\nSpinoza's answer is curious: unhappily, a fragment of his letter only is\nextant, so that it is too brief to be satisfactory:--\n\n    In reply to your difficulty (he says), although each particular\n    thing be truly in the Infinite mind, conceived in Infinite modes,\n    the Infinite idea answering to all these cannot constitute one and\n    the same mind of any single being, but must constitute Infinite\n    minds. No one of all these Infinite ideas has any connexion with\n    another.\n\nHe means, we suppose, that God's mind only perceives, or can perceive,\nthings under their Infinite expression, and that the idea of each\nseveral mode, under whatever attribute, constitutes a separate mind.\n\nWe do not know that we can add anything to this explanation; the\ndifficulty lies in the audacious sweep of the speculation itself; we\nwill, however, attempt an illustration, although we fear it will be to\nillustrate _obscurum per obscurius_. Let A B C D be four out of the\nInfinite number of the Divine attributes. A the attribute of mind; B the\nattribute of extension; C and D other attributes, the nature of which is\nnot known to us. Now, A, as the attribute of mind, is that which\nperceives all which takes place under B C and D, but it is only as it\nexists in God that it forms the universal consciousness of all\nattributes at once. In its modifications it is combined separately with\nthe modifications of each, constituting in combination with the modes of\neach attribute a separate being. As forming the mind of B, A perceives\nwhat takes place in B, but not what takes place in C or D. Combined with\nB, it forms the soul of the human body, and generally the soul of all\nmodifications of extended substance; combined with C, it forms the soul\nof some other analogous being; combined with D, again of another; but\nthe combinations are only in pairs, in which A is constant. A and B make\none being, A and C another, A and D a third; but B will not combine with\nC, nor C with D; each attribute being, as it were, conscious only of\nitself. And therefore, although to those modifications of mind and\nextension which we call ourselves, there are corresponding modifications\nunder C and D, and generally under each of the Infinite attributes of\nGod, each of ourselves being in a sense Infinite--nevertheless, we\nneither have nor can have any knowledge of ourselves in this Infinite\naspect; our actual consciousness being limited to the phenomena of\nsensible experience.\n\nEnglish readers, however, are likely to care little for all this; they\nwill look to the general theory, and judge of it as its aspect affects\nthem. And first, perhaps, they will be tempted to throw aside as absurd\nthe notion that their bodies go through the many operations which they\nexperience them to do, undirected by their minds. It is a thing, they\nmay say, at once preposterous and incredible. It is, however, less\nabsurd than it seems; and, though we could not persuade ourselves to\nbelieve it, absurd in the sense of having nothing to be said for it, it\ncertainly is not. It is far easier, for instance, to imagine the human\nbody capable by its own virtue, and by the laws of material\norganisation, of building a house, than of _thinking_; and yet men are\nallowed to say that the body thinks, without being regarded as\ncandidates for a lunatic asylum. We see the seed shoot up into stem and\nleaf and throw out flowers; we observe it fulfilling processes of\nchemistry more subtle than were ever executed in Liebig's laboratory,\nand producing structures more cunning than man can imitate. The bird\nbuilds her nest, the spider shapes out its delicate web, and stretches\nit in the path of his prey; directed not by calculating thought, as we\nconceive ourselves to be, but by some motive influence, our ignorance of\nthe nature of which we disguise from ourselves, and call it instinct,\nbut which we believe at least to be some property residing in the\norganisation. We are not to suppose that the human body, the most\ncomplex of all material structures, has slighter powers in it than the\nbodies of a seed, a bird, or an insect. Let us listen to Spinoza\nhimself:--\n\n    There can be no doubt (he says) that this hypothesis is true; but\n    unless I can prove it from experience, men will not, I fear, be\n    induced even to reflect upon it calmly, so persuaded are they that\n    it is by the mind only that their bodies are set in motion. And yet\n    what body can or cannot do no one has yet determined; body, _i.e._,\n    by the law of its own nature, and without assistance from mind. No\n    one has so probed the human frame as to have detected all its\n    functions and exhausted the list of them; there are powers exhibited\n    by animals far exceeding human sagacity; and, again, feats are\n    performed by somnambulists on which in the waking state the same\n    persons would never venture--itself a proof that body is able to\n    accomplish what mind can only admire. Men _say_ that mind moves\n    body, but how it moves it they cannot tell, or what degree of motion\n    it can impart to it; so that, in fact, they do not know what they\n    say, and are only confessing their own ignorance in specious\n    language. They will answer me, that whether or not they understand\n    how it can be, yet that they are assured by plain experience that\n    unless mind could perceive, body would be altogether inactive; they\n    know that it depends on the mind whether the tongue speaks or is\n    silent. But do they not equally experience that if their bodies are\n    paralysed their minds cannot think?--that if their bodies are asleep\n    their minds are without power?--that their minds are not at all\n    times equally able to exert themselves even on the same subject, but\n    depend on the state of their bodies? And as for experience proving\n    that the members of the body can be controlled by the mind, I fear\n    experience proves very much the reverse. But it is absurd (they\n    rejoin) to attempt to explain from the mere laws of body such things\n    as pictures, or palaces, or works of art; the body could not build a\n    church unless mind directed it. I have shown, however, that we do\n    not yet know what body can or cannot do, or what would naturally\n    follow from the structure of it; that we experience in the feats of\n    somnambulists something which antecedently to that experience would\n    have seemed incredible. This fabric of the human body exceeds\n    infinitely any contrivance of human skill, and an infinity of\n    things, as I have already proved, ought to follow from it.\n\nWe are not concerned to answer this reasoning, although if the matter\nwere one the debating of which could be of any profit, it would\nundoubtedly have its weight, and would require to be patiently\nconsidered. Life is too serious, however, to be wasted with impunity\nover speculations in which certainty is impossible, and in which we are\ntrifling with what is inscrutable.\n\nObjections of a far graver kind were anticipated by Spinoza himself,\nwhen he went on to gather out of his philosophy 'that the mind of man\nbeing part of the Infinite intelligence, when we say that such a mind\nperceives this thing or that, we are, in fact, saying that God perceives\nit, not as he is Infinite, but as he is represented by the nature of\nthis or that idea; and similarly, when we say that a man does this or\nthat action, we say that God does it, not _qua_ he is Infinite, but\n_qua_ he is expressed in that man's nature.' 'Here,' he says, 'many\nreaders will no doubt hesitate, and many difficulties will occur to them\nin the way of such a supposition.'\n\nWe confess that we ourselves are among these hesitating readers. As long\nas the Being whom Spinoza so freely names remains surrounded with the\nassociations which in this country we bring with us out of our\nchildhood, not all the logic in the world would make us listen to\nlanguage such as this. It is not so--we know it, and that is enough. We\nare well aware of the phalanx of difficulties which lie about our\ntheistic conceptions. They are quite enough, if religion depended on\nspeculative consistency, and not in obedience of life, to perplex and\nterrify us. What are we? what _is_ anything? If it be not divine--what\nis it then? If created--out of what is it created? and how created--and\nwhy? These questions, and others far more momentous which we do not\nenter upon here, may be asked and cannot be answered; but we cannot any\nthe more consent to Spinoza on the ground that he alone consistently\nprovides an answer; because, as we have said again and again, we do not\ncare to have them answered at all. Conscience is the single tribunal to\nwhich we choose to be referred, and conscience declares imperatively\nthat what he says is not true. It is painful to speak of all this, and\nas far as possible we designedly avoid it. Pantheism is not Atheism, but\nthe Infinite Positive and the Infinite Negative are not so remote from\none another in their practical bearings; only let us remember that we\nare far indeed from the truth if we think that God to Spinoza was\n_nothing else_ but that world which we experience. It is but one of\ninfinite expressions of him--a conception which makes us giddy in the\neffort to realise it.\n\nWe have arrived at last at the outwork of the whole matter in its\nbearings upon life and human duty. It was in the search after this last,\nthat Spinoza, as we said, travelled over so strange a country, and we\nnow expect his conclusions. To discover the true good of man, to direct\nhis actions to such ends as will secure to him real and lasting\nfelicity, and, by a comparison of his powers with the objects offered to\nthem, to ascertain how far they are capable of arriving at these\nobjects, and by what means they can best be trained towards them--is the\naim which Spinoza assigns to philosophy. 'Most people,' he adds, 'deride\nor vilify their nature; it is a better thing to endeavour to understand\nit; and however extravagant my proceeding may be thought, I propose to\nanalyse the properties of that nature as if it were a mathematical\nfigure.' Mind being, as he conceives himself to have shown, nothing else\nthan the idea corresponding to this or that affection of body, we are\nnot, therefore, to think of it as a faculty, but simply and merely as an\nact. There is no general power called intellect, any more than there is\nany general abstract volition, but only _hic et ille intellectus et haec\net illa volitio_.\n\nAgain, by the word Mind is understood not merely an act or acts of will\nor intellect, but all forms also of consciousness of sensation or\nemotion. The human body being composed of many small bodies, the mind is\nsimilarly composed of many minds, and the unity of body and of mind\ndepends on the relation which the component portions maintain towards\neach other. This is obviously the case with body; and if we can\ntranslate metaphysics into common experience, it is equally the case\nwith mind. There are pleasures of sense and pleasures of intellect; a\nthousand tastes, tendencies, and inclinations form our mental\ncomposition; and since one contradicts another, and each has a tendency\nto become dominant, it is only in the harmonious equipoise of their\nseveral activities, in their due and just subordination, that any unity\nof action or consistency of feeling is possible. After a masterly\nanalysis of all these tendencies (the most complete by far which has\never been made by any moral philosopher), Spinoza arrives at the\nprinciples under which unity and consistency can be obtained as the\ncondition upon which a being so composed can look for any sort of\nhappiness; and these principles, arrived at as they are by a route so\ndifferent, are the same, and are proposed by Spinoza as being the same,\nas those of the Christian religion.\n\nIt might seem impossible in a system which binds together in so\ninexorable a sequence the relations of cause and effect, to make a place\nfor the action of self-control; but consideration will show that,\nhowever vast the difference between those who deny and those who affirm\nthe liberty of the will (in the sense in which the expression is usually\nunderstood), it is not a difference which affects the conduct or alters\nthe practical bearings of it. Conduct may be determined by laws--laws as\nabsolute as those of matter; and yet the one as well as the other may be\nbrought under control by a proper understanding of those laws. Now,\nexperience seems plainly to say, that while all our actions arise out of\ndesire--that whatever we do, we do for the sake of something which we\nwish to be or to obtain--we are differently affected towards what is\nproposed to us as an object of desire, in proportion as we understand\nthe nature of such object in itself and in its consequences. The better\nwe know, the better we act; and the fallacy of all common arguments\nagainst necessitarianism lies in the assumption that it leaves no room\nfor self-direction: it merely insists, in exact conformity with\nexperience, on the conditions under which self-determination is\npossible. Conduct, according to the necessitarian, depends on knowledge.\nLet a man certainly know that there is poison in the cup of wine before\nhim, and he will not drink it. By the law of cause and effect, his\ndesire for the wine is overcome by the fear of the pain or the death\nwhich will follow. So with everything which comes before him. Let the\nconsequences of any action be clear, definite, and inevitable, and\nthough Spinoza would not say that the knowledge of them will be\nabsolutely sufficient to determine the conduct (because the clearest\nknowledge may be overborne by violent passion), yet it is the best\nwhich we have to trust to, and will do much if it cannot do all.\n\nOn this hypothesis, after a diagnosis of the various tendencies of human\nnature, called commonly the passions and affections, he returns upon the\nnature of our ordinary knowledge to derive out of it the means for their\nsubordination. All these tendencies of themselves seek their own\nobjects--seek them blindly and immoderately; and the mistakes and the\nunhappinesses of life arise from the want of due understanding of these\nobjects, and a just moderation of the desire for them. His analysis is\nremarkably clear, but it is too long for us to enter upon it; the\nimportant thing being the character of the control which is to be\nexerted. To arrive at this, he employs a distinction of great practical\nutility, and which is peculiarly his own.\n\nFollowing his tripartite division of knowledge, he finds all kinds of it\narrange themselves under one of two classes, and to be either adequate\nor inadequate. By adequate knowledge he does not mean what is exhaustive\nand complete, but what, as far as it goes, is distinct and unconfused:\nby inadequate, he means what we know merely as fact either derived from\nour own sensations, or from the authority of others, while of the\nconnexion of it with other facts, of the causes, effects, or meaning of\nit we know nothing. We may have an adequate idea of a circle, though we\nare unacquainted with all the properties which belong to it; we conceive\nit distinctly as a figure generated by the rotation of a line, one end\nof which is stationary. Phenomena, on the other hand, however made known\nto us--phenomena of the senses, and phenomena of experience, as long as\nthey remain phenomena merely, and unseen in any higher relation--we can\nnever know except as inadequately. We cannot tell what outward things\nare by coming in contact with certain features of them. We have a very\nimperfect acquaintance even with our own bodies, and the sensations\nwhich we experience of various kinds rather indicate to us the nature of\nthese bodies themselves than of the objects which affect them. Now, it\nis obvious that the greater part of mankind act only upon knowledge of\nthis latter kind. The amusements, even the active pursuits, of most of\nus remain wholly within the range of uncertainty, and, therefore, are\nfull of hazard and precariousness: little or nothing issues as we\nexpect. We look for pleasure and we find pain; we shun one pain and\nfind a greater; and thus arises the ineffectual character which we so\ncomplain of in life--the disappointments, failures, mortifications which\nform the material of so much moral meditation on the vanity of the\nworld. Much of all this is inevitable from the constitution of our\nnature. The mind is too infirm to be entirely occupied with higher\nknowledge. The conditions of life oblige us to act in many cases which\ncannot be understood by us except with the utmost inadequacy; and the\nresignation to the higher will which has determined all things in the\nwisest way, is imperfect in the best of us. Yet much is possible, if not\nall; and, although through a large tract of life 'there comes one event\nto all, to the wise and to the unwise,' 'yet wisdom excelleth folly as\nfar as light excelleth darkness.' The phenomena of experience, after\ninductive experiment, and just and careful consideration, arrange\nthemselves under laws uniform in their operation, and furnishing a guide\nto the judgment; and over all things, although the interval must remain\nunexplored for ever, because what we would search into is Infinite, may\nbe seen the beginning of all things, the absolute eternal God. 'Mens\nhumana,' Spinoza continues, 'quaedam agit, quaedam vero patitur.' In so\nfar as it is influenced by inadequate ideas--'eatenus patitur'--it is\npassive and in bondage, it is the sport of fortune and caprice: in so\nfar as its ideas are adequate--'eatenus agit'--it is active, it is\nitself. While we are governed by outward temptations, by the casual\npleasures, by the fortunes or the misfortunes of life, we are but\ninstruments, yielding ourselves to be acted upon as the animal is acted\non by its appetites, or the inanimate matter by the laws which bind it;\nwe are slaves--instruments, it may be, of some higher purpose in the\norder of nature, but in ourselves nothing; instruments which are\nemployed for a special work, and which are consumed in effecting it. So\nfar, on the contrary, as we know clearly what we do, as we understand\nwhat we are, and direct our conduct not by the passing emotion of the\nmoment, but by a grave, clear, and constant knowledge of what is really\ngood, so far we are said to act--we are ourselves the spring of our own\nactivity--we pursue the genuine well-being of our entire nature, and\n_that_ we can always find, and it never disappoints us when found.\n\nAll things desire life; all things seek for energy, and fuller and\nampler being. The component parts of man, his various appetites and\npassions, are seeking larger activity while pursuing each its immoderate\nindulgence; and it is the primary law of every single being that it so\nfollows what will give it increased vitality. Whatever will contribute\nto such increase is the proper good of each; and the good of man as a\nunited being is measured and determined by the effect of it upon his\ncollective powers. The appetites gather power from their several objects\nof desire; but the power of the part is the weakness of the whole; and\nman as a collective person gathers life, being, and self-mastery only\nfrom the absolute good,--the source of all real good, and truth, and\nenergy,--that is, God. The love of God is the extinction of all other\nloves and all other desires. To know God, as far as man can know him, is\npower, self-government, and peace. And this is virtue, and this is\nblessedness.\n\nThus, by a formal process of demonstration, we are brought round to the\nold conclusions of theology; and Spinoza protests that it is no new\ndoctrine which he is teaching, but that it is one which in various\ndialects has been believed from the beginning of the world. Happiness\ndepends on the consistency and coherency of character, and that\ncoherency can only be given by the knowledge of the One Being, to know\nwhom is to know all things adequately, and to love whom is to have\nconquered every other inclination. The more entirely our minds rest on\nhim--the more distinctly we regard all things in their relation to him,\nthe more we cease to be under the dominion of external things; we\nsurrender ourselves consciously to do his will, and as living men and\nnot as passive things we become the instruments of his power. When the\ntrue nature and true causes of our affections become clear to us, they\nhave no more power to influence us. The more we understand, the less can\nfeeling sway us; we know that all things are what they are, because they\nare so constituted that they could not be otherwise, and we cease to be\nangry with our brother, because he disappoints us; we shall not fret at\ncalamity, nor complain of fortune, because no such thing as fortune\nexists; and if we fail it is better than if we had succeeded, not\nperhaps for ourselves, yet for the universe. We cannot fear, when\nnothing can befall us except what God wills, and we shall not violently\nhope, when the future, whatever it be, will be the best which is\npossible. Seeing all things in their place in the everlasting order,\nPast and Future will not affect us. The temptation of present pleasure\nwill not overcome the certainty of future pain, for the pain will be as\nsure as the pleasure, and we shall see all things under a rule of\nadamant. The foolish and the ignorant are led astray by the idea of\ncontingency, and expect to escape the just issues of their actions; the\nwise man will know that each action brings with it its inevitable\nconsequences, which even God cannot change without ceasing to be\nhimself.\n\nIn such a manner, through all the conditions of life, Spinoza pursues\nthe advantages which will accrue to man from the knowledge of God, God\nand man being what his philosophy has described them. His practical\nteaching is singularly beautiful; although much of its beauty is perhaps\ndue to associations which have arisen out of Christianity, and which in\nthe system of Pantheism have no proper abiding place. Retaining, indeed,\nall that is beautiful in Christianity, he even seems to have relieved\nhimself of the more fearful features of the general creed. He\nacknowledges no hell, no devil, no positive and active agency at enmity\nwith God; but sees in all things infinite gradations of beings, all in\ntheir way obedient, and all fulfilling the part allotted to them.\nDoubtless a pleasant exchange and a grateful deliverance, if only we\ncould persuade ourselves that a hundred pages of judiciously arranged\ndemonstrations could really and indeed have worked it for us; if we\ncould indeed believe that we could have the year without its winter, day\nwithout night, sunlight without shadow. Evil is unhappily too real a\nthing to be so disposed of.\n\nBut if we cannot believe Spinoza's system taken in its entire\ncompleteness, yet we may not blind ourselves to the disinterestedness\nand calm nobility which pervades his theories of human life and\nobligation. He will not hear of a virtue which desires to be rewarded.\nVirtue is the power of God in the human soul, and that is the exhaustive\nend of all human desire. 'Beatitudo non est virtutis pretium, sed ipsa\nvirtus. Nihil aliud est quam ipsa animi acquiescentia, quae ex Dei\nintuitiva cognitione oritur.' The same spirit of generosity exhibits\nitself in all his conclusions. The ordinary objects of desire, he says,\nare of such a kind that for one man to obtain them is for another to\nlose them; and this alone would suffice to prove that they are not what\nany man should labour after. But the fulness of God suffices for us\nall; and he who possesses this good desires only to communicate it to\nevery one, and to make all mankind as happy as himself. And again:--'The\nwise man will not speak in society of his neighbour's faults, and\nsparingly of the infirmity of human nature; but he will speak largely of\nhuman virtue and human power, and of the means by which that nature can\nbest be perfected, so to lead men to put away that fear and aversion\nwith which they look on goodness, and learn with relieved hearts to love\nand desire it.' And once more:--'He who loves God will not desire that\nGod should love him in return with any partial or particular affection,\nfor that is to desire that God for his sake should change his\neverlasting nature and become lower than himself.'\n\nOne grave element, indeed, of a religious faith would seem in such a\nsystem to be necessarily wanting. Where individual action is resolved\ninto the modified activity of the Universal Being, all absorbing and all\nevolving, the individuality of the personal man is but an evanescent and\nunreal shadow. Such individuality as we now possess, whatever it be,\nmight continue to exist in a future state as really as it exists in the\npresent, and those to whom it belongs might be anxious naturally for its\npersistence. Yet it would seem that if the soul be nothing except the\nidea of a body actually existing, when that body is decomposed into its\nelements, the soul corresponding to it must accompany it into an\nanswering dissolution. And this, indeed, Spinoza in one sense actually\naffirms, when he denies to the mind any power of retaining consciousness\nof what has befallen it in life, 'nisi durante corpore.' But Spinozism\nis a philosophy full of surprises; and our calculations of what _must_\nbelong to it are perpetually baffled. The imagination, the memory, the\nsenses, whatever belongs to inadequate perception, perish necessarily\nand eternally; and the man who has been the slave of his inclinations,\nwho has no knowledge of God, and no active possession of himself, having\nin life possessed no personality, loses in death the appearance of it\nwith the dissolution of the body.\n\nNevertheless, there is in God an idea expressing the essence of the\nmind, united to the mind as the mind is united to the body, and thus\nthere is in the soul something of an everlasting nature which cannot\nutterly perish. And here Spinoza, as he often does in many of his most\nsolemn conclusions, deserts for a moment the thread of his\ndemonstrations, and appeals to the consciousness. In spite of our\nnon-recollection of what passed before our birth, in spite of all\ndifficulties from the dissolution of the body, 'Nihilominus,' he says,\n'sentimus experimurque nos aeternos esse. Nam mens non minus res illas\nsentit quas intelligendo concipit, quam quas in memoria habet. Mentis\nenim oculi quibus res videt observatque sunt ipsae demonstrationes.'\n\nThis perception, immediately revealed to the mind, falls into easy\nharmony with the rest of the system. As the mind is not a faculty, but\nan act or acts,--not a power of perception, but the perception itself,\nin its high union with the highest object (to use the metaphysical\nlanguage which Coleridge has made popular and partially intelligible),\nthe object and the subject become one. If knowledge be followed as it\nought to be followed, and all objects of knowledge be regarded in their\nrelations to the One Absolute Being, the knowledge of particular outward\nthings, of nature, or life, or history, becomes, in fact, knowledge of\nGod; and the more complete or adequate such knowledge, the more the mind\nis raised above what is perishable in the phenomena to the idea or law\nwhich lies beyond them. It learns to dwell exclusively upon the eternal,\nnot upon the temporary; and being thus occupied with the everlasting\nlaws, and its activity subsisting in its perfect union with them, it\ncontracts in itself the character of the objects which possess it. Thus\nwe are emancipated from the conditions of duration; we are liable even\nto death only _quatenus patimur_, as we are passive things and not\nactive intelligences; and the more we possess such knowledge and are\npossessed by it, the more entirely the passive is superseded by the\nactive--so that at last the human soul may 'become of such a nature that\nthe portion of it which will perish with the body in comparison with\nthat of it which shall endure, shall be insignificant and _nullius\nmomenti_.' (Eth. v. 38.)\n\nSuch are the principal features of a philosophy, the influence of which\nupon Europe, direct and indirect, it is not easy to over-estimate. The\naccount of it is far from being an account of the whole of Spinoza's\nlabours; his 'Tractatus Theologico-Politicus' was the forerunner of\nGerman historical criticism; the whole of which has been but the\napplication of principles laid down in that remarkable work. But this is\nnot a subject on which, upon the present occasion, we have cared to\nenter. We have designedly confined ourselves to the system which is most\nassociated with the name of its author. It is this which has been really\npowerful, which has stolen over the minds even of thinkers who imagine\nthemselves most opposed to it. It has appeared in the absolute Pantheism\nof Schelling and Hegel, in the Pantheistic Christianity of Herder and\nSchleiermacher. Passing into practical life it has formed the strong,\nshrewd judgment of Goethe, while again it has been able to unite with\nthe theories of the most extreme materialism.\n\nIt lies too, perhaps (and here its influence has been unmixedly good),\nat the bottom of that more reverent contemplation of nature which has\ncaused the success of our modern landscape painting, which inspired\nWordsworth's poetry, and which, if ever physical science is to become an\ninstrument of intellectual education, must first be infused into the\nlessons of nature; the sense of that 'something' interfused in the\nmaterial world--\n\n    Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,\n    And the round ocean, and the living air,\n    And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;--\n    A motion and a spirit, which impels\n    All thinking things, all objects of all thought,\n    And rolls through all things.\n\nIf we shrink from regarding the extended universe, with Spinoza, as an\nactual manifestation of Almighty God, we are unable to rest in the mere\ndenial that it is this. We go on to ask what it _is_, and we are obliged\nto conclude thus much at least of it, that every smallest being was once\na thought in his mind; and in the study of what he has made, we are\nreally and truly studying a revelation of himself.\n\nIt is not here, it is not on the physical, it is rather on the moral\nside, that the stumbling-block is lying; in that excuse for evil and for\nevil men which the necessitarian theory will furnish, disguise it in\nwhat fair-sounding words we will. So plain this is, that common-sense\npeople, and especially English people, cannot bring themselves even to\nconsider the question without impatience, and turn disdainfully and\nangrily from a theory which confuses their instincts of right and wrong.\nAlthough, however, error on this side is infinitely less mischievous\nthan on the other, no vehement error can exist in this world with\nimpunity; and it does appear that in our common view of these matters we\nhave closed our eyes to certain grave facts of experience, and have\ngiven the fatalist a vantage ground of real truth which we ought to have\nconsidered and allowed. At the risk of tediousness we shall enter\nbriefly into this unpromising ground. Life and the necessities of life\nare our best philosophers if we will only listen honestly to what they\nsay to us; and dislike the lesson as we may, it is cowardice which\nrefuses to hear it.\n\nThe popular belief is, that right and wrong lie before every man, and\nthat he is free to choose between them, and the responsibility of choice\nrests with himself. The fatalist's belief is that every man's actions\nare determined by causes external and internal over which he has no\npower, leaving no room for any moral choice whatever. The first is\ncontradicted by facts, the second by the instinct of conscience. Even\nSpinoza allows that for practical purposes we are obliged to regard the\nfuture as contingent, and ourselves as able to influence it; and it is\nincredible that both our inward convictions and our outward conduct\nshould be built together upon a falsehood. But if, as Butler says,\nwhatever be the speculative account of the matter, we are practically\nforced to regard ourselves as free, this is but half the truth, for it\nmay be equally said that practically we are forced to regard each other\nas _not_ free; and to make allowance, every moment, for influences for\nwhich we cannot hold each other personally responsible. If not,--if\nevery person of sound mind (in the common acceptation of the term) be\nequally able at all times to act right if only he _will_,--why all the\ncare which we take of children? why the pains to keep them from bad\nsociety? why do we so anxiously watch their disposition, to determine\nthe education which will best answer to it? Why in cases of guilt do we\nvary our moral censure according to the opportunities of the offender?\nWhy do we find excuses for youth, for inexperience, for violent natural\npassion, for bad education, bad example? Why, except that we feel that\nall these things do affect the culpability of the guilty person, and\nthat it is folly and inhumanity to disregard them? But what we act upon\nin private life we cannot acknowledge in our ethical theories, and\nwhile our conduct in detail is humane and just, we have been contented\nto gather our speculative philosophy out of the broad and coarse\ngeneralisations of political necessity. In the swift haste of social\nlife we must indeed treat men as we find them. We have no time to make\nallowances; and the graduation of punishment by the scale of guilt is a\nmere impossibility. A thief is a thief in the law's eye though he has\nbeen trained from his cradle in the kennels of St. Giles's; and definite\npenalties must be attached to definite acts, the conditions of political\nlife not admitting of any other method of dealing with them. But it is\nabsurd to argue from such rude necessity that each act therefore, by\nwhomsoever committed, is of specific culpability. The act is one thing,\nthe moral guilt is another. There are many cases in which, as Butler\nagain allows, if we trace a sinner's history to the bottom, the guilt\nattributable to himself appears to vanish altogether.\n\nThis is plain matter of fact, and as long as we continue to deny or\nignore it, there will be found men (not bad men, but men who love the\ntruth as much as ourselves) who will see only what we neglect, and will\ninsist upon it, and build their systems upon it.\n\nAnd again, if less obvious, yet not less real, are those natural\ntendencies which each of us brings with him into the world,--which we\ndid not make, and yet which almost as much determine what we are to be,\nas the properties of the seed determine the tree which shall grow from\nit. Men are self-willed, or violent, or obstinate, or weak, or generous,\nor affectionate; there is as large difference in their dispositions as\nin the features of their faces. Duties which are easy to one, another\nfinds difficult or impossible. It is with morals as it is with art. Two\nchildren are taught to draw; one learns with ease, the other hardly or\nnever. In vain the master will show him what to do. It seems so easy: it\nseems as if he had only to _will_, and the thing would be done; but it\nis not so. Between the desire and the execution lies the incapable organ\nwhich only wearily, and after long labour, imperfectly accomplishes what\nis required of it. And the same, _to a certain extent_, unless we will\ndeny the patent facts of experience, holds true in moral actions. No\nwonder, therefore, that evaded or thrust aside as these things are in\nthe popular beliefs, as soon as they are recognised in their full\nreality they should be mistaken for the whole truth, and the free-will\ntheory be thrown aside as a chimera.\n\nIt may be said, and it often is said, that such reasonings are merely\nsophistical--that however we entangle ourselves in logic, we are\nconscious that we are free; we know--we are as sure as we are of our\nexistence--that we have power to act this way or that way, exactly as we\nchoose. But this is less plain than it seems; and if granted, it proves\nless than it appears to prove. It may be true that we can act as we\nchoose, but can we _choose_? Is not our choice determined for us? We\ncannot determine from the fact, because we always _have chosen_ as soon\nas we act, and we cannot replace the conditions in such a way as to\ndiscover whether we could have chosen anything else. The stronger motive\nmay have determined our volition without our perceiving it; and if we\ndesire to prove our independence of motive, by showing that we _can_\nchoose something different from that which we should naturally have\nchosen, we still cannot escape from the circle, this very desire\nbecoming, as Mr. Hume observes, itself a _motive_. Again, consciousness\nof the possession of any power may easily be delusive; we can properly\njudge what our powers are only by what they have actually accomplished;\nwe know what we _have_ done, and we may infer from having done it that\nour power was equal to what it achieved. But it is easy for us to\nover-rate our strength if we try to measure our abilities in themselves.\nA man who can leap five yards may think that he can leap six; yet he may\ntry and fail. A man who can write prose may only learn that he cannot\nwrite poetry from the badness of the verses which he produces. To the\nappeal to consciousness of power there is always an answer:--that we may\nbelieve ourselves to possess it, but that experience proves that we may\nbe deceived.\n\nThere is, however, another group of feelings which cannot be set aside\nin this way, which do prove that, in some sense or other, in some degree\nor other, we are the authors of our own actions. It is one of the\nclearest of all inward phenomena, that, where two or more courses\ninvolving moral issues are before us, whether we have a consciousness of\n_power_ to choose between them or not, we have a consciousness that we\n_ought_ to choose between them; a sense of duty--[Greek: hoti dei touto\nprattein]--as Aristotle expresses it, which we cannot shake off.\nWhatever this consciousness involves (and some measure of freedom it\nmust involve or it is nonsense), the feeling exists within us, and\nrefuses to yield before all the batteries of logic. It is not that of\nthe two courses we know that one is in the long run the best, and the\nother more immediately tempting. We have a sense of obligation\nirrespective of consequence, the violation of which is followed again by\na sense of self-disapprobation, of censure, of blame. In vain will\nSpinoza tell us that such feelings, incompatible as they are with the\ntheory of powerlessness, are mistakes arising out of a false philosophy.\nThey are primary facts of sensation most vivid in minds of most vigorous\nsensibility; and although they may be extinguished by habitual\nprofligacy, or possibly, perhaps, destroyed by logic, the paralysis of\nthe conscience is no more a proof that it is not a real power of\nperceiving real things, than blindness is a proof that sight is not a\nreal power. The perceptions of worth and worthlessness are not\nconclusions of reasoning, but immediate sensations like those of seeing\nand hearing; and although, like the other senses, they may be mistaken\nsometimes in the accounts they render to us, the fact of the existence\nof such feelings at all proves that there is something which corresponds\nto them. If there be any such things as 'true ideas,' or clear, distinct\nperceptions at all, this of praise and blame is one of them, and\naccording to Spinoza's own rule we must accept what it involves. And it\ninvolves that some where or other the influence of causes ceases to\noperate, and that some degree of power there is in men of\nself-determination, by the amount of which, and not by their specific\nactions, moral merit or demerit is to be measured. Speculative\ndifficulties remain in abundance. It will be said in a case, _e.g._ of\nmoral trial, that there may have been _power_; but was there _power\nenough_ to resist the temptation? If there was, then it was resisted. If\nthere was not, there was no responsibility. We must answer again from\npractical instinct. We refuse to allow men to be considered all equally\nguilty who have committed the same faults; and we insist that their\nactions must be measured against their opportunities. But a similar\nconviction assures us that there is somewhere a point of freedom. Where\nthat point is--where other influences terminate, and responsibility\nbegins--will always be of intricate and often impossible solution. But\nif there be such a point at all, it is fatal to necessitarianism, and\nman is what he has been hitherto supposed to be--an exception in the\norder of nature, with a power not differing in degree but differing in\nkind from those of other creatures. Moral life, like all life, is a\nmystery; and as to anatomise the body will not reveal the secret of\nanimation, so with the actions of the moral man. The spiritual life,\nwhich alone gives them meaning and being, glides away before the logical\ndissecting knife, and leaves it but a corpse to work upon.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[N] _Westminster Review_, 1854.\n\n[O] Since these words were written a book has appeared in Paris by an\nable disciple of Leibnitz, which, although it does not lead us to modify\nthe opinion expressed in them, yet obliges us to give our reasons for\nspeaking as we do. M. de Careil[P] has discovered in the library at\nHanover, a MS. in the hand-writing of Leibnitz, containing a series of\nremarks on the book of a certain John Wachter. It does not appear who\nthis John Wachter was, nor by what accident he came to have so\ndistinguished a critic. If we may judge by the extracts at present\nbefore us, he seems to have been an absurd and extravagant person, who\nhad attempted to combine the theology of the Cabbala with the very\nlittle which he was able to understand of the philosophy of Spinoza;\nand, as far as he is concerned, neither his writings nor the reflections\nupon them are of interest to any human being. The extravagance of\nSpinoza's followers, however, furnished Leibnitz with an opportunity of\nnoticing the points on which he most disapproved of Spinoza himself; and\nthese few notices M. de Careil has now for the first time published as\n_The Refutation of Spinoza_, by Leibnitz. They are exceedingly brief and\nscanty; and the writer of them would assuredly have hesitated to\ndescribe an imperfect criticism by so ambitious a title. The modern\neditor, however, must be allowed the privilege of a worshipper, and we\nwill not quarrel with him for an exaggerated estimate of what his master\nhad accomplished. We are indebted to his enthusiasm for what is at least\na curious discovery, and we will not qualify the gratitude which he has\nearned by industry and good will. At the same time, the notes themselves\nconfirm the opinion which we have always entertained, that Leibnitz did\nnot understand Spinoza. Leibnitz did not understand him, and the\nfollowers of Leibnitz do not understand him now. If he were no more than\nwhat he is described in the book before us--if his metaphysics were\n'miserable,' if his philosophy was absurd, and he himself nothing more\nthan a second-rate disciple of Descartes--we can assure M. de Careil\nthat we should long ago have heard the last of him.\n\nThere must be something else, something very different from this, to\nexplain the position which he holds in Germany, or the fascination which\nhis writings exerted over such minds as those of Lessing or of Goethe;\nthe fact of so enduring an influence is more than a sufficient answer to\nmere depreciating criticism. This, however, is not a point which there\nis any use in pressing. Our present business is to justify the two\nassertions which we have made. First, that Leibnitz borrowed his _Theory\nof the Harmonie Pre-etablie_ from Spinoza, without acknowledgment; and,\nsecondly, that this theory is quite as inconsistent with religion as is\nthat of Spinoza, and only differs from it in disguising its real\ncharacter.\n\nFirst for the _Harmonie Pre-etablie_. Spinoza's _Ethics_ appeared in\n1677; and we know that they were read by Leibnitz. In 1696, Leibnitz\nannounced as a discovery of his own, a Theory of _The Communication of\nSubstances_, which he illustrates in the following manner:--\n\n'Vous ne comprenez pas, dites-vous, comment je pourrois prouver ce que\nj'ai avance touchant la communication, ou l'harmonie de deux substances\naussi differentes que l'ame et le corps? Il est vrai que je crois en\navoir trouve le moyen; et voici comment je pretends vous satisfaire.\nFigurez-vous deux horloges ou montres qui s'accordent parfaitement. Or\ncela se peut faire de trois manieres. La 1^{e} consiste dans une\ninfluence mutuelle. La 2^{e} est d'y attacher un ouvrier habile qui les\nredresse, et les mette d'accord a tous moments. La 3^{e} est de\nfabriquer ces deux pendules avec tant d'art et de justesse, qu'on se\npuisse assurer de leur accord dans la suite. Mettez maintenant l'ame et\nle corps a la place de ces deux pendules; leur accord peut arriver par\nl'une de ces trois manieres. La voye d'influence est celle de la\nphilosophie vulgaire; mais comme l'on ne sauroit concevoir des\nparticules materielles qui puissent passer d'une de ces substances dans\nl'autre, il faut abandonner ce sentiment. La voye de l'assistance\ncontinuelle du Createur est celle du systeme des causes occasionnelles;\nmais je tiens que c'est faire intervenir Deus ex machina, dans une chose\nnaturelle et ordinaire, ou selon la raison il ne doit concourir, que do\nla maniere qu'il concourt a toutes les autres choses naturelles. Ainsi\nil ne reste que mon hypothese; c'est-a-dire que la voye de l'harmonie.\nDieu a fait des le commencement chacune de ces deux substances de telle\nnature, qu'en ne suivant que ces propres loix qu'elle a recues avec son\netre, elle s'accorde pourtant avec l'autre tout comme s'il y avoit une\ninfluence mutuelle, ou comme si Dieu y mettoit toujours la main au-dela\nde son concours general. Apres cela je n'ai pas besoin de rien prouver a\nmoins qu'on ne veuille exiger que je prouve que Dieu est assez habile\npour se servir de cette artifice,' &c.--LEIBNITZ, _Opera_, p. 133.\nBerlin edition, 1840.\n\nLeibnitz, as we have said, attempts to reconcile his system with\nChristianity, and therefore, of course, this theory of the relation of\nmind and body wears a very different aspect under his treatment, from\nwhat it wears under that of Spinoza. But Spinoza and Leibnitz both agree\nin this one peculiar conception in which they differ from all other\nphilosophers before or after them--that mind and body have no direct\ncommunication with each other, and that the phenomena of them merely\ncorrespond. M. de Careil says they both borrowed it from Descartes; but\nthat is impossible. Descartes held no such opinion; it was the precise\npoint of disagreement at which Spinoza parted from him; and therefore,\nsince in point of date Spinoza had the advantage of Leibnitz, and we\nknow that Leibnitz was acquainted with his writings, we must either\nsuppose that he was directly indebted to Spinoza for an obligation which\nhe ought to have acknowledged, or else, which is extremely improbable,\nthat having read Spinoza and forgotten him, he afterwards re-originated\nfor himself one of the most singular and peculiar notions which was ever\noffered to the belief of mankind.\n\nSo much for the first point, which, after all, is but of little moment.\nIt is more important to ascertain whether, in the hands of Leibnitz,\nthis theory can be any better reconciled with what is commonly meant by\nreligion; whether, that is, the ideas of obedience and disobedience,\nmerit and demerit, judgment and retribution, have any proper place under\nit. Spinoza makes no pretension to anything of the kind, and openly\ndeclares that these ideas are ideas merely, and human mistakes.\nLeibnitz, in opposition to him, endeavours to re-establish them in the\nfollowing manner. He conceives that the system of the universe has been\narranged and predetermined from the moment at which it was launched into\nbeing; from the moment at which God selected it, with all its details,\nas the best which could exist; but that it is carried on by the action\nof individual creatures (monads as he calls them) which, though\nnecessarily obeying the laws of their existence, yet obey them with a\n'character of spontaneity,' which although 'automata,' are yet voluntary\nagents; and therefore, by the consent of their hearts to their actions,\nentitle themselves to moral praise or moral censure. The question is,\nwhether by the mere assertion of the co-existence of these opposite\nqualities in the monad man, he has proved that such qualities can\nco-exist. In our opinion, it is like speaking of a circular ellipse, or\nof a quadrilateral triangle. There is a plain dilemma in these matters\nfrom which no philosophy can extricate itself. If men can incur guilt,\ntheir actions might be other than they are. If they cannot act otherwise\nthan they do, they cannot incur guilt. So at least it appears to us;\nyet, in the darkness of our knowledge, we would not complain merely of a\ntheory, and if our earthly life were all in all, and the grave remained\nthe extreme horizon of our hopes and fears, the _Harmonie Pre-etablie_\nmight be tolerated as credible, and admired as ingenious and beautiful.\nIt is when forcibly attached to a creed of the future, with which it has\nno natural connection, that it assumes its repulsive features. The world\nmay be in the main good; while the good, from the unknown condition of\nits existence, may be impossible without some intermixture of evil; and\nalthough Leibnitz was at times staggered even himself by the misery and\nwickedness which he witnessed, and was driven to comfort himself with\nthe reflection that this earth might be but one world in the midst of\nthe universe, and perhaps the single chequered exception in an infinity\nof stainless globes, yet we would not quarrel with a hypothesis because\nit was imperfect; it might pass as a possible conjecture on a dark\nsubject, when nothing better than conjecture was attainable.\n\nBut as soon as we are told that the evil in these human 'automata' being\na necessary condition of this world which God has called into being, is\nyet infinitely detestable to God; that the creatures who suffer under\nthe accursed necessity of committing sin are infinitely guilty in God's\neyes, for doing what they have no power to avoid, and may therefore be\njustly punished in everlasting fire; we recoil against the paradox.\n\nNo disciple of Leibnitz will maintain, that unless he had found this\nbelief in an eternity of penal retribution an article of the popular\ncreed, such a doctrine would have formed a natural appendage of his\nsystem; and if M. de Careil desires to know why the influence of\nSpinoza, whose genius he considers so insignificant, has been so deep\nand so enduring, while Leibnitz has only secured for himself a mere\nadmiration of his talents, it is because Spinoza was not afraid to be\nconsistent, even at the price of the world's reprobation, and refused to\npurchase the applause of his own age at the sacrifice of sincerity.\n\n[P] _Refutation Inedite de Spinoza._ Par Leibnitz. _Precedee d'une\nMemoire_, par Foucher de Careil. Paris. 1854.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DISSOLUTION OF THE MONASTERIES.[Q]\n\n\nTo be entirely just in our estimate of other ages is not difficult--it\nis impossible. Even what is passing in our presence we see but through a\nglass darkly. The mind as well as the eye adds something of its own,\nbefore an image, even of the clearest object, can be painted upon it.\n\nAnd in historical enquiries, the most instructed thinkers have but a\nlimited advantage over the most illiterate. Those who know the most,\napproach least to agreement. The most careful investigations are\ndiverging roads--the further men travel upon them, the greater the\ninterval by which they are divided. In the eyes of David Hume, the\nhistory of the Saxon Princes is 'the scuffling of kites and crows.'\nFather Newman would mortify the conceit of a degenerate England by\npointing to the sixty saints and the hundred confessors who were trained\nin her royal palaces for the Calendar of the Blessed. How vast a chasm\nyawns between these two conceptions of the same era! Through what common\nterm can the student pass from one into the other?\n\nOr, to take an instance yet more noticeable. The history of England\nscarcely interests Mr. Macaulay before the Revolution of the seventeenth\ncentury. To Lord John Russell, the Reformation was the first outcome\nfrom centuries of folly and ferocity; and Mr. Hallam's more temperate\nlanguage softens, without concealing, a similar conclusion. These\nwriters have all studied what they describe. Mr. Carlyle has studied the\nsame subject with power at least equal to theirs, and to him the\ngreatness of English character was waning with the dawn of English\nliterature; the race of heroes was already failing. The era of action\nwas yielding before the era of speech.\n\nAll these views may seem to ourselves exaggerated; we may have settled\ninto some moderate _via media_, or have carved out our own ground on an\noriginal pattern; but if we are wise, the differences in other men's\njudgments will teach us to be diffident. The more distinctly we have\nmade history bear witness in favour of our particular opinions, the more\nwe have multiplied the chances against the truth of our own theory.\n\nAgain, supposing that we have made a truce with 'opinions,' properly so\ncalled; supposing we have satisfied ourselves that it is idle to quarrel\nupon points on which good men differ, and that it is better to attend\nrather to what we certainly know; supposing that, either from superior\nwisdom, or from the conceit of superior wisdom, we have resolved that we\nwill look for human perfection neither exclusively in the Old World nor\nexclusively in the New--neither among Catholics nor Protestants, among\nWhigs or Tories, heathens or Christians--that we have laid aside\naccidental differences, and determined to recognise only moral\ndistinctions, to love moral worth, and to hate moral evil, wherever we\nfind them;--even supposing all this, we have not much improved our\nposition--we cannot leap from our shadow.\n\nEras, like individuals, differ from one another in the species of virtue\nwhich they encourage. In one age, we find the virtues of the warrior; in\nthe next, of the saint. The ascetic and the soldier in their turn\ndisappear; an industrial era succeeds, bringing with it the virtues of\ncommon sense, of grace, and refinement. There is the virtue of energy\nand command, there is the virtue of humility and patient suffering. All\nthese are different, and all are, or may be, of equal moral value; yet,\nfrom the constitution of our minds, we are so framed that we cannot\nequally appreciate all; we sympathise instinctively with the person who\nmost represents our own ideal--with the period when the graces which\nmost harmonise with our own tempers have been especially cultivated.\nFurther, if we leave out of sight these refinements, and content\nourselves with the most popular conceptions of morality, there is this\nimmeasurable difficulty--so great, yet so little considered,--that\ngoodness is positive as well as negative, and consists in the active\naccomplishment of certain things which we are bound to do, as well as in\nthe abstaining from things which we are bound not to do. And here the\nwarp and woof vary in shade and pattern. Many a man, with the help of\ncircumstances, may pick his way clear through life, never having\nviolated one prohibitive commandment, and yet at last be fit only for\nthe place of the unprofitable servant--he may not have committed either\nsin or crime, yet never have felt the pulsation of a single unselfish\nemotion. Another, meanwhile, shall have been hurried by an impulsive\nnature into fault after fault--shall have been reckless, improvident,\nperhaps profligate, yet be fitter after all for the kingdom of heaven\nthan the Pharisee--fitter, because against the catalogue of faults there\ncould perhaps be set a fairer list of acts of comparative generosity and\nself-forgetfulness--fitter, because to those who love much, much is\nforgiven. Fielding had no occasion to make Blifil, behind his decent\ncoat, a traitor and a hypocrite. It would have been enough to have\ncoloured him in and out alike in the steady hues of selfishness, afraid\nof offending the upper powers as he was afraid of offending\nAllworthy--not from any love for what was good, but solely because it\nwould be imprudent--because the pleasure to be gained was not worth the\nrisk of consequences. Such a Blifil would have answered the novelist's\npurpose--for he would have remained a worse man in the estimation of\nsome of us than Tom Jones.\n\nSo the truth is; but unfortunately it is only where accurate knowledge\nis stimulated by affection, that we are able to feel it. Persons who\nlive beyond our own circle, and, still more, persons who have lived in\nanother age, receive what is called justice, not charity; and justice is\nsupposed to consist in due allotments of censure for each special act of\nmisconduct, leaving merit unrecognised. There are many reasons for this\nharsh method of judging. We must decide of men by what we know, and it\nis easier to know faults than to know virtues. Faults are specific,\neasily described, easily appreciated, easily remembered. And again,\nthere is, or may be, hypocrisy in virtue; but no one pretends to vice\nwho is not vicious. The bad things which can be proved of a man we know\nto be genuine. He was a spendthrift, he was an adulterer, he gambled, he\nequivocated. These are blots positive, unless untrue, and when they\nstand alone, tinge the whole character.\n\nThis also is to be observed in historical criticism. All men feel a\nnecessity of being on some terms with their conscience, at their own\nexpense or at another's. If they cannot part with their faults, they\nwill at least call them by their right name when they meet with such\nfaults elsewhere; and thus, when they find accounts of deeds of violence\nor sensuality, of tyranny, of injustice of man to man, of great and\nextensive suffering, or any of those other misfortunes which the\nselfishness of men has at various times occasioned, they will vituperate\nthe doers of such things, and the age which has permitted them to be\ndone, with the full emphasis of virtuous indignation, while all the time\nthey are themselves doing things which will be described, with no less\njustice, in the same colour, by an equally virtuous posterity.\n\nHistorians are fond of recording the supposed sufferings of the poor in\nthe days of serfdom and villanage; yet the records of the strikes of the\nlast ten years, when told by the sufferers, contain pictures no less\nfertile in tragedy. We speak of famines and plagues under the Tudors and\nStuarts; but the Irish famine, and the Irish plague of 1847, the last\npage of such horrors which has yet been turned over, is the most\nhorrible of all. We can conceive a description of England during the\nyear which has just closed over us (1856), true in all its details,\ncontaining no one statement which can be challenged, no single\nexaggeration which can be proved; and this description, if given without\nthe correcting traits, shall make ages to come marvel why the Cities of\nthe Plain were destroyed, and England was allowed to survive. The frauds\nof trusted men, high in power and high in supposed religion; the\nwholesale poisonings; the robberies; the adulteration of food--nay, of\nalmost everything exposed for sale--the cruel usage of women--children\nmurdered for the burial fees--life and property insecure in open day in\nthe open streets--splendour such as the world never saw before upon\nearth, with vice and squalor crouching under its walls--let all this be\nwritten down by an enemy, or let it be ascertained hereafter by the\ninvestigation of a posterity which desires to judge us as we generally\nhave judged our forefathers, and few years will show darker in the\nEnglish annals than the year which we have just left behind us. Yet we\nknow, in the honesty of our hearts, how unjust such a picture would be.\nOur future advocate, if we are so happy as to find one, may not be able\nto disprove a single article in the indictment; and yet we know that, as\nthe world goes, he will be right if he marks the year with a white\nstroke--as one in which, on the whole, the moral harvest was better than\nan average.\n\nOnce more: our knowledge of any man is always inadequate--even of the\nunit which each of us calls himself; and the first condition under which\nwe can know a man at all is, that he be in essentials something like\nourselves; that our own experience be an interpreter which shall open\nthe secrets of his experience; and it often happens, even among our\ncontemporaries, that we are altogether baffled. The Englishman and the\nItalian may understand each other's speech, but the language of each\nother's ideas has still to be learnt. Our long failures in Ireland have\nrisen from a radical incongruity of character which has divided the Celt\nfrom the Saxon. And again, in the same country, the Catholic will be a\nmystery to the Protestant, and the Protestant to the Catholic. Their\nintellects have been shaped in opposite moulds; they are like\ninstruments which cannot be played in concert. In the same way, but in a\nfar higher degree, we are divided from the generations which have\npreceded us in this planet--we try to comprehend a Pericles or a\nCaesar--an image rises before us which we seem to recognise as belonging\nto our common humanity. There is this feature which is familiar to\nus--and this--and this. We are full of hope; the lineaments, one by one,\npass into clearness; when suddenly the figure becomes enveloped in a\ncloud--some perplexity crosses our analysis, baffling it utterly, the\nphantom which we have evoked dies away before our eyes, scornfully\nmocking our incapacity to master it.\n\nThe English antecedent to the Reformation are nearer to us than Greeks\nor Romans; and yet there is a large interval between the baron who\nfought at Barnet field, and his polished descendant in a modern\ndrawing-room. The scale of appreciation and the rule of judgment--the\nhabits, the hopes, the fears, the emotions--have utterly changed.\n\nIn perusing modern histories, the present writer has been struck dumb\nwith wonder at the facility with which men will fill in chasms in their\ninformation with conjecture; will guess at the motives which have\nprompted actions; will pass their censures, as if all secrets of the\npast lay out on an open scroll before them. He is obliged to say for\nhimself that, wherever he has been fortunate enough to discover\nauthentic explanations of English historical difficulties, it is rare\nindeed that he has found any conjecture, either of his own or of any\nother modern writer, confirmed. The true motive has almost invariably\nbeen of a kind which no modern experience could have suggested.\n\nThoughts such as these form a hesitating prelude to an expression of\nopinion on a controverted question. They will serve, however, to\nindicate the limits within which the said opinion is supposed to be\nhazarded. And in fact, neither in this nor in any historical subject is\nthe conclusion so clear that it can be enunciated in a definite form.\nThe utmost which can be safely hazarded with history is to relate\nhonestly ascertained facts, with only such indications of a judicial\nsentence upon them as may be suggested in the form in which the story is\narranged.\n\nWhether the monastic bodies of England, at the time of their\ndissolution, were really in that condition of moral corruption which is\nlaid to their charge in the Act of Parliament by which they were\ndissolved, is a point which it seems hopeless to argue. Roman Catholic,\nand indeed almost all English, writers who are not committed to an\nunfavourable opinion by the ultra-Protestantism of their doctrines, seem\nto have agreed of late years that the accusations, if not false, were\nenormously exaggerated. The dissolution, we are told, was a\npredetermined act of violence and rapacity; and when the reports and the\nletters of the visitors are quoted in justification of the Government,\nthe discussion is closed with the dismissal of every unfavourable\nwitness from the court, as venal, corrupt, calumnious--in fact, as a\nsuborned liar. Upon these terms the argument is easily disposed of; and\nif it were not that truth is in all matters better than falsehood, it\nwould be idle to reopen a question which cannot be justly dealt with. No\nevidence can affect convictions which have been arrived at without\nevidence--and why should we attempt a task which it is hopeless to\naccomplish? It seems necessary, however, to reassert the actual state of\nthe surviving testimony from time to time, if it be only to sustain the\nlinks of the old traditions; and the present paper will contain one or\ntwo pictures of a peculiar kind, exhibiting the life and habits of those\ninstitutions, which have been lately met with chiefly among the\nunprinted Records. In anticipation of any possible charge of unfairness\nin judging from isolated instances, we disclaim simply all desire to\njudge--all wish to do anything beyond relating certain ascertained\nstories. Let it remain, to those who are perverse enough to insist upon\nit, an open question whether the monasteries were more corrupt under\nHenry the Eighth than they had been four hundred years earlier. The\ndissolution would have been equally a necessity; for no reasonable\nperson would desire that bodies of men should have been maintained for\nthe only business of singing masses, when the efficacy of masses was no\nlonger believed. Our present desire is merely this--to satisfy ourselves\nwhether the Government, in discharging a duty which could not be\ndispensed with, condescended to falsehood in seeking a vindication for\nthemselves which they did not require; or whether they had cause really\nto believe the majority of the monastic bodies to be as they\naffirmed--whether, that is to say, there really were such cases either\nof flagrant immorality, neglect of discipline, or careless waste and\nprodigality, as to justify the general censure which was pronounced\nagainst the system by the Parliament and the Privy Council.\n\nSecure in the supposed completeness with which Queen Mary's agents\ndestroyed the Records of the visitation under her father, Roman Catholic\nwriters have taken refuge in a disdainful denial; and the Anglicans, who\nfor the most part, while contented to enjoy the fruits of the\nReformation, detest the means by which it was brought about, have taken\nthe same view. Bishop Latimer tells us that, when the Report of the\nvisitors of the abbeys was read in the Commons House, there rose from\nall sides one long cry of 'Down with them.' But Bishop Latimer, in the\nopinion of High Churchmen, is not to be believed. Do we produce letters\nof the visitors themselves, we are told that they are the slanders\nprepared to justify a preconceived purpose of spoliation. No witness, it\nseems, will be admitted unless it be the witness of a friend. Unless\nsome enemy of the Reformation can be found to confess the crimes which\nmade the Reformation necessary, the crimes themselves are to be regarded\nas unproved. This is a hard condition. We appeal to Wolsey. Wolsey\ncommenced the suppression. Wolsey first made public the infamies which\ndisgraced the Church; while, notwithstanding, he died the devoted\nservant of the Church. This evidence is surely admissible? But no:\nWolsey, too, must be put out of court. Wolsey was a courtier and a\ntime-server. Wolsey was a tyrant's minion. Wolsey was--in short, we know\nnot what Wolsey was, or what he was not. Who can put confidence in a\ncharlatan? Behind the bulwarks of such objections, the champion of the\nabbeys may well believe himself secure.\n\nAnd yet, unreasonable though these demands may be, it happens, after\nall, that we are able partially to gratify them. It is strange that, of\nall extant accusations against any one of the abbeys, the heaviest is\nfrom a quarter which even Lingard himself would scarcely call\nsuspicious. No picture left us by Henry's visitors surpasses, even if it\nequals, a description of the condition of the Abbey of St. Albans, in\nthe last quarter of the fifteenth century, drawn by Morton, Henry the\nSeventh's minister, Cardinal Archbishop, Legate of the Apostolic See, in\na letter addressed by him to the Abbot of St. Albans himself. We must\nrequest our reader's special attention for the next two pages.\n\nIn the year 1489, Pope Innocent the Eighth--moved with the enormous\nstories which reached his ear of the corruption of the houses of\nreligion in England--granted a commission to the Archbishop of\nCanterbury to make enquiries whether these stories were true, and to\nproceed to correct and reform as might seem good to him. The regular\nclergy were exempt from episcopal visitation, except under especial\ndirections from Rome. The occasion had appeared so serious as to make\nextraordinary interference necessary.\n\nOn the receipt of the Papal commission, Cardinal Morton, among other\nletters, wrote the following letter:--\n\n    John, by Divine permission, Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate of all\n    England, Legate of the Apostolic See, to William, Abbot of the\n    Monastery of St. Albans, greeting.\n\n    We have received certain letters under lead, the copies whereof we\n    herewith send you, from our most holy Lord and Father in Christ,\n    Innocent, by Divine Providence Pope, the eighth of that name. We\n    therefore, John, the Archbishop, the visitor, reformer, inquisitor,\n    and judge therein mentioned, in reverence for the Apostolic See,\n    have taken upon ourselves the burden of enforcing the said\n    commission; and have determined that we will proceed by, and\n    according to, the full force, tenor, and effect of the same.\n\n    And it has come to our ears, being at once publicly notorious and\n    brought before us upon the testimony of many witnesses worthy of\n    credit, that you, the abbot afore-mentioned, have been of long time\n    noted and diffamed, and do yet continue so noted, of simony, of\n    usury, of dilapidation and waste of the goods, revenues, and\n    possessions of the said monastery, and of certain other enormous\n    crimes and excesses hereafter written. In the rule, custody, and\n    administration of the goods, spiritual and temporal, of the said\n    monastery, you are so remiss, so negligent, so prodigal, that\n    whereas the said monastery was of old times founded and endowed by\n    the pious devotion of illustrious princes, of famous memory,\n    heretofore kings of this land, the most noble progenitors of our\n    most serene Lord and King that now is, in order that true religion\n    might flourish there, that the name of the Most High, in whose\n    honour and glory it was instituted, might be duly celebrated there;\n\n    And whereas, in days heretofore, the regular observance of the said\n    rule was greatly regarded, and hospitality was diligently kept;\n\n    Nevertheless, for no little time, during which you have presided in\n    the same monastery, you and certain of your fellow-monks and\n    brethren (whose blood, it is feared, through your neglect, a severe\n    Judge will require at your hand) have relaxed the measure and form\n    of religious life; you have laid aside the pleasant yoke of\n    contemplation, and all regular observances--hospitality, alms, and\n    those other offices of piety which of old time were exercised and\n    ministered therein have decreased, and by your faults, your\n    carelessness, your neglect and deed, do daily decrease more and\n    more, and cease to be regarded--the pious vows of the founders are\n    defrauded of their just intent--the ancient rule of your order is\n    deserted; and not a few of your fellow-monks and brethren, as we\n    most deeply grieve to learn, giving themselves over to a reprobate\n    mind, laying aside the fear of God, do lead only a life of\n    lasciviousness--nay, as is horrible to relate, be not afraid to\n    defile the holy places, even the very churches of God, by infamous\n    intercourse with nuns, &c. &c.\n\n    You yourself, moreover, among other grave enormities and abominable\n    crimes whereof you are guilty, and for which you are noted and\n    diffamed, have, in the first place, admitted a certain married\n    woman, named Elena Germyn, who has separated herself without just\n    cause from her husband, and for some time past has lived in adultery\n    with another man, to be a nun or sister in the house or Priory of\n    Bray, lying, as you pretend, within your jurisdiction. You have next\n    appointed the same woman to be prioress of the said house,\n    notwithstanding that her said husband was living at the time, and is\n    still alive. And finally, Father Thomas Sudbury, one of your brother\n    monks, publicly, notoriously, and without interference or punishment\n    from you, has associated, and still associates, with this woman as\n    an adulterer with his harlot.\n\n    Moreover, divers other of your brethren and fellow-monks have\n    resorted, and do resort, continually to her and other women at the\n    same place, as to a public brothel or receiving house, and have\n    received no correction therefor.\n\n    Nor is Bray the only house into which you have introduced disorder.\n    At the nunnery of Sapwell, which you also contend to be under your\n    jurisdiction, you change the prioresses and superiors again and\n    again at your own will and caprice. Here, as well as at Bray, you\n    depose those who are good and religious; you promote to the highest\n    dignities the worthless and the vicious. The duties of the order are\n    cast aside; virtue is neglected; and by these means so much cost and\n    extravagance has been caused, that to provide means for your\n    indulgence you have introduced certain of your brethren to preside\n    in their houses under the name of guardians, when in fact they are\n    no guardians, but thieves and notorious villains; and with their\n    help you have caused and permitted the goods of the same priories to\n    be dispensed, or to speak more truly to be dissipated, in the\n    above-described corruptions and other enormous and accursed\n    offences. Those places once religious are rendered and reputed as it\n    were profane and impious; and by your own and your creatures'\n    conduct, are so impoverished as to be reduced to the verge of ruin.\n\n    In like manner, also, you have dealt with certain other cells of\n    monks, which you say are subject to you, even within the monastery\n    of the glorious proto-martyr Alban himself. You have dilapidated the\n    common property; you have made away with the jewels; the copses, the\n    woods, the underwood, almost all the oaks, and other forest trees,\n    to the value of eight thousand marks and more, you have made to be\n    cut down without distinction, and they have by you been sold and\n    alienated. The brethren of the abbey, some of whom, as is reported,\n    are given over to all the evil things of the world, neglect the\n    service of God altogether. They live with harlots and mistresses\n    publicly and continuously, within the precincts of the monastery and\n    without. Some of them, who are covetous of honour and promotion, and\n    desirous therefore of pleasing your cupidity, have stolen and made\n    away with the chalices and other jewels of the church. They have\n    even sacrilegiously extracted the precious stones from the very\n    shrine of St. Alban; and you have not punished these men, but have\n    rather knowingly supported and maintained them. If any of your\n    brethren be living justly and religiously, if any be wise and\n    virtuous, these you straightway depress and hold in hatred.... You\n    ...\n\nBut we need not transcribe further this overwhelming document. It\npursues its way through mire and filth to its most lame and impotent\nconclusion. After all this, the abbot was not deposed; he was invited\nmerely to reconsider his doings, and, if possible, amend them. Such was\nChurch discipline, even under an extraordinary commission from Rome.\nBut the most incorrigible Anglican will scarcely question the truth of a\npicture drawn by such a hand; and it must be added that this one\nunexceptionable indictment lends at once assured credibility to the\nreports which were presented fifty years later, on the general\nvisitation. There is no longer room for the presumptive objection that\ncharges so revolting could not be true. We see that in their worst form\nthey could be true, and the evidence of Legh and Leghton, of Rice and\nBedyll, as it remains in their letters to Cromwell, must be shaken in\ndetail, or else it must be accepted as correct. We cannot dream that\nArchbishop Morton was mistaken, or was misled by false information. St.\nAlbans was no obscure priory in a remote and thinly-peopled county. The\nAbbot of St. Albans was a peer of the realm, taking precedence of\nbishops, living in the full glare of notoriety, within a few miles of\nLondon. The archbishop had ample means of ascertaining the truth; and,\nwe may be sure, had taken care to examine his ground before he left on\nrecord so tremendous an accusation. This story is true--as true as it is\npiteous. We will pause a moment over it before we pass from this, once\nmore to ask our passionate Church friends whether still they will\npersist that the abbeys were no worse under the Tudors than they had\nbeen in their origin, under the Saxons, or under the first Norman and\nPlantagenet kings. We refuse to believe it. The abbeys which towered in\nthe midst of the English towns, the houses clustered at their feet like\nsubjects round some majestic queen, were images indeed of the civil\nsupremacy which the Church of the Middle Ages had asserted for itself;\nbut they were images also of an inner spiritual sublimity, which had won\nthe homage of grateful and admiring nations. The heavenly graces had\nonce descended upon the monastic orders, making them ministers of mercy,\npatterns of celestial life, breathing witnesses of the power of the\nSpirit in renewing and sanctifying the heart. And then it was that art\nand wealth and genius poured out their treasures to raise fitting\ntabernacles for the dwelling of so divine a soul. Alike in the village\nand the city, amongst the unadorned walls and lowly roofs which closed\nin the humble dwellings of the laity, the majestic houses of the Father\nof mankind and of his especial servants rose up in sovereign beauty.\nAnd ever at the sacred gates sat Mercy, pouring out relief from a\nnever-failing store to the poor and the suffering; ever within the\nsacred aisles the voices of holy men were pealing heavenwards in\nintercession for the sins of mankind; and such blessed influences were\nthought to exhale around those mysterious precincts, that even the poor\noutcasts of society--the debtor, the felon, and the outlaw--gathered\nround the walls as the sick men sought the shadow of the apostle, and\nlay there sheltered from the avenging hand, till their sins were washed\nfrom off their souls. The abbeys of the middle ages floated through the\nstorms of war and conquest, like the ark upon the waves of the flood, in\nthe midst of violence remaining inviolate, through the awful reverence\nwhich surrounded them. The abbeys, as Henry's visitors found them, were\nas little like what they once had been, as the living man in the pride\nof his growth is like the corpse which the earth makes haste to hide for\never.\n\nThe official letters which reveal the condition into which the monastic\nestablishments had degenerated, are chiefly in the Cotton Library, and a\nlarge number of them have been published by the Camden Society. Besides\nthese, however, there are in the Rolls House many other documents which\nconfirm and complete the statements of the writers of those letters.\nThere is a part of what seems to have been a digest of the 'Black\nBook'--an epitome of iniquities, under the title of the 'Compendium\nCompertorum.' There are also reports from private persons, private\nentreaties for enquiry, depositions of monks in official examinations,\nand other similar papers, which, in many instances, are too offensive to\nbe produced, and may rest in obscurity, unless contentious persons\ncompel us to bring them forward. Some of these, however, throw curious\nlight on the habits of the time, and on the collateral disorders which\naccompanied the more gross enormities. They show us, too, that although\nthe dark tints predominate, the picture was not wholly black; that as\njust Lot was in the midst of Sodom, yet was unable by his single\npresence to save the guilty city from destruction, so in the latest era\nof monasticism there were types yet lingering of an older and fairer\nage, who, nevertheless, were not delivered, like the patriarch, but\nperished most of them with the institution to which they belonged. The\nhideous exposure is not untinted with fairer lines; and we see traits\nhere and there of true devotion, mistaken but heroic.\n\nOf these documents two specimens shall be given in this place, one of\neither kind; and both, so far as we know, new to modern history. The\nfirst is so singular, that we print it as it is found--a genuine\nantique, fished up, in perfect preservation, out of the wreck of the old\nworld.\n\nAbout eight miles from Ludlow, in the county of Herefordshire, once\nstood the abbey of Wigmore. There was Wigmore Castle, a stronghold of\nthe Welsh Marches, now, we believe, a modern, well-conditioned mansion;\nand Wigmore Abbey, of which we do not hear that there are any remaining\ntraces. Though now vanished, however, like so many of its kind, the\nhouse was three hundred years ago in vigorous existence; and when the\nstir commenced for an enquiry, the proceedings of the abbot of this\nplace gave occasion to a memorial which stands in the Rolls collection\nas follows:--[R]\n\n    Articles to be objected against John Smart, Abbot of the Monastery\n    of Wigmore, in the county of Hereford, to be exhibited to the Right\n    Honourable Lord Thomas Cromwell, the Lord Privy Seal and Vice-gerent\n    to the King's Majesty.\n\n    1. The said abbot is to be accused of simony, as well for taking\n    money for advocation and putations of benefices, as for giving of\n    orders, or more truly, selling them, and that to such persons which\n    have been rejected elsewhere, and of little learning and light\n    consideration.\n\n    2. The said abbot hath promoted to orders many scholars when all\n    other bishops did refrain to give such orders on account of certain\n    ordinances devised by the King's Majesty and his Council for the\n    common weal of this realm. Then resorted to the said abbot scholars\n    out of all parts, whom he would promote to orders by sixty at a\n    time, and sometimes more, and otherwhiles less. And sometimes the\n    said abbot would give orders by night within his chamber, and\n    otherwise in the church early in the morning, and now and then at a\n    chapel out of the abbey. So that there be many unlearned and light\n    priests made by the said abbot, and in the diocese of Llandaff, and\n    in the places afore named--a thousand, as it is esteemed, by the\n    space of this seven years he hath made priests, and received not so\n    little money of them as a thousand pounds for their orders.\n\n    3. Item, that the said abbot now of late, when he could not be\n    suffered to give general orders, for the most part doth give orders\n    by pretence of dispensation; and by that colour he promoteth them to\n    orders by two and three, and takes much money of them, both for\n    their orders and for to purchase their dispensations after the time\n    he hath promoted them to their orders.\n\n    4. Item, the said abbot hath hurt and dismayed his tenants by\n    putting them from their leases, and by enclosing their commons from\n    them, and selling and utter wasting of the woods that were wont to\n    relieve and succour them.\n\n    5. Item, the said abbot hath sold corradyes, to the damage of the\n    said monastery.\n\n    6. Item, the said abbot hath alienate and sold the jewels and plate\n    of the monastery, to the value of five hundred marks, _to purchase\n    of the Bishop of Rome his bulls to be a bishop, and to annex the\n    said abbey to his bishopric, to that intent that he should not for\n    his misdeeds be punished, or deprived from his said abbey_.\n\n    7. Item, that the said abbot, long after that other bishops had\n    renounced the Bishop of Rome, and professed them to the King's\n    Majesty, did use, but more verily usurped, the office of a bishop by\n    virtue of his first bulls purchased from Rome, till now of late, as\n    it will appear by the date of his confirmation, if he have any.\n\n    8. Item, that he the said abbot hath lived viciously, and kept to\n    concubines divers and many women that is openly known.\n\n    9. Item, that the said abbot doth yet continue his vicious living,\n    as it is known, openly.\n\n    10. Item, that the said abbot hath spent and wasted much of the\n    goods of the said monastery upon the foresaid women.\n\n    11. Item, that the said abbot is malicious and very wrathful, not\n    regarding what he saith or doeth in his fury or anger.\n\n    12. Item, that one Richard Gyles bought of the abbot and convent of\n    Wigmore a corradye, and a chamber for him and his wife for term of\n    their lives; and when the said Richard Gyles was aged and was very\n    weak, he disposed his goods, and made executors to execute his will.\n    And when the said abbot now being ---- perceived that the said\n    Richard Gyles was rich, and had not bequested so much of his goods\n    to him as he would have had, the said abbot then came to the chamber\n    of the said Richard Gyles, and put out thence all his friends and\n    kinsfolk that kept him in his sickness; and then the said abbot set\n    his brother and other of his servants to keep the sick man; and the\n    night next coming after the said Richard Gyles's coffer was broken,\n    and thence taken all that was in the same, to the value of forty\n    marks; and long after the said abbot confessed, before the executors\n    of the said Richard Gyles, that it was his deed.\n\n    13. Item, that the said abbot, after he had taken away the goods of\n    the said Richard Gyles, used daily to reprove and check the said\n    Richard Gyles, and inquire of him where was more of his coin and\n    money; and at the last the said abbot thought he lived too long, and\n    made the sick man, after much sorry keeping, to be taken from his\n    feather-bed, and laid upon a cold mattress, and kept his friends\n    from him to his death.\n\n    15. Item, that the said abbot consented to the death and murdering\n    of one John Tichkill, that was slain at his procuring, at the said\n    monastery, by Sir Richard Cubley, canon and chaplain to the said\n    abbot; which canon is and ever hath been since that time chief of\n    the said abbot's council; and is supported to carry crossbowes, and\n    to go whither he lusteth at any time, to fishing and hunting in the\n    king's forests, parks, and chases; but little or nothing serving the\n    quire, as other brethren do, neither corrected of the abbot for any\n    trespass he doth commit.\n\n    16. Item, that the said abbot hath been perjured oft, as is to be\n    proved and is proved; and as it is supposed, did not make a true\n    inventory of the goods, chattels, and jewels of his monastery to the\n    King's Majesty and his Council.\n\n    17. Item, that the said abbot hath infringed all the king's\n    injunctions which were given him by Doctor Cave to observe and keep;\n    and when he was denounced _in pleno capitulo_ to have broken the\n    same, he would have put in prison the brother as did denounce him to\n    have broken the same injunctions, save that he was let by the\n    convent there.\n\n    18. Item, that the said abbot hath openly preached against the\n    doctrine of Christ, saying he ought not to love his enemy, but as he\n    loves the devil; and that he should love his enemy's soul, but not\n    his body.\n\n    19. Item, that the said abbot hath taken but small regard to the\n    good-living of his household.\n\n    20. Item, that the said abbot hath had and hath yet a special favour\n    to misdoers and manquellers, thieves, deceivers of their neighbours,\n    and by them [is] most ruled and counselled.\n\n    21. Item, that the said abbot hath granted leases of farms and\n    advocations first to one man, and took his fine, and also hath\n    granted the same lease to another man for more money; and then would\n    make to the last taker a lease or writing, with an antedate of the\n    first lease, which hath bred great dissension among gentlemen--as\n    Master Blunt and Master Moysey, and other takers of such leases--and\n    that often.\n\n    22. Item, the said abbot having the contrepaynes of leases in his\n    keeping, hath, for money, rased out the number of years mentioned in\n    the said leases, and writ a fresh number in the former taker's\n    lease, and in the contrepayne thereof, to the intent to defraud the\n    taker or buyer of the residue of such leases, of whom he hath\n    received the money.\n\n    23. Item, the said abbot hath not, according to the foundation of\n    his monastery, admitted freely tenants into certain alms-houses\n    belonging to the said monastery; but of them he hath taken large\n    fines, and some of them he hath put away that would not give him\n    fines: whither poor, aged, and impotent people were wont to be\n    freely admitted, and [to] receive the founder's alms that of the old\n    customs [were] limited to the same--which alms is also diminished by\n    the said abbot.\n\n    24. Item, that the said abbot did not deliver the bulls of his\n    bishopric, that he purchased from Rome, to our sovereign lord the\n    king's council till long after the time he had delivered and\n    exhibited the bulls of his monastery to them.\n\n    25. Item, that the said abbot hath detained and yet doth detain\n    servants' wages; and often when the said servants hath asked their\n    wages, the said abbot hath put them into the stocks, and beat them.\n\n    26. Item, the said abbot, in times past, hath had a great devotion\n    to ride to Llangarvan, in Wales, upon Lammas-day, to receive pardon\n    there; and on the even he would visit one Mary Hawle, an old\n    acquaintance of his, at the Welsh Poole, and on the morrow ride to\n    the foresaid Llangarvan, to be confessed and absolved, and the same\n    night return to company with the said Mary Hawle, at the Welsh Poole\n    aforesaid, and Kateryn, the said Mary Hawle her first daughter, whom\n    the said abbot long hath kept to concubine, and had children by her,\n    that he lately married at Ludlow. And [there be] others that have\n    been taken out of his chamber and put in the stocks within the said\n    abbey, and others that have complained upon him to the king's\n    council of the Marches of Wales; and the woman that dashed out his\n    teeth, that he would have had by violence, I will not name now, nor\n    other men's wives, lest it would offend your good lordship to read\n    or hear the same.\n\n    27. Item, the said abbot doth daily embezzle, sell, and convey the\n    goods and chattels, and jewels of the said monastery, having no need\n    so to do: for it is thought that he hath a thousand marks or two\n    thousand lying by him that he hath gotten by selling of orders, and\n    the jewels and plate of the monastery and corradyes; and it is to be\n    feared that he will alienate all the rest, unless your good lordship\n    speedily make redress and provision to let the same.\n\n    28. Item, the said abbot was accustomed yearly to preach at\n    Leynt-warden on the Festival of the Nativity of the Virgin Mary,\n    where and when the people were wont to offer to an image there, and\n    to the same the said abbot in his sermons would exhort them and\n    encourage them. But now the oblations be decayed, the abbot, espying\n    the image then to have a cote of silver plate and gilt, hath taken\n    away of his own authority the said image, and the plate turned to\n    his own use; and left his preaching there, saying it is no manner of\n    profit to any man, and the plate that was about the said image was\n    named to be worth forty pounds.\n\n    29. Item, the said abbot hath ever nourished enmity and discord\n    among his brethren; and hath not encouraged them to learn the laws\n    and the mystery of Christ. But he that least knew was most cherished\n    by him; and he hath been highly displeased and [hath] disdained when\n    his brothers would say that 'it is God's precept and doctrine that\n    ye ought to prefer before your ceremonies and vain constitutions.'\n    This saying was high disobedient, and should be grievously punished;\n    when that lying, obloquy, flattery, ignorance, derision, contumely,\n    discord, great swearing, drinking, hypocrisy, fraud, superstition,\n    deceit, conspiracy to wrong their neighbour, and other of that kind,\n    was had in special favour and regard. Laud and praise be to God that\n    hath sent us the true knowledge. Honour and long prosperity to our\n    sovereign lord and his noble council, that teaches to advance the\n    same. Amen.\n\n    By John Lee, your faithful bedeman, and canon of the said monastery\n    of Wigmore.\n\n    Postscript.--My good lord, there is in the said abbey a cross of\n    fine gold and precious stones, whereof one diamond was esteemed by\n    Doctor Booth, Bishop of Hereford, worth a hundred marks. In that\n    cross is enclosed a piece of wood, named to be of the cross that\n    Christ died upon, and to the same hath been offering. And when it\n    should be brought down to the church from the treasury, it was\n    brought down with lights, and like reverence as should have been\n    done to Christ himself. I fear lest the abbot upon Sunday next, when\n    he may enter the treasury, will take away the said cross and break\n    it, or turn it to his own use, with many other precious jewels that\n    be there.\n\n    All these articles afore written be true as to the substance and\n    true meaning of them, though peradventure for haste and lack of\n    counsel, some words be set amiss or out of their place. That I will\n    be ready to prove forasmuch as lies in me, when it shall like your\n    honourable lordship to direct your commission to men (or any man)\n    that will be indifferent and not corrupt to sit upon the same, at\n    the said abbey, where the witnesses and proofs be most ready and the\n    truth is best known, or at any other place where it shall be thought\n    most convenient by your high discretion and authority.\n\nThe statutes of Provisors, commonly called Praemunire statutes, which,\nforbade all purchases of bulls from Rome under penalty of outlawry, have\nbeen usually considered in the highest degree oppressive; and more\nparticularly the public censure has fallen upon the last application of\nthose statutes, when, on Wolsey's fall, the whole body of the clergy\nwere laid under a praemunire, and only obtained pardon on payment of a\nserious fine. Let no one regret that he has learnt to be tolerant to\nRoman Catholics as the nineteenth century knows them. But it is a\nspurious charity which, to remedy a modern injustice, hastens to its\nopposite; and when philosophic historians indulge in loose invective\nagainst the statesmen of the Reformation, they show themselves unfit to\nbe trusted with the custody of our national annals. The Acts of\nParliament speak plainly of the enormous abuses which had grown up under\nthese bulls. Yet even the emphatic language of the statutes scarcely\nprepares us to find an abbot able to purchase with jewels stolen from\nhis own convent a faculty to confer holy orders, though he had never\nbeen consecrated bishop, and to make a thousand pounds by selling the\nexercise of his privileges. This is the most flagrant case which has\nfallen under the eyes of the present writer. Yet it is but a choice\nspecimen out of many. He was taught to believe, like other modern\nstudents of history, that the papal dispensations for immorality, of\nwhich we read in Fox and other Protestant writers, were calumnies, but\nhe has been forced against his will to perceive that the supposed\ncalumnies were but the plain truth; he has found among the records--for\none thing, a list of more than twenty clergy in one diocese who had\nobtained licences to keep concubines.[S] After some experience, he\nadvises all persons who are anxious to understand the English\nReformation to place implicit confidence in the Statute Book. Every\nfresh record which is brought to light is a fresh evidence in its\nfavour. In the fluctuations of the conflict there were parliaments, as\nthere were princes, of opposing sentiments; and measures were passed,\namended, repealed, or censured, as Protestants and Catholics came\nalternately into power. But whatever were the differences of opinion,\nthe facts on either side which are stated in an Act of Parliament may be\nuniformly trusted. Even in the attainders for treason and heresy we\nadmire the truthfulness of the details of the indictments, although we\ndeplore the prejudice which at times could make a crime of virtue.\n\nWe pass on to the next picture. Equal justice, or some attempt at it,\nwas promised, and we shall perhaps part from the friends of the\nmonasteries on better terms than they believe. At least, we shall add to\nour own history and to the Catholic martyrology a story of genuine\ninterest.\n\nWe have many accounts of the abbeys at the time of their actual\ndissolution. The resistance or acquiescence of superiors, the\ndismissals of the brethren, the sale of the property, the destruction of\nrelics, &c., are all described. We know how the windows were taken out,\nhow the glass appropriated, how the 'melter' accompanied the visitors to\nrun the lead upon the roofs, and the metal of the bells into portable\nforms. We see the pensioned regulars filing out reluctantly, or exulting\nin their deliverance, discharged from their vows, furnished each with\nhis 'secular apparel,' and his purse of money, to begin the world as he\nmight. These scenes have long been partially known, and they were rarely\nattended with anything remarkable. At the time of the suppression, the\ndiscipline of several years had broken down opposition, and prepared the\nway for the catastrophe. The end came at last, but as an issue which had\nbeen long foreseen.\n\nWe have sought in vain, however, for a glimpse into the interior of the\nhouses at the first intimation of what was coming--more especially when\nthe great blow was struck which severed England from obedience to Rome,\nand asserted the independence of the Anglican Church. Then, virtually,\nthe fate of the monasteries was decided. As soon as the supremacy was\nvested in the Crown, enquiry into their condition could no longer be\nescaped or delayed; and then, through the length and breadth of the\ncountry, there must have been rare dismay. The account of the London\nCarthusians is indeed known to us, because they chose to die rather than\nyield submission where their consciences forbade them; and their\nisolated heroism has served to distinguish their memories. The pope, as\nhead of the Universal Church, claimed the power of absolving subjects\nfrom their allegiance to their king. He deposed Henry. He called on\nforeign princes to enforce his sentence; and, on pain of\nexcommunication, commanded the native English to rise in rebellion. The\nking, in self-defence, was compelled to require his subjects to disclaim\nall sympathy with these pretensions, and to recognise no higher\nauthority, spiritual or secular, than himself within his own dominions.\nThe regular clergy throughout the country were on the pope's side,\nsecretly or openly. The Charterhouse monks, however, alone of all the\norder, had the courage to declare their convictions, and to suffer for\nthem. Of the rest, we only perceive that they at last submitted; and\nsince there was no uncertainty as to their real feelings, we have been\ndisposed to judge them hardly as cowards. Yet we who have never been\ntried, should perhaps be cautious in our censures. It is possible to\nhold an opinion quite honestly, and yet to hesitate about dying for it.\nWe consider ourselves, at the present day, persuaded honestly of many\nthings; yet which of them should we refuse to relinquish if the scaffold\nwere the alternative--or at least seem to relinquish, under silent\nprotest?\n\nAnd yet, in the details of the struggle at the Charterhouse, we see the\nforms of mental trial which must have repeated themselves among all\nbodies of the clergy wherever there was seriousness of conviction. If\nthe majority of the monks were vicious and sensual, there was still a\nlarge minority labouring to be true to their vows; and when one entire\nconvent was capable of sustained resistance, there must have been many\nwhere there was only just too little virtue for the emergency--where the\nconflict between interest and conscience was equally genuine, though it\nended the other way. Scenes of bitter misery there must have been--of\npassionate emotion wrestling ineffectually with the iron resolution of\nthe Government: and the faults of the Catholic party weigh so heavily\nagainst them in the course and progress of the Reformation, that we\ncannot willingly lose the few countervailing tints which soften the\ndarkness of their conditions.\n\nNevertheless, for any authentic account of the abbeys at this crisis, we\nhave hitherto been left to our imagination. A stern and busy\nadministration had little leisure to preserve records of sentimental\nstruggles which led to nothing. The Catholics did not care to keep alive\nthe recollection of a conflict in which, even though with difficulty,\nthe Church was defeated. A rare accident only could have brought down to\nus any fragment of a transaction which no one had an interest in\nremembering. That such an accident has really occurred, we may consider\nas unusually fortunate. The story in question concerns the abbey of\nWoburn, and is as follows:--\n\nAt Woburn, as in many other religious houses, there were representatives\nof both the factions which divided the country; perhaps we should say of\nthree--the sincere Catholics, the Indifferentists, and the Protestants.\nThese last, so long as Wolsey was in power, had been frightened into\nsilence, and with difficulty had been able to save themselves from\nextreme penalties. No sooner, however, had Wolsey fallen, and the\nbattle commenced with the papacy, than the tables turned, the persecuted\nbecame persecutors--or at least threw off their disguise--and were\nstrengthened with the support of the large class who cared only to keep\non the winning side. The mysteries of the faith came to be disputed at\nthe public tables; the refectories rang with polemics; the sacred\nsilence of the dormitories was broken for the first time by lawless\nspeculation. The orthodox might have appealed to the Government: heresy\nwas still forbidden by law, and, if detected, was still punished by the\nstake. But the orthodox among the regular clergy adhered to the pope as\nwell as to the faith, and abhorred the sacrilege of the Parliament as\ndeeply as the new opinions of the Reformers. Instead of calling in the\nhelp of the law, they muttered treason in secret; and the Reformers,\nconfident in the necessities of the times, sent reports to London of\ntheir arguments and conversations. The authorities in the abbey were\naccused of disaffection; and a commission of enquiry was sent down\ntowards the end of the spring of 1536, to investigate. The depositions\ntaken on this occasion are still preserved; and with the help of them,\nwe can leap over three centuries of time, and hear the last echoes of\nthe old monastic life in Woburn Abbey dying away in discord.\n\nWhere party feeling was running so high, there were, of course,\npassionate arguments. The Act of Supremacy, the spread of Protestantism,\nthe power of the Pope, the state of England--all were discussed; and the\npossibilities of the future, as each party painted it in the colours of\nhis hopes. The brethren, we find, spoke their minds in plain language,\nsometimes condescending to a joke.\n\nBrother Sherborne deposes that the sub-prior, 'on Candlemas-day last\npast (February 2, 1536), asked him whether he longed not to be at Rome\nwhere all his bulls were?' Brother Sherborne answered that 'his bulls\nhad made so many calves, that he had burned them. Whereunto the\nsub-prior said he thought there were more calves now than there were\nthen.'\n\nThen there were long and furious quarrels about 'my Lord Privy Seal'\n(Cromwell)--who was to one party, the incarnation of Satan; to the\nother, the delivering angel.\n\nNor did matters mend when from the minister they passed to the master.\n\nDan John Croxton being in 'the shaving-house' one day with certain of\nthe brethren having their tonsures looked to, and gossiping, as men do\non such occasions, one 'Friar Lawrence did say that the king was dead.'\nThen said Croxton, 'Thanks be to God, his Grace is in good health, and I\npray God so continue him;' and said further to the said Lawrence, 'I\nadvise thee to leave thy babbling.' Croxton, it seems, had been among\nthe suspected in earlier times. Lawrence said to him, 'Croxton, it\nmaketh no matter what thou sayest, for thou art one of the new world;'\nwhereupon hotter still the conversation proceeded. 'Thy babbling\ntongue,' Croxton said, 'will turn us all to displeasure at length.'\n'Then,' quoth Lawrence, 'neither thou nor yet any of us all shall do\nwell as long as we forsake our head of the Church, the Pope.' 'By the\nmass!' quoth Croxton, 'I would thy Pope Roger were in thy belly, or thou\nin his, for thou art a false perjured knave to thy prince.' Whereunto\nthe said Lawrence answered, saying, 'By the mass, thou liest! I was\nnever sworn to forsake the Pope to be our head, and never will be.'\n'Then,' quoth Croxton, 'thou shalt be sworn spite of thine heart one\nday, or I will know why nay.'\n\nThese and similar wranglings may be taken as specimens of the daily\nconversation at Woburn, and we can perceive how an abbot with the best\nintentions would have found it difficult to keep the peace. There are\ninstances of superiors in other houses throwing down their command in\nthe midst of the crisis in flat despair, protesting that their subject\nbrethren were no longer governable. Abbots who were inclined to the\nReformation could not manage the Catholics; Catholic abbots could not\nmanage the Protestants; indifferent abbots could not manage either the\none or the other. It would have been well for the Abbot of Woburn--or\nwell as far as this world is concerned--if he, like one of these, had\nacknowledged his incapacity, and had fled from his charge.\n\nHis name was Robert Hobbes. Of his age and family, history is silent. We\nknow only that he held his place when the storm rose against the pope;\nthat, like the rest of the clergy, he bent before the blast, taking the\noath to the king, and submitting to the royal supremacy, but swearing\nunder protest, as the phrase went, with the outward, and not with the\ninward man--in fact, perjuring himself. Though infirm, so far, however,\nhe was too honest to be a successful counterfeit, and from the jealous\neyes of the Neologians of the abbey he could not conceal his tendencies.\nWe have significant evidence of the _espionage_ which was established\nover all suspected quarters, in the conversations and trifling details\nof conduct on the part of the abbot, which were reported to the\nGovernment.\n\nIn the summer of 1534, orders came that the pope's name should be rased\nout wherever it was mentioned in the Mass books. A malcontent, by name\nRobert Salford, deposed that 'he was singing mass before the abbot at\nSt. Thomas's altar within the monastery, at which time he rased out with\nhis knife the said name out of the canon.' The abbot told him to 'take a\npen and strike or cross him out.' The saucy monk said those were not the\norders. They were to rase him out. 'Well, well,' the abbot said, 'it\nwill come again one day.' 'Come again, will it?' was the answer; 'if it\ndo, then we will put him in again; but I trust I shall never see that\nday.' The mild abbot could remonstrate, but could not any more command;\nand the proofs of his malignant inclinations were remembered against him\nfor the ear of Cromwell.\n\nIn the general injunctions, too, he was directed to preach against the\npope, and to expose his usurpation; but he could not bring himself to\nobey. He shrank from the pulpit; he preached but twice after the\nvisitation, and then on other subjects, while in the prayer before the\nsermon he refused, as we find, to use the prescribed form. He only said,\n'You shall pray for the spirituality, the temporality, and the souls\nthat be in the pains of purgatory; and did not name the king to be\nsupreme head of the Church in neither of the said sermons, nor speak\nagainst the pretended authority of the Bishop of Rome.'\n\nAgain, when Paul the Third, shortly after his election, proposed to call\na general council at Mantua, against which, by advice of Henry the\nEighth, the Germans protested, we have a glimpse how eagerly anxious\nEnglish eyes were watching for a turning tide. 'Hear you,' said the\nabbot one day, 'of the Pope's holiness and the congregation of bishops,\nabbots, and princes gathered to the council at Mantua? They be gathered\nfor the reformation of the universal Church; and here now we have a book\nof the excuse of the Germans, by which we may know what heretics they\nbe: for if they were Catholics and true men as they pretend to be, they\nwould never have refused to come to a general council.'\n\nSo matters went with the abbot for some months after he had sworn\nobedience to the king. Lulling his conscience with such opiates as the\ncasuists could provide for him, he watched anxiously for a change, and\nlaboured with but little reserve to hold his brethren to their old\nallegiance.\n\nIn the summer of 1535, however, a change came over the scene, very\ndifferent from the outward reaction for which he was looking, and a\nbetter mind woke in the abbot: he learnt that in swearing what he did\nnot mean with reservations and nice distinctions, he had lied to heaven\nand lied to man; that to save his miserable life he had perilled his\nsoul. When the oath of supremacy was required of the nation, Sir Thomas\nMore, Bishop Fisher, and the monks of the Charterhouse--mistaken, as we\nbelieve, in judgment, but true to their consciences, and disdaining\nevasion or subterfuge--chose, with deliberate nobleness, rather to die\nthan to perjure themselves. This is no place to enter on the great\nquestion of the justice or necessity of those executions; but the story\nof the so-called martyrdoms convulsed the Catholic world. The pope shook\nupon his throne; the shuttle of diplomatic intrigue stood still;\ndiplomatists who had lived so long in lies that the whole life of man\nseemed but a stage pageant, a thing of show and tinsel, stood aghast at\nthe revelation of English sincerity, and a shudder of great awe ran\nthrough Europe. The fury of party leaves little room for generous\nemotion, and no pity was felt for these men by the English Protestants.\nThe Protestants knew well that if these same sufferers could have had\ntheir way, they would themselves have been sacrificed by hecatombs; and\nas they had never experienced mercy, so they were in turn without mercy.\nBut to the English Catholics, who believed as Fisher believed, but who\nhad not dared to suffer as Fisher suffered, his death and the death of\nthe rest acted as a glimpse of the Judgment Day. Their safety became\ntheir shame and terror; and in the radiant example before them of true\nfaithfulness, they saw their own falsehood and their own disgrace. So it\nwas with Father Forest, who had taught his penitents in confession that\nthey might perjure themselves, and who now sought a cruel death in\nvoluntary expiation; so it was with Whiting, the Abbot of Glastonbury;\nso with others whose names should be more familiar to us than they are;\nand here in Woburn we are to see the feeble but genuine penitence of\nAbbot Hobbes. He was still unequal to immediate martyrdom, but he did\nwhat he knew might drag his death upon him if disclosed to the\nGovernment, and surrounded by spies he could have had no hope of\nconcealment.\n\n'At the time,' deposed Robert Salford, 'that the monks of the\nCharterhouse, with other traitors, did suffer death, the abbot did call\nus into the Chapter-house, and said these words:--\"Brethren, this is a\nperilous time; such a scourge was never heard since Christ's passion. Ye\nhear how good men suffer the death. Brethren, this is undoubted for our\noffences. Ye read, so long as the children of Israel kept the\ncommandments of God, so long their enemies had no power over them, but\nGod took vengeance of their enemies. But when they broke God's\ncommandments, then they were subdued by their enemies, and so be we.\nTherefore let us be sorry for our offences. Undoubted He will take\nvengeance of our enemies; I mean those heretics that causeth so many\ngood men to suffer thus. Alas, it is a piteous case that so much\nChristian blood should be shed. Therefore, good brethren, for the\nreverence of God, every one of you devoutly pray, and say this Psalm,\n'Oh God, the heathen are come into thine inheritance; thy holy temple\nhave they defiled, and made Jerusalem a heap of stones. The dead bodies\nof thy servants have they given to be meat to the fowls of the air, and\nthe flesh of thy saints unto the beasts of the field. Their blood have\nthey shed like water on every side of Jerusalem, and there was no man to\nbury them. We are become an open scorn unto our enemies, a very scorn\nand derision unto them that are round about us. Oh, remember not our old\nsins, but have mercy upon us, and that soon, for we are come to great\nmisery. Help us, oh God of our salvation, for the glory of thy name. Oh,\nbe merciful unto our sins for thy name's sake. Wherefore do the heathen\nsay, Where is now their God?' Ye shall say this Psalm,\" repeated the\nabbot, \"every Friday, after the litany, prostrate, when ye lie upon the\nhigh altar, and undoubtedly God will cease this extreme scourge.\" And\nso,' continues Salford, significantly, 'the convent did say this\naforesaid Psalm until there were certain that did murmur at the saying\nof it, and so it was left.'\n\nThe abbot, it seems, either stood alone, or found but languid support;\neven his own familiar friends whom he trusted, those with whom he had\nwalked in the house of God, had turned against him; the harsh air of the\ndawn of a new world choked him: what was there for him but to die? But\nhis conscience still haunted him: while he lived he must fight on, and\nso, if possible, find pardon for his perjury. The blows in those years\nfell upon the Church thick and fast. In February 1536, the Bill passed\nfor the dissolution of the smaller monasteries; and now we find the\nsub-prior with the whole fraternity united in hostility, and the abbot\nwithout one friend remaining.\n\n'He did again call us together,' says the next deposition, 'and\nlamentably mourning for the dissolving the said houses, he enjoined us\nto sing \"Salvator mundi, salva nos omnes,\" every day after lauds; and we\nmurmured at it, and were not content to sing it for such cause; and so\nwe did omit it divers days, for which the abbot came unto the chapter,\nand did in manner rebuke us, and said we were bound to obey his\ncommandment by our profession, and so did command us to sing it again\nwith the versicle \"Let God arise, and let his enemies be scattered. Let\nthem also that hate him flee before him.\" Also he enjoined us at every\nmass that every priest did sing, to say the collect, \"Oh God, who\ndespisest not the sighing of a contrite heart.\" And he said if we did\nthis with good and true devotion, God would so handle the matter, that\nit should be to the comfort of all England, and so show us mercy as he\nshowed unto the children of Israel. And surely, brethren, there will\ncome to us a good man that will rectify these monasteries again that be\nnow supprest, because \"God can of these stones raise up children to\nAbraham.\"'\n\n'Of the stones,' perhaps, but less easily of the stony-hearted monks,\nwho, with pitiless smiles, watched the abbot's sorrow, which should soon\nbring him to his ruin.\n\nTime passed on, and as the world grew worse, so the abbot grew more\nlonely. Desolate and unsupported, he was still unable to make up his\nmind to the course which he knew to be right; but he slowly strengthened\nhimself for the trial, and as Lent came on, the season brought with it a\nmore special call to effort; he did not fail to recognise it. The\nconduct of the fraternity sorely disturbed him. They preached against\nall which he most loved and valued, in language purposely coarse; and\nthe mild sweetness of the rebukes which he administered, showed plainly\non which side lay, in the abbey of Woburn, the larger portion of the\nspirit of Heaven. Now, when the passions of those times have died away,\nand we can look back with more indifferent eyes, how touching is the\nfollowing scene. There was one Sir William, curate of Woburn Chapel,\nwhose tongue, it seems, was rough beyond the rest. The abbot met him one\nday, and spoke to him. 'Sir William,' he said, 'I hear tell ye be a\ngreat railer. I marvel that ye rail so. I pray you teach my cure the\nScripture of God, and that may be to edification. I pray you leave such\nrailing. Ye call the pope a bear and a bandog. Either he is a good man\nor an ill. _Domino suo stat aut cadit._ The office of a bishop is\nhonourable. What edifying is this to rail? Let him alone.'\n\nBut they would not let him alone, nor would they let the abbot alone. He\ngrew 'somewhat acrased,' they said; vexed with feelings of which they\nhad no experience. He fell sick, sorrow and the Lent discipline weighing\nupon him. The brethren went to see him in his room; one Brother Dan\nWoburn came among the rest, and asked him how he did; the abbot\nanswered, 'I would that I had died with the good men that died for\nholding with the pope. My conscience, my conscience doth grudge me every\nday for it.' Life was fast losing its value for him. What was life to\nhim or any man when bought with a sin against his soul? 'If the abbot be\ndisposed to die, for that matter,' Brother Croxton observed, 'he may die\nas soon as he will.'\n\nAll Lent he fasted and prayed, and his illness grew upon him; and at\nlength in Passion week he thought all was over, and that he was going\naway. On Passion Sunday he called the brethren about him, and as they\nstood round his bed, with their cold, hard eyes, 'he exhorted them all\nto charity;' he implored them 'never to consent to go out of their\nmonastery; and if it chanced them to be put from it, they should in no\nwise forsake their habit.' After these words, 'being in a great agony,\nhe rose out of his bed, and cried out and said, \"I would to God, it\nwould please him to take me out of this wretched world; and I would I\nhad died with the good men that have suffered death heretofore, for\nthey were quickly out of their pain.\"'[T] Then, half wandering, he\nbegan to mutter to himself aloud the thoughts which had been working in\nhim in his struggles; and quoting St. Bernard's words about the pope, he\nexclaimed, 'Tu quis es primatu Abel, gubernatione Noah, auctoritate\nMoses, judicatu Samuel, potestate Petrus, unctione Christus. Aliae\necclesiae habent super se pastores. Tu pastor pastorum es.'\n\nLet it be remembered that this is no sentimental fiction begotten out of\nthe brain of some ingenious novelist, but the record of the true words\nand sufferings of a genuine child of Adam, labouring in a trial too hard\nfor him.\n\nHe prayed to die, and in good time death was to come to him; but not,\nafter all, in the sick bed, with his expiation but half completed. A\nyear before, he had thrown down the cross when it was offered him. He\nwas to take it again--the very cross which he had refused. He recovered.\nHe was brought before the council; with what result, there are no means\nof knowing. To admit the papal supremacy when officially questioned was\nhigh treason. Whether the abbot was constant, and received some\nconditional pardon, or whether his heart again for the moment failed\nhim--whichever he did, the records are silent. This only we ascertain of\nhim: that he was not put to death under the statute of supremacy. But,\ntwo years later, when the official list was presented to the Parliament\nof those who had suffered for their share in 'the Pilgrimage of Grace,'\namong the rest we find the name of Robert Hobbes, late Abbot of Woburn.\nTo this solitary fact we can add nothing. The rebellion was put down,\nand in the punishment of the offenders there was unusual leniency; not\nmore than thirty persons were executed, although forty thousand had been\nin arms. Those only were selected who had been most signally implicated.\nBut they were all leaders in the movement; the men of highest rank, and\ntherefore greatest guilt. They died for what they believed their duty;\nand the king and council did their duty in enforcing the laws against\narmed insurgents. He for whose cause each supposed themselves to be\ncontending, has long since judged between them; and both parties perhaps\nnow see all things with clearer eyes than was permitted to them on\nearth.\n\nWe also can see more distinctly. We will not refuse the Abbot Hobbes a\nbrief record of his trial and passion. And although twelve generations\nof Russells--all loyal to the Protestant ascendancy--have swept Woburn\nclear of Catholic associations, they, too, in these later days, will not\nregret to see revived the authentic story of its last abbot.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Q] From _Fraser's Magazine_, 1857.\n\n[R] Rolls House MS., _Miscellaneous Papers_, First Series. 356.\n\n[S] Tanner MS. 105, Bodleian Library, Oxford.\n\n[T] Meaning, as he afterwards said, More and Fisher and the Carthusians.\n\n\n\n\nENGLAND'S FORGOTTEN WORTHIES.[U]\n\n1. _The Observations of Sir Richard Hawkins, Knt., in his Voyage in the\nSouth Sea in 1593._ Reprinted from the Edition of 1622, and Edited by R.\nH. Major, Esq., of the British Museum. Published by the Hakluyt Society.\n\n2. _The Discoverie of the Empire of Guiana._ By Sir Walter Ralegh, Knt.\nEdited, with copious Explanatory Notes, and a Biographical Memoir, by\nSir Robert H. Schomburgk, Phil. D., &c.\n\n3. _Narratives of Early Voyages undertaken for the Discovery of a\nPassage to Cathaia and India by the North-west_; with Selections from\nthe Records of the Worshipful Fellowship of the Merchants of London,\ntrading into the East Indies, and from MSS. in the Library of the\nBritish Museum, now first published, by Thomas Rundall, Esq.\n\n\nThe Reformation, the Antipodes, the American Continent, the Planetary\nsystem, and the infinite deep of the Heavens, have now become common and\nfamiliar facts to us. Globes and orreries are the playthings of our\nschool-days; we inhale the spirit of Protestantism with our earliest\nbreath of consciousness. It is all but impossible to throw back our\nimagination into the time when, as new grand discoveries, they stirred\nevery mind which they touched with awe and wonder at the revelation\nwhich God had sent down among mankind. Vast spiritual and material\ncontinents lay for the first time displayed, opening fields of thought\nand fields of enterprise of which none could conjecture the limit. Old\nroutine was broken up. Men were thrown back on their own strength and\ntheir own power, unshackled, to accomplish whatever they might dare. And\nalthough we do not speak of these discoveries as the cause of that\nenormous force of heart and intellect which accompanied them (for they\nwere as much the effect as the cause, and one reacted on the other),\nyet at any rate they afforded scope and room for the play of powers\nwhich, without such scope, let them have been as transcendant as they\nwould, must have passed away unproductive and blighted.\n\nAn earnest faith in the supernatural, an intensely real conviction of\nthe divine and devilish forces by which the universe was guided and\nmisguided, was the inheritance of the Elizabethan age from Catholic\nChristianity. The fiercest and most lawless men did then really and\ntruly believe in the actual personal presence of God or the devil in\nevery accident, or scene, or action. They brought to the contemplation\nof the new heaven and the new earth an imagination saturated with the\nspiritual convictions of the old era, which were not lost, but only\ninfinitely expanded. The planets, whose vastness they now learnt to\nrecognise, were, therefore, only the more powerful for evil or for good;\nthe tides were the breathing of Demogorgon; and the idolatrous American\ntribes were real worshippers of the real devil, and were assisted with\nthe full power of his evil army.\n\nIt is a form of thought which, however in a vague and general way we may\ncontinue to use its phraseology, has become, in its detailed application\nto life, utterly strange to us. We congratulate ourselves on the\nenlargement of our understanding when we read the decisions of grave law\ncourts in cases of supposed witchcraft; we smile complacently over\nRaleigh's story of the island of the Amazons, and rejoice that we are\nnot such as he--entangled in the cobwebs of effete and foolish\nsuperstition. Yet the true conclusion is less flattering to our vanity.\nThat Raleigh and Bacon could believe what they believed, and could be\nwhat they were notwithstanding, is to us a proof that the injury which\nsuch mistakes can inflict is unspeakably insignificant: and arising, as\nthey arose, from a never-failing sense of the real awfulness and mystery\nof the world, and of the life of human souls upon it, they witness to\nthe presence in such minds of a spirit, the loss of which not the most\nperfect acquaintance with every law by which the whole creation moves\ncan compensate. We wonder at the grandeur, the moral majesty of some of\nShakespeare's characters, so far beyond what the noblest among ourselves\ncan imitate, and at first thought we attribute it to the genius of the\npoet, who has outstripped nature in his creations. But we are\nmisunderstanding the power and the meaning of poetry in attributing\ncreativeness to it in any such sense. Shakespeare created, but only as\nthe spirit of nature created around him, working in him as it worked\nabroad in those among whom he lived. The men whom he draws were such men\nas he saw and knew; the words they utter were such as he heard in the\nordinary conversations in which he joined. At the Mermaid with Raleigh\nand with Sidney, and at a thousand unnamed English firesides, he found\nthe living originals for his Prince Hals, his Orlandos, his Antonios,\nhis Portias, his Isabellas. The closer personal acquaintance which we\ncan form with the English of the age of Elizabeth, the more we are\nsatisfied that Shakespeare's great poetry is no more than the rhythmic\necho of the life which it depicts.\n\nIt was, therefore, with no little interest that we heard of the\nformation of a society which was to employ itself, as we understood, in\nrepublishing in accessible form some, if not all, of the invaluable\nrecords compiled or composed by Richard Hakluyt. Books, like everything\nelse, have their appointed death-day; the souls of them, unless they be\nfound worthy of a second birth in a new body, perish with the paper in\nwhich they lived; and the early folio Hakluyts, not from their own want\nof merit, but from our neglect of them, were expiring of old age. The\nfive-volume quarto edition, published in 1811, so little people then\ncared for the exploits of their ancestors, consisted but of 270 copies.\nIt was intended for no more than for curious antiquaries, or for the\ngreat libraries, where it could be consulted as a book of reference; and\namong a people, the greater part of whom had never heard Hakluyt's name,\nthe editors are scarcely to be blamed if it never so much as occurred to\nthem that general readers would care to have the book within their\nreach.\n\nAnd yet those five volumes may be called the Prose Epic of the modern\nEnglish nation. They contain the heroic tales of the exploits of the\ngreat men in whom the new era was inaugurated; not mythic, like the\nIliads and the Eddas, but plain broad narratives of substantial facts,\nwhich rival legend in interest and grandeur. What the old epics were to\nthe royally or nobly born, this modern epic is to the common people. We\nhave no longer kings or princes for chief actors, to whom the heroism\nlike the dominion of the world had in time past been confined. But, as\nit was in the days of the Apostles, when a few poor fishermen from an\nobscure lake in Palestine assumed, under the Divine mission, the\nspiritual authority over mankind, so, in the days of our own Elizabeth,\nthe seamen from the banks of the Thames and the Avon, the Plym and the\nDart, self-taught and self-directed, with no impulse but what was\nbeating in their own royal hearts, went out across the unknown seas\nfighting, discovering, colonising, and graved out the channels, paving\nthem at last with their bones, through which the commerce and enterprise\nof England has flowed out over all the world. We can conceive nothing,\nnot the songs of Homer himself, which would be read among us with more\nenthusiastic interest than these plain massive tales; and a people's\nedition of them in these days, when the writings of Ainsworth and Eugene\nSue circulate in tens of thousands, would perhaps be the most blessed\nantidote which could be bestowed upon us. The heroes themselves were the\nmen of the people--the Joneses, the Smiths, the Davises, the Drakes; and\nno courtly pen, with the one exception of Raleigh, lent its polish or\nits varnish to set them off. In most cases the captain himself, or his\nclerk or servant, or some unknown gentleman volunteer, sat down and\nchronicled the voyage which he had shared; and thus inorganically arose\na collection of writings which, with all their simplicity, are for\nnothing more striking than for the high moral beauty, warmed with\nnatural feeling, which displays itself through all their pages. With us,\nthe sailor is scarcely himself beyond his quarter-deck. If he is\ndistinguished in his profession, he is professional merely; or if he is\nmore than that, he owes it not to his work as a sailor, but to\nindependent domestic culture. With them, their profession was the school\nof their nature, a high moral education which most brought out what was\nmost nobly human in them; and the wonders of earth, and air, and sea,\nand sky, were a real intelligible language in which they heard Almighty\nGod speaking to them.\n\nThat such hopes of what might be accomplished by the Hakluyt Society\nshould in some measure be disappointed, is only what might naturally be\nanticipated of all very sanguine expectation. Cheap editions are\nexpensive editions to the publisher; and historical societies, from a\nnecessity which appears to encumber all corporate English action,\nrarely fail to do their work expensively and infelicitously. Yet, after\nall allowances and deductions, we cannot reconcile ourselves to the\nmortification of having found but one volume in the series to be even\ntolerably edited, and that one to be edited by a gentleman to whom\nEngland is but an adopted country--Sir Robert Schomburgk. Raleigh's\n'Conquest of Guiana,' with Sir Robert's sketch of Raleigh's history and\ncharacter, form in everything but its cost a very model of an excellent\nvolume. For the remaining editors,[V] we are obliged to say that they\nhave exerted themselves successfully to paralyse whatever interest was\nreviving in Hakluyt, and to consign their own volumes to the same\nobscurity to which time and accident were consigning the earlier\neditions. Very little which was really noteworthy escaped the industry\nof Hakluyt himself, and we looked to find reprints of the most\nremarkable of the stories which were to be found in his collection. The\neditors began unfortunately with proposing to continue the work where he\nhad left it, and to produce narratives hitherto unpublished of other\nvoyages of inferior interest, or not of English origin. Better thoughts\nappear to have occurred to them in the course of the work; but their\nevil destiny overtook them before their thoughts could get themselves\nexecuted. We opened one volume with eagerness, bearing the title of\n'Voyages to the North-west,' in hope of finding our old friends Davis\nand Frobisher. We found a vast unnecessary Editor's Preface: and instead\nof the voyages themselves, which with their picturesqueness and moral\nbeauty shine among the fairest jewels in the diamond mine of Hakluyt, we\nencountered an analysis and digest of their results, which Milton was\ncalled in to justify in an inappropriate quotation. It is much as if\nthey had undertaken to edit 'Bacon's Essays,' and had retailed what they\nconceived to be the substance of them in their own language; strangely\nfailing to see that the real value of the actions or the thoughts of\nremarkable men does not lie in the material result which can be gathered\nfrom them, but in the heart and soul of the actors or speakers\nthemselves. Consider what Homer's 'Odyssey' would be, reduced into an\nanalysis.\n\nThe editor of the 'Letters of Columbus' apologises for the rudeness of\nthe old seaman's phraseology. Columbus, he tells us, was not so great a\nmaster of the pen as of the art of navigation. We are to make excuses\nfor him. We are put on our guard, and warned not to be offended, before\nwe are introduced to the sublime record of sufferings under which a man\nof the highest order was staggering towards the end of his earthly\ncalamities; although the inarticulate fragments in which his thought\nbreaks out from him, are strokes of natural art by the side of which\nliterary pathos is poor and meaningless.\n\nAnd even in the subjects which they select they are pursued by the same\ncurious fatality. Why is Drake to be best known, or to be only known, in\nhis last voyage? Why pass over the success, and endeavour to immortalise\nthe failure? When Drake climbed the tree in Panama, and saw both oceans,\nand vowed that he would sail a ship in the Pacific; when he crawled out\nupon the cliffs of Terra del Fuego, and leaned his head over the\nsouthernmost angle of the world; when he scored a furrow round the globe\nwith his keel, and received the homage of the barbarians of the\nantipodes in the name of the Virgin Queen, he was another man from what\nhe had become after twenty years of court life and intrigue, and Spanish\nfighting and gold-hunting. There is a tragic solemnity in his end, if we\ntake it as the last act of his career; but it is his life, not his\ndeath, which we desire--not what he failed to do, but what he did.\n\nBut every bad has a worse below it, and more offensive than all these is\nthe editor of Hawkins's 'Voyage to the South Sea.' The narrative is\nstriking in itself; not one of the best, but very good; and, as it is\nrepublished complete, we can fortunately read it through, carefully\nshutting off Captain Bethune's notes with one hand, and we shall then\nfind in it the same beauty which breathes in the tone of all the\nwritings of the period.\n\nIt is a record of misfortune, but of misfortune which did no dishonour\nto him who sunk under it; and there is a melancholy dignity in the style\nin which Hawkins tells his story, which seems to say, that though he had\nbeen defeated, and had never again an opportunity of winning back his\nlost laurels, he respects himself still for the heart with which he\nendured a shame which would have broken a smaller man. It would have\nrequired no large exertion of editorial self-denial to have abstained\nfrom marring the pages with puns of which 'Punch' would be ashamed, and\nwith the vulgar affectation of patronage with which the sea captain of\nthe nineteenth century condescends to criticise and approve of his\nhalf-barbarous precursor. And what excuse can we find for such an\noffence as this which follows. The war of freedom of the Araucan Indians\nis the most gallant episode in the history of the New World. The\nSpaniards themselves were not behindhand in acknowledging the chivalry\nbefore which they quailed, and, after many years of ineffectual efforts,\nthey gave up a conflict which they never afterwards resumed; leaving the\nAraucans alone, of all the American races with which they came in\ncontact, a liberty which they were unable to tear from them. It is a\nsubject for an epic poem; and whatever admiration is due to the heroism\nof a brave people whom no inequality of strength could appal and no\ndefeats could crush, these poor Indians have a right to demand of us.\nThe story of the war was well known in Europe; Hawkins, in coasting the\nwestern shores of South America, fell in with them, and the finest\npassage in his book is the relation of one of the incidents of the\nwar:--\n\n    An Indian captain was taken prisoner by the Spaniards, and for that\n    he was of name, and known to have done his devoir against them, they\n    cut off his hands, thereby intending to disenable him to fight any\n    more against them. But he, returning home, desirous to revenge this\n    injury, to maintain his liberty, with the reputation of his nation,\n    and to help to banish the Spaniard, with his tongue intreated and\n    incited them to persevere in their accustomed valour and reputation,\n    abasing the enemy and advancing his nation; condemning their\n    contraries of cowardliness, and confirming it by the cruelty used\n    with him and other his companions in their mishaps; showing them his\n    arms without hands, and naming his brethren whose half feet they had\n    cut off, because they might be unable to sit on horseback; with\n    force arguing that if they feared them not, they would not have used\n    so great inhumanity--for fear produceth cruelty, the companion of\n    cowardice. Thus encouraged he them to fight for their lives, limbs,\n    and liberty, choosing rather to die an honourable death fighting,\n    than to live in servitude as fruitless members of the commonwealth.\n    Thus using the office of a sergeant-major, and having loaden his two\n    stumps with bundles of arrows, he succoured them who, in the\n    succeeding battle had their store wasted; and changing himself from\n    place to place, animated and encouraged his countrymen with such\n    comfortable persuasions, as it is reported and credibly believed,\n    that he did more good with his words and presence, without striking\n    a stroke, than a great part of the army did with fighting to the\n    utmost.\n\nIt is an action which may take its place by the side of the myth of\nMucius Scaevola, or the real exploit of that brother of the poet\nAEschylus, who, when the Persians were flying from Marathon, clung to a\nship till both his hands were hewn away, and then seized it with his\nteeth, leaving his name as a portent even in the splendid calendar of\nAthenian heroes. Captain Bethune, without call or need, making his\nnotes, merely, as he tells us, from the suggestions of his own mind as\nhe revised the proof-sheets, informs us, at the bottom of the page, that\n'it reminds him of the familiar lines--\n\n    For Widdrington I needs must wail,\n      As one in doleful dumps;\n    For when his legs were smitten off,\n      He fought upon his stumps.'\n\nIt must not avail him, that he has but quoted from the ballad of Chevy\nChase. It is the most deformed stanza[W] of the modern deformed version\nwhich was composed in the eclipse of heart and taste, on the restoration\nof the Stuarts; and if such verses could then pass for serious poetry,\nthey have ceased to sound in any ear as other than a burlesque; the\nassociations which they arouse are only absurd, and they could only have\ncontinued to ring in his memory through their ludicrous doggrel.\n\nWhen to these offences of the Society we add, that in the long laboured\nappendices and introductions, which fill up valuable space, which\nincrease the expense of the edition, and into reading which many readers\nare, no doubt, betrayed, we have found nothing which assists the\nunderstanding of the stories which they are supposed to illustrate--when\nwe have declared that we have found what is most uncommon passed\nwithout notice, and what is most trite and familiar encumbered with\ncomment--we have unpacked our hearts of the bitterness which these\nvolumes have aroused in us, and can now take our leave of them and go on\nwith our more grateful subject.\n\nElizabeth, whose despotism was as peremptory as that of the\nPlantagenets, and whose ideas of the English constitution were limited\nin the highest degree, was, notwithstanding, more beloved by her\nsubjects than any sovereign before or since. It was because,\nsubstantially, she was the people's sovereign; because it was given to\nher to conduct the outgrowth of the national life through its crisis of\nchange, and the weight of her great mind and her great place were thrown\non the people's side. She was able to paralyse the dying efforts with\nwhich, if a Stuart had been on the throne, the representatives of an\neffete system might have made the struggle a deadly one; and the history\nof England is not the history of France, because the resolution of one\nperson held the Reformation firm till it had rooted itself in the heart\nof the nation, and could not be again overthrown. The Catholic faith was\nno longer able to furnish standing ground on which the English or any\nother nation could live a manly and a godly life. Feudalism, as a social\norganisation, was not any more a system under which their energies could\nhave scope to move. Thenceforward, not the Catholic Church, but any man\nto whom God had given a heart to feel and a voice to speak, was to be\nthe teacher to whom men were to listen; and great actions were not to\nremain the privilege of the families of the Norman nobles, but were to\nbe laid within the reach of the poorest plebeian who had the stuff in\nhim to perform them. Alone, of all the sovereigns in Europe, Elizabeth\nsaw the change which had passed over the world. She saw it, and saw it\nin faith, and accepted it. The England of the Catholic Hierarchy and the\nNorman Baron, was to cast its shell and to become the England of free\nthought and commerce and manufacture, which was to plough the ocean with\nits navies, and sow its colonies over the globe; and the first\nappearance of these enormous forces and the light of the earliest\nachievements of the new era shines through the forty years of the reign\nof Elizabeth with a grandeur which, when once its history is written,\nwill be seen to be among the most sublime phenomena which the earth as\nyet has witnessed. The work was not of her creation; the heart of the\nwhole English nation was stirred to its depths; and Elizabeth's place\nwas to recognise, to love, to foster, and to guide. The Government\noriginated nothing; at such a time it was neither necessary nor\ndesirable that it should do so; but wherever expensive enterprises were\non foot which promised ultimate good, and doubtful immediate profit, we\nnever fail to find among the lists of contributors the Queen's Majesty,\nBurghley, Leicester, Walsingham. Never chary of her presence, for\nElizabeth could afford to condescend, when ships were fitting for\ndistant voyages in the river, the queen would go down in her barge and\ninspect. Frobisher, who was but a poor sailor adventurer, sees her wave\nher handkerchief to him from the Greenwich Palace windows, and he brings\nher home a narwhal's horn for a present. She honoured her people, and\nher people loved her; and the result was that, with no cost to the\nGovernment, she saw them scattering the fleets of the Spaniards,\nplanting America with colonies, and exploring the most distant seas.\nEither for honour or for expectation of profit, or from that unconscious\nnecessity by which a great people, like a great man, will do what is\nright, and must do it at the right time, whoever had the means to\nfurnish a ship, and whoever had the talent to command one, laid their\nabilities together and went out to pioneer, and to conquer, and take\npossession, in the name of the Queen of the Sea. There was no nation so\nremote but what some one or other was found ready to undertake an\nexpedition there, in the hope of opening a trade; and, let them go where\nthey would, they were sure of Elizabeth's countenance. We find letters\nwritten by her, for the benefit of nameless adventurers, to every\npotentate of whom she had ever heard--to the Emperors of China, Japan,\nand India, the Grand Duke of Russia, the Grand Turk, the Persian\n'Sofee,' and other unheard-of Asiatic and African princes; whatever was\nto be done in England, or by Englishmen, Elizabeth assisted when she\ncould, and admired when she could not. The springs of great actions are\nalways difficult to analyse--impossible to analyse perfectly--possible\nto analyse only very proximately; and the force by which a man throws a\ngood action out of himself is invisible and mystical, like that which\nbrings out the blossom and the fruit upon the tree. The motives which\nwe find men urging for their enterprises seem often insufficient to have\nprompted them to so large a daring. They did what they did from the\ngreat unrest in them which made them do it, and what it was may be best\nmeasured by the results in the present England and America.\n\nNevertheless, there was enough in the state of the world, and in the\nposition of England, to have furnished abundance of conscious motive,\nand to have stirred the drowsiest minister of routine.\n\nAmong material occasions for exertion, the population began to outgrow\nthe employment, and there was a necessity for plantations to serve as an\noutlet. Men who, under happier circumstances, might have led decent\nlives, and done good service, were now driven by want to desperate\ncourses--'witness,' as Richard Hakluyt says, 'twenty tall fellows hanged\nlast Rochester assizes for small robberies;' and there is an admirable\npaper addressed to the Privy Council by Christopher Carlile,\nWalsingham's son-in-law, pointing out the possible openings to be made\nin or through such plantations for home produce and manufacture.\n\nFar below all such prudential economics and mercantile ambitions,\nhowever, lay a chivalrous enthusiasm which in these dull days we can\nhardly, without an effort, realise. The life-and-death wrestle between\nthe Reformation and the old religion had settled in the last quarter of\nthe sixteenth century into a permanent struggle between England and\nSpain. France was disabled. All the help which Elizabeth could spare\nbarely enabled the Netherlands to defend themselves. Protestantism, if\nit conquered, must conquer on another field; and by the circumstances of\nthe time the championship of the Reformed faith fell to the English\nsailors. The sword of Spain was forged in the gold-mines of Peru; the\nlegions of Alva were only to be disarmed by intercepting the gold ships\non their passage; and, inspired by an enthusiasm like that which four\ncenturies before had precipitated the chivalry of Europe upon the East,\nthe same spirit which in its present degeneracy covers our bays and\nrivers with pleasure yachts, then fitted out armed privateers, to sweep\nthe Atlantic, and plunder and destroy Spanish ships wherever they could\nmeet them.\n\nThus, from a combination of causes, the whole force and energy of the\nage was directed towards the sea. The wide excitement, and the greatness\nof the interests at stake, raised even common men above themselves; and\npeople who in ordinary times would have been no more than mere seamen,\nor mere money-making merchants, appear before us with a largeness and\ngreatness of heart and mind in which their duties to God and their\ncountry are alike clearly and broadly seen and felt to be paramount to\nevery other.\n\nOrdinary English traders we find fighting Spanish war ships in behalf of\nthe Protestant faith. The cruisers of the Spanish Main were full of\ngenerous eagerness for the conversion of the savage nations to\nChristianity. And what is even more surprising, sites for colonisation\nwere examined and scrutinised by such men in a lofty statesmanlike\nspirit, and a ready insight was displayed by them into the indirect\neffects of a wisely-extended commerce on every highest human interest.\n\nAgain, in the conflict with the Spaniards, there was a further feeling,\na feeling of genuine chivalry, which was spurring on the English, and\none which must be well understood and well remembered, if men like\nDrake, and Hawkins, and Raleigh are to be tolerably understood. One of\nthe English Reviews, a short time ago, was much amused with a story of\nDrake having excommunicated a petty officer as a punishment for some\nmoral offence; the reviewer not being able to see in Drake, as a man,\nanything more than a highly brave and successful buccaneer, whose\npretences to religion might rank with the devotion of an Italian bandit\nto the Madonna. And so Hawkins, and even Raleigh, are regarded by\nsuperficial persons, who see only such outward circumstances of their\nhistory as correspond with their own impressions. The high nature of\nthese men, and the high objects which they pursued, will only rise out\nand become visible to us as we can throw ourselves back into their times\nand teach our hearts to feel as they felt. We do not find in the\nlanguage of the voyagers themselves, or of those who lent them their\nhelp at home, any of that weak watery talk of 'protection of\naborigines,' which, as soon as it is translated into fact, becomes the\nmost active policy for their destruction, soul and body. But the stories\nof the dealings of the Spaniards with the conquered Indians, which were\nwidely known in England, seem to have affected all classes of people,\nnot with pious passive horror, but with a genuine human indignation. A\nthousand anecdotes in detail we find scattered up and down the pages of\nHakluyt, who, with a view to make them known, translated Peter Martyr's\nletters; and each commonest sailor-boy who had heard these stories from\nhis childhood among the tales of his father's fireside, had longed to be\na man, that he might go out and become the avenger of a gallant and\nsuffering people. A high mission, undertaken with a generous heart,\nseldom fails to make those worthy of it to whom it is given; and it was\na point of honour, if of nothing more, among the English sailors, to do\nno discredit by their conduct to the greatness of their cause. The high\ncourtesy, the chivalry of the Spanish nobles, so conspicuous in their\ndealings with their European rivals, either failed to touch them in\ntheir dealings with uncultivated idolators, or the high temper of the\naristocracy was unable to restrain or to influence the masses of the\nsoldiers. It would be as ungenerous as it would be untrue, to charge\nupon their religion the grievous actions of men who called themselves\nthe armed missionaries of Catholicism, when the Catholic priests and\nbishops were the loudest in the indignation with which they denounced\nthem. But we are obliged to charge upon it that slow and subtle\ninfluence so inevitably exercised by any religion which is divorced from\nlife, and converted into a thing of form, or creed, or ceremony, or\nsystem--which could permit the same men to be extravagant in a sincere\ndevotion to the Queen of Heaven, whose entire lower nature, unsubdued\nand unaffected, was given up to thirst of gold, and plunder, and\nsensuality. If religion does not make men more humane than they would be\nwithout it, it makes them fatally less so; and it is to be feared that\nthe spirit of the Pilgrim Fathers, which had oscillated to the other\nextreme, and had again crystallised into a formal antinomian fanaticism,\nreproduced the same fatal results as those in which the Spaniards had\nset them their unworthy precedent. But the Elizabethan navigators, full\nfor the most part with large kindness, wisdom, gentleness, and beauty,\nbear names untainted, as far as we know, with a single crime against the\nsavages of America; and the name of England was as famous in the Indian\nseas as that of Spain was infamous. On the banks of the Oronoko there\nwas remembered for a hundred years the noble captain who had come there\nfrom the great queen beyond the seas; and Raleigh speaks the language of\nthe heart of his country, when he urges the English statesmen to\ncolonise Guiana, and exults in the glorious hope of driving the white\nmarauder into the Pacific, and restoring the Incas to the throne of\nPeru.\n\n    Who will not be persuaded (he says) that now at length the great\n    Judge of the world hath heard the sighs, groans, and lamentations,\n    hath seen the tears and blood of so many millions of innocent men,\n    women, and children, afflicted, robbed, reviled, branded with hot\n    irons, roasted, dismembered, mangled, stabbed, whipped, racked,\n    scalded with hot oil, put to the strapado, ripped alive, beheaded in\n    sport, drowned, dashed against the rocks, famished, devoured by\n    mastiffs, burned, and by infinite cruelties consumed, and purposeth\n    to scourge and plague that cursed nation, and to take the yoke of\n    servitude from that distressed people, as free by nature as any\n    Christian?\n\nPoor Raleigh! if peace and comfort in this world were of much importance\nto him, it was in an ill day that he provoked the revenge of Spain. The\nstrength of England was needed at the moment at its own door; the Armada\ncame, and there was no means of executing such an enterprise. And\nafterwards the throne of Elizabeth was filled by a Stuart, and Guiana\nwas to be no scene of glory for Raleigh; rather, as later historians are\npleased to think, it was the grave of his reputation.\n\nBut the hope burned clear in him through all the weary years of unjust\nimprisonment; and when he was a grey-headed old man, the base son of a\nbad mother used it to betray him. The success of his last enterprise was\nmade the condition under which he was to be pardoned for a crime which\nhe had not committed; and its success depended, as he knew, on its being\nkept secret from the Spaniards. James required of Raleigh on his\nallegiance a detail of what he proposed, giving him at the same time his\nword as a king that the secret should be safe with him. The next day it\nwas sweeping out of the port of London in the swiftest of the Spanish\nships, with private orders to the Governor of St. Thomas to provoke a\ncollision when Raleigh should arrive there, which should afterwards cost\nhim his heart's blood.\n\nWe modern readers may run rapidly over the series of epithets under\nwhich Raleigh has catalogued the Indian sufferings, hoping that they\nare exaggerated, seeing that they are horrible, and closing our eyes\nagainst them with swiftest haste; but it was not so when every epithet\nsuggested a hundred familiar facts; and some of these (not resting on\nEnglish prejudice, but on sad Spanish evidence, which is too full of\nshame and sorrow to be suspected) shall be given in this place, however\nold a story it may be thought; because, as we said above, it is\nimpossible to understand the actions of these men, unless we are\nfamiliar with the feelings of which their hearts were full.\n\nThe massacres under Cortez and Pizarro, terrible as they were, were not\nthe occasion which stirred the deepest indignation. They had the excuse\nof what might be called, for want of a better word, necessity, and of\nthe desperate position of small bands of men in the midst of enemies who\nmight be counted by millions. And in De Soto, when he burnt his guides\nin Florida (it was his practice, when there was danger of treachery,\nthat those who were left alive might take warning); or in Vasco Nunnez,\npraying to the Virgin on the mountains of Darien, and going down from\noff them into the valleys to hunt the Indian caciques, and fling them\nalive to his bloodhounds; there was, at least, with all this fierceness\nand cruelty, a desperate courage which we cannot refuse to admire, and\nwhich mingles with and corrects our horror. It is the refinement of the\nSpaniard's cruelty in the settled and conquered provinces, excused by no\ndanger and provoked by no resistance, the details of which witness to\nthe infernal coolness with which it was perpetrated; and the great\nbearing of the Indians themselves under an oppression which they\ndespaired of resisting, raises the whole history to the rank of a\nworld-wide tragedy, in which the nobler but weaker nature was crushed\nunder a malignant force which was stronger and yet meaner than itself.\nGold hunting and lust were the two passions for which the Spaniards\ncared; and the fate of the Indian women was only more dreadful than that\nof the men, who were ganged and chained to a labour in the mines which\nwas only to cease with their lives, in a land where but a little before\nthey had lived a free contented people, more innocent of crime than\nperhaps any people upon earth. If we can conceive what our own feelings\nwould be--if, in the 'development of the mammalia,' some baser but more\npowerful race than man were to appear upon this planet, and we and our\nwives and children at our own happy firesides were degraded from our\nfreedom, and became to them what the lower animals are to us, we can\nperhaps realise the feelings of the enslaved nations of Hispaniola.\n\nAs a harsh justification of slavery, it is sometimes urged that men who\ndo not deserve to be slaves will prefer death to the endurance of it;\nand that if they prize their liberty, it is always in their power to\nassert it in the old Roman fashion. Tried even by so hard a rule, the\nIndians vindicated their right; and, before the close of the sixteenth\ncentury, the entire group of the Western Islands in the hands of the\nSpaniards, containing, when Columbus discovered them, many millions of\ninhabitants, were left literally desolate from suicide. Of the anecdotes\nof this terrible self-immolation, as they were then known in England,\nhere are a few out of many.\n\nThe first is simple, and a specimen of the ordinary method. A Yucatan\ncacique, who was forced with his old subjects to labour in the mines, at\nlast 'calling those miners into an house, to the number of ninety-five,\nhe thus debateth with them:'--\n\n    'My worthy companions and friends, why desire we to live any longer\n    under so cruel a servitude? Let us now go unto the perpetual seat of\n    our ancestors, for we shall there have rest from these intolerable\n    cares and grievances which we endure under the subjection of the\n    unthankful. Go ye before, I will presently follow you.' Having so\n    spoken, he held out whole handfuls of those leaves which take away\n    life, prepared for the purpose, and giving every one part thereof,\n    being kindled to suck up the fume; who obeyed his command, the king\n    and his chief kinsmen reserving the last place for themselves.\n\nWe speak of the crime of suicide, but few persons will see a crime in\nthis sad and stately leave-taking of a life which it was no longer\npossible to bear with unbroken hearts. We do not envy the Indian, who,\nwith Spaniards before him as an evidence of the fruits which their creed\nbrought forth, deliberately exchanged for it the old religion of his\ncountry, which could sustain him in an action of such melancholy\ngrandeur. But the Indians did not always reply to their oppressors with\nescaping passively beyond their hands. Here is a story with matter in it\nfor as rich a tragedy as OEdipus or Agamemnon; and in its stern and\ntremendous features, more nearly resembling them than any which were\nconceived even by Shakespeare.\n\nAn officer named Orlando had taken the daughter of a Cuban cacique to be\nhis mistress. She was with child by him, but, suspecting her of being\nengaged in some other intrigue, he had her fastened to two wooden spits,\nnot intending to kill her, but to terrify her; and setting her before\nthe fire, he ordered that she should be turned by the servants of the\nkitchen.\n\n    The maiden, stricken with fear through the cruelty thereof, and\n    strange kind of torment, presently gave up the ghost. The cacique\n    her father, understanding the matter, took thirty of his men and\n    went to the house of the captain, who was then absent, and slew his\n    wife, whom he had married after that wicked act committed, and the\n    women who were companions of the wife, and her servants every one.\n    Then shutting the door of the house, and putting fire under it, he\n    burnt himself and all his companions that assisted him, together\n    with the captain's dead family and goods.\n\nThis is no fiction or poet's romance. It is a tale of wrath and revenge,\nwhich in sober dreadful truth enacted itself upon this earth, and\nremains among the eternal records of the doings of mankind upon it. As\nsome relief to its most terrible features, we follow it with a story\nwhich has a touch in it of diabolical humour.\n\nThe slave-owners finding their slaves escaping thus unprosperously out\nof their grasp, set themselves to find a remedy for so desperate a\ndisease, and were swift to avail themselves of any weakness, mental or\nbodily, through which to retain them in life. One of these proprietors\nbeing informed that a number of his people intended to kill themselves\non a certain day, at a particular spot, and knowing by experience that\nthey were too likely to do it, presented himself there at the time which\nhad been fixed upon, and telling the Indians when they arrived that he\nknew their intention, and that it was vain for them to attempt to keep\nanything a secret from him, he ended with saying, that he had come there\nto kill himself with them; that as he had used them ill in this world,\nhe might use them worse in the next; 'with which he did dissuade them\npresently from their purpose.' With what efficacy such believers in the\nimmortality of the soul were likely to recommend either their faith or\ntheir God; rather, how terribly all the devotion and all the\nearnestness with which the poor priests who followed in the wake of the\nconquerors laboured to recommend it were shamed and paralysed, they\nthemselves too bitterly lament.\n\nIt was idle to send out governor after governor with orders to stay such\npractices. They had but to arrive on the scene to become infected with\nthe same fever; or if any remnant of Castilian honour, or any faintest\nechoes of the faith which they professed, still flickered in a few of\nthe best and noblest, they could but look on with folded hands in\nineffectual mourning; they could do nothing without soldiers, and the\nsoldiers were the worst offenders. Hispaniola became a desert; the gold\nwas in the mines, and there were no slaves left remaining to extract it.\nOne means which the Spaniards dared to employ to supply the vacancy,\nbrought about an incident which in its piteous pathos exceeds any story\nwe have ever heard. Crimes and criminals are swept away by time, nature\nfinds an antidote for their poison, and they and their ill consequences\nalike are blotted out and perish. If we do not for give the villain, at\nleast we cease to hate him, as it grows more clear to us that he injures\nnone so deeply as himself. But the [Greek: theriodes kakia], the\nenormous wickedness by which humanity itself has been outraged and\ndisgraced, we cannot forgive; we cannot cease to hate that; the years\nroll away, but the tints of it remain on the pages of history, deep and\nhorrible as the day on which they were entered there.\n\n    When the Spaniards understood the simple opinion of the Yucatan\n    islanders concerning the souls of their departed, which, after their\n    sins purged in the cold northern mountains should pass into the\n    south, to the intent that, leaving their own country of their own\n    accord, they might suffer themselves to be brought to Hispaniola,\n    they did persuade those poor wretches, that they came from those\n    places where they should see their parents and children, and all\n    their kindred and friends that were dead, and should enjoy all kinds\n    of delights with the embracements and fruition of all beloved\n    beings. And they, being infected and possessed with these crafty and\n    subtle imaginations, singing and rejoicing left their country, and\n    followed vain and idle hope. But when they saw that they were\n    deceived, and neither met their parents nor any that they desired,\n    but were compelled to undergo grievous sovereignty and command, and\n    to endure cruel and extreme labour, they either slew themselves, or,\n    choosing to famish, gave up their fair spirits, being persuaded by\n    no reason or violence to take food. So these miserable Yucatans came\n    to their end.\n\nIt was once more as it was in the days of the Apostles. The New World\nwas first offered to the holders of the old traditions. They were the\nhusbandmen first chosen for the new vineyard, and blood and desolation\nwere the only fruits which they reared upon it. In their hands it was\nbecoming a kingdom, not of God, but of the devil, and a sentence of\nblight went out against them and against their works. How fatally it has\nworked, let modern Spain and Spanish America bear witness. We need not\nfollow further the history of their dealings with the Indians. For their\ncolonies, a fatality appears to have followed all attempts at Catholic\ncolonisation. Like shoots from an old decaying tree which no skill and\nno care can rear, they were planted, and for a while they might seem to\ngrow; but their life was never more than a lingering death, a failure,\nwhich to a thinking person would outweigh in the arguments against\nCatholicism whole libraries of faultless _catenas_, and a _consensus\npatrum_ unbroken through fifteen centuries for the supremacy of St.\nPeter.\n\nThere is no occasion to look for superstitious causes to explain the\nphenomenon. The Catholic faith had ceased to be the faith of the large\nmass of earnest thinking capable persons; and to those who can best do\nthe work, all work in this world sooner or later is committed. America\nwas the natural home for Protestants; persecuted at home, they sought a\nplace where they might worship God in their own way, without danger of\nstake or gibbet, and the French Huguenots, as afterwards the English\nPuritans, early found their way there. The fate of a party of Coligny's\npeople, who had gone out as settlers, shall be the last of these\nstories, illustrating, as it does in the highest degree, the wrath and\nfury with which the passions on both sides were boiling. A certain John\nRibault, with about 400 companions, had emigrated to Florida. They were\nquiet inoffensive people, and lived in peace there several years,\ncultivating the soil, building villages, and on the best possible terms\nwith the natives. Spain was at the time at peace with France; we are,\ntherefore, to suppose that it was in pursuance of the great crusade, in\nwhich they might feel secure of the secret, if not the confessed,\nsympathy of the Guises, that a powerful Spanish fleet bore down upon\nthis settlement. The French made no resistance, and they were seized and\nflayed alive, and their bodies hung out upon the trees, with an\ninscription suspended over them, 'Not as Frenchmen, but as heretics.' At\nParis all was sweetness and silence. The settlement was tranquilly\nsurrendered to the same men who had made it the scene of their atrocity;\nand two years later, 500 of the very Spaniards who had been most active\nin the murder were living there in peaceable possession, in two forts\nwhich their relation with the natives had obliged them to build. It was\nwell that there were other Frenchmen living, of whose consciences the\nCourt had not the keeping, and who were able on emergencies to do what\nwas right without consulting it. A certain privateer, named Dominique de\nGourges, secretly armed and equipped a vessel at Rochelle, and, stealing\nacross the Atlantic and in two days collecting a strong party of\nIndians, he came down suddenly upon the forts, and, taking them by\nstorm, slew or afterwards hanged every man he found there, leaving their\nbodies on the trees on which they had hanged the Huguenots, with their\nown inscription reversed against them--'Not as Spaniards, but as\nmurderers.' For which exploit, well deserving of all honest men's\npraise, Dominique de Gourges had to fly his country for his life; and,\ncoming to England, was received with honourable welcome by Elizabeth.\n\nIt was at such a time, and to take their part amidst such scenes as\nthese, that the English navigators appeared along the shores of South\nAmerica, as the armed soldiers of the Reformation, and as the avengers\nof humanity. As their enterprise was grand and lofty, so for the most\npart was the manner in which they bore themselves worthy of it. They\nwere no nation of saints, in the modern sentimental sense of that word;\nthey were prompt, stern men--more ready ever to strike an enemy than to\nparley with him; and, private adventurers as they all were, it was\nnatural enough that private rapacity and private badness should be found\namong them as among other mortals. Every Englishman who had the means\nwas at liberty to fit out a ship or ships, and if he could produce\ntolerable vouchers for himself, received at once a commission from the\nCourt. The battles of England were fought by her children, at their own\nrisk and cost, and they were at liberty to repay themselves the expense\nof their expeditions by plundering at the cost of the national enemy.\nThus, of course, in a mixed world, there were found mixed marauding\ncrews of scoundrels, who played the game which a century later was\nplayed with such effect by the pirates of the Tortugas. Negro hunters\ntoo, there were, and a bad black slave trade--in which Elizabeth\nherself, being hard driven for money, did not disdain to invest her\ncapital--but on the whole, and in the war with the Spaniards, as in the\nwar with the elements, the conduct and character of the English sailors,\nconsidering what they were and the work which they were sent to do,\npresent us all through that age with such a picture of gallantry,\ndisinterestedness, and high heroic energy, as has never been\novermatched; the more remarkable, as it was the fruit of no drill or\ndiscipline, no tradition, no system, no organised training, but was the\nfree native growth of a noble virgin soil.\n\nBefore starting on an expedition, it was usual for the crew and the\nofficers to meet and arrange among themselves a series of articles of\nconduct, to which they bound themselves by a formal agreement, the\nentire body itself undertaking to see to their observance. It is quite\npossible that strong religious profession, and even sincere profession,\nmight be accompanied, as it was in the Spaniards, with everything most\ndetestable. It is not sufficient of itself to prove that their actions\nwould correspond with it, but it is one among a number of evidences; and\ncoming as most of these men come before us, with hands clear of any\nblood but of fair and open enemies, their articles may pass at least as\nindications of what they were.\n\nHere we have a few instances:--\n\nRichard Hawkins's ship's company was, as he himself informs us, an\nunusually loose one. Nevertheless, we find them 'gathered together every\nmorning and evening to serve God;' and a fire on board, which only\nHawkins's presence of mind prevented from destroying ship and crew\ntogether, was made use of by the men as an occasion to banish swearing\nout of the ship.\n\n    With a general consent of all our company, it was ordained that\n    there should be a palmer or ferula which should be in the keeping of\n    him who was taken with an oath; and that he who had the palmer\n    should give to every one that he took swearing, a palmada with it\n    and the ferula; and whosoever at the time of evening or morning\n    prayer was found to have the palmer, should have three blows given\n    him by the captain or the master; and that he should still be bound\n    to free himself by taking another, or else to run in danger of\n    continuing the penalty, which, being executed a few days, reformed\n    the vice, so that in three days together was not one oath heard to\n    be sworn.\n\nThe regulations for Luke Fox's voyage commenced thus:--\n\n    For as much as the good success and prosperity of every action doth\n    consist in the due service and glorifying of God, knowing that not\n    only our being and preservation, but the prosperity of all our\n    actions and enterprises do immediately depend on His Almighty\n    goodness and mercy; it is provided--\n\n    First, that all the company, as well officers as others, shall duly\n    repair every day twice at the call of the bell to hear public\n    prayers to be read, such as are authorised by the church, and that\n    in a godly and devout manner, as good Christians ought.\n\n    Secondly, that no man shall swear by the name of God, or use any\n    profane oath, or blaspheme His holy name.\n\nTo symptoms such as these, we cannot but assign a very different value\nwhen they are the spontaneous growth of common minds, unstimulated by\nsense of propriety or rules of the service, or other official influence\nlay or ecclesiastic, from what attaches to the somewhat similar\nceremonials in which, among persons whose position is conspicuous,\nimportant enterprises are now and then inaugurated.\n\nWe have said as much as we intend to say of the treatment by the\nSpaniards of the Indian women. Sir Walter Raleigh is commonly\nrepresented by historians as rather defective, if he was remarkable at\nall, on the moral side of his character. Yet Raleigh can declare\nproudly, that all the time he was on the Oronoko, 'neither by force nor\nother means had any of his men intercourse with any woman there;' and\nthe narrator of the incidents of Raleigh's last voyage acquaints his\ncorrespondent 'with some particulars touching the government of the\nfleet, which, although other men in their voyages doubtless in some\nmeasure observed, yet in all the great volumes which have been written\ntouching voyages, there is no precedent of so godly severe and martial\ngovernment, which not only in itself is laudable and worthy of\nimitation, but is also fit to be written and engraven on every man's\nsoul that coveteth to do honour to his country.'\n\nOnce more, the modern theory of Drake is, as we said above, that he was\na gentleman-like pirate on a large scale, who is indebted for the place\nwhich he fills in history to the indistinct ideas of right and wrong\nprevailing in the unenlightened age in which he lived, and who\ntherefore demands all the toleration of our own enlarged humanity to\nallow him to remain there. Let us see how the following incident can be\nmade to coincide with this hypothesis:--\n\nA few days after clearing the Channel on his first great voyage, he fell\nin with a small Spanish ship, which he took for a prize. He committed\nthe care of it to a certain Mr. Doughtie, a person much trusted by, and\npersonally very dear to him, and this second vessel was to follow him as\na tender.\n\nIn dangerous expeditions into unknown seas, a second smaller ship was\noften indispensable to success; but many finely intended enterprises\nwere ruined by the cowardice of the officers to whom such ships were\nentrusted; who shrank as danger thickened, and again and again took\nadvantage of darkness or heavy weather to make sail for England and\nforsake their commander. Hawkins twice suffered in this way; so did Sir\nHumfrey Gilbert; and, although Drake's own kind feeling for his old\nfriend has prevented him from leaving an exact account of his offence,\nwe gather from the scattered hints which are let fall, that he, too, was\nmeditating a similar piece of treason. However, it may or may not have\nbeen thus. But when at Port St. Julien, 'our General,' says one of the\ncrew,--\n\n    Began to inquire diligently of the actions of Mr. Thomas Doughtie,\n    and found them not to be such as he looked for, but tending rather\n    to contention or mutiny, or some other disorder, whereby, without\n    redresse, the success of the voyage might greatly have been\n    hazarded. Whereupon the company was called together and made\n    acquainted with the particulars of the cause, which were found,\n    partly by Mr. Doughtie's own confession, and partly by the evidence\n    of the fact, to be true, which, when our General saw, although his\n    private affection to Mr. Doughtie (as he then, in the presence of us\n    all, sacredly protested) was great, yet the care which he had of the\n    state of the voyage, of the expectation of Her Majesty, and of the\n    honour of his country, did more touch him, as indeed it ought, than\n    the private respect of one man; so that the cause being throughly\n    heard, and all things done in good order as near as might be to the\n    course of our law in England, it was concluded that Mr. Doughtie\n    should receive punishment according to the quality of the offence.\n    And he, seeing no remedy but patience for himself, desired before\n    his death to receive the communion, which he did at the hands of Mr.\n    Fletcher, our minister, and our General himself accompanied him in\n    that holy action, which, being done, and the place of execution made\n    ready, he, having embraced our General, and taken leave of all the\n    company, with prayers for the Queen's Majesty and our realm, in\n    quiet sort laid his head to the block, where he ended his life. This\n    being done, our General made divers speeches to the whole company,\n    persuading us to unity, obedience, love, and regard of our voyage,\n    and for the better confirmation thereof, willed every man the next\n    Sunday following to prepare himself to receive the communion, as\n    Christian brethren and friends ought to do, which was done in very\n    reverent sort, and so with good contentment every man went about his\n    business.\n\nThe simple majesty of this anecdote can gain nothing from any comment\nwhich we might offer upon it. The crew of a common English ship\norganising, of their own free motion, on that wild shore, a judgment\nhall more grand and awful than any most elaborate law court, is not to\nbe reconciled with the pirate theory. Drake, it is true, appropriated\nand brought home a million and a half of Spanish treasure, while England\nand Spain were at peace. He took that treasure because for many years\nthe officers of the Inquisition had made free at their pleasure with the\nlives and goods of English merchants and seamen. The king of Spain, when\nappealed to, had replied that he had no power over the Holy House; and\nit was necessary to make the king of Spain, or the Inquisition, or\nwhoever were the parties responsible, feel that they could not play\ntheir pious pranks with impunity. When Drake seized the bullion at\nPanama, he sent word to the viceroy that he should now learn to respect\nthe properties of English subjects; and he added, that if four English\nsailors, who were prisoners in Mexico, were molested, he would execute\n2,000 Spaniards and send the viceroy their heads. Spain and England were\nat peace, but Popery and Protestantism were at war--deep, deadly, and\nirreconcileable.\n\nWherever we find them, they are still the same. In the courts of Japan\nor of China; fighting Spaniards in the Pacific, or prisoners among the\nAlgerines; founding colonies which by-and-by were to grow into enormous\nTransatlantic republics, or exploring in crazy pinnaces the fierce\nlatitudes of the Polar seas,--they are the same indomitable God-fearing\nmen whose life was one great liturgy. 'The ice was strong, but God was\nstronger,' says one of Frobisher's men, after grinding a night and a day\namong the icebergs, not waiting for God to come down and split the ice\nfor them, but toiling through the long hours, himself and the rest\nfending off the vessel with poles and planks, with death glaring at\nthem out of the rocks. Icebergs were strong, Spaniards were strong, and\nstorms, and corsairs, and rocks and reefs, which no chart had then\nnoted--they were all strong; but God was stronger, and that was all\nwhich they cared to know.\n\nOut of the vast number of illustrations it is difficult to make wise\nselections, but the attention floats loosely over generalities, and only\nindividual instances can seize it and hold it fast. We shall attempt to\nbring our readers face to face with some of these men; not, of course,\nto write their biographies, but to sketch the details of a few scenes,\nin the hope that they may tempt those under whose eyes they may fall to\nlook for themselves to complete the perfect figure.\n\nSome two miles above the port of Dartmouth, once among the most\nimportant harbours in England, on a projecting angle of land which runs\nout into the river at the head of one of its most beautiful reaches,\nthere has stood for some centuries the Manor House of Greenaway. The\nwater runs deep all the way to it from the sea, and the largest vessels\nmay ride with safety within a stone's throw of the windows. In the\nlatter half of the sixteenth century there must have met, in the hall of\nthis mansion, a party as remarkable as could have been found anywhere in\nEngland. Humfrey and Adrian Gilbert, with their half-brother, Walter\nRaleigh, here, when little boys, played at sailors in the reaches of\nLong Stream; in the summer evenings doubtless rowing down with the tide\nto the port, and wondering at the quaint figure-heads and carved prows\nof the ships which thronged it; or climbing on board, and listening,\nwith hearts beating, to the mariners' tales of the new earth beyond the\nsunset. And here in later life, matured men, whose boyish dreams had\nbecome heroic action, they used again to meet in the intervals of quiet,\nand the rock is shown underneath the house where Raleigh smoked the\nfirst tobacco. Another remarkable man, of whom we shall presently speak\nmore closely, could not fail to have made a fourth at these meetings. A\nsailor boy of Sandwich, the adjoining parish, John Davis, showed early a\ngenius which could not have escaped the eye of such neighbours, and in\nthe atmosphere of Greenaway he learned to be as noble as the Gilberts,\nand as tender and delicate as Raleigh. Of this party, for the present we\nconfine ourselves to the host and owner, Humfrey Gilbert, knighted\nafterwards by Elizabeth. Led by the scenes of his childhood to the sea\nand to sea adventures, and afterwards, as his mind unfolded, to study\nhis profession scientifically, we find him as soon as he was old enough\nto think for himself, or make others listen to him, 'amending the great\nerrors of naval sea cards, whose common fault is to make the degree of\nlongitude in every latitude of one common bigness;' inventing\ninstruments for taking observations, studying the form of the earth, and\nconvincing himself that there was a north-west passage, and studying the\nnecessities of his country, and discovering the remedies for them in\ncolonisation and extended markets for home manufactures. Gilbert was\nexamined before the Queen's Majesty and the Privy Council, and the\nrecord of his examination he has himself left to us in a paper which he\nafterwards drew up, and strange enough reading it is. The most admirable\nconclusions stand side by side with the wildest conjectures.\n\nHomer and Aristotle are pressed into service to prove that the ocean\nruns round the three old continents, and that America therefore is\nnecessarily an island. The Gulf Stream, which he had carefully observed,\neked out by a theory of the _primum mobile_, is made to demonstrate a\nchannel to the north, corresponding to Magellan's Straits in the south,\nGilbert believing, in common with almost everyone of his day, that these\nstraits were the only opening into the Pacific, and the land to the\nSouth was unbroken to the Pole. He prophesies a market in the East for\nour manufactured linen and calicoes:--\n\n    The Easterns greatly prizing the same, as appeareth in Hester, where\n    the pomp is expressed of the great King of India, Ahasuerus, who\n    matched the coloured clothes wherewith his houses and tents were\n    apparelled, with gold and silver, as part of his greatest treasure.\n\nThese and other such arguments were the best analysis which Sir Humfrey\nhad to offer of the spirit which he felt to be working in him. We may\nthink what we please of them; but we can have but one thought of the\ngreat grand words with which the memorial concludes, and they alone\nwould explain the love which Elizabeth bore him:--\n\n    Never, therefore, mislike with me for taking in hand any laudable\n    and honest enterprise, for if through pleasure or idleness we\n    purchase shame, the pleasure vanisheth, but the shame abideth for\n    ever.\n\n    Give me leave, therefore, without offence, always to live and die in\n    this mind: that he is not worthy to live at all that, for fear or\n    danger of death, shunneth his country's service and his own honour,\n    seeing that death is inevitable and the fame of virtue immortal,\n    wherefore in this behalf _mutare vel timere sperno_.\n\nTwo voyages which he undertook at his own cost, which shattered his\nfortune, and failed, as they naturally might, since inefficient help or\nmutiny of subordinates, or other disorders, are inevitable conditions\nunder which more or less great men must be content to see their great\nthoughts mutilated by the feebleness of their instruments, did not\ndishearten him, and in June 1583 a last fleet of five ships sailed from\nthe port of Dartmouth, with commission from the queen to discover and\ntake possession from latitude 45 deg. to 50 deg. North--a voyage not a little\nnoteworthy, there being planted in the course of it the first English\ncolony west of the Atlantic. Elizabeth had a foreboding that she would\nnever see him again. She sent him a jewel as a last token of her favour,\nand she desired Raleigh to have his picture taken before he went.\n\nThe history of the voyage was written by a Mr. Edward Hayes, of\nDartmouth, one of the principal actors in it, and as a composition it is\nmore remarkable for fine writing than any very commendable thought in\nthe author. But Sir Humfrey's nature shines through the infirmity of his\nchronicler; and in the end, indeed, Mr. Hayes himself is subdued into a\nbetter mind. He had lost money by the voyage, and we will hope his\nhigher nature was only under a temporary eclipse. The fleet consisted\n(it is well to observe the ships and the size of them) of the 'Delight,'\n120 tons; the barque 'Raleigh,' 200 tons (this ship deserted off the\nLand's End); the 'Golden Hinde' and the 'Swallow,' 40 tons each; and the\n'Squirrel,' which was called the frigate, 10 tons. For the uninitiated\nin such matters, we may add, that if in a vessel the size of the last, a\nmember of the Yacht Club would consider that he had earned a club-room\nimmortality if he had ventured a run in the depth of summer from Cowes\nto the Channel Islands.\n\n    We were in all (says Mr. Hayes) 260 men, among whom we had of every\n    faculty good choice. Besides, for solace of our own people, and\n    allurement of the savages, we were provided of music in good\n    variety, not omitting the least toys, as morris dancers, hobby\n    horses, and May-like conceits to delight the savage people.\n\nThe expedition reached Newfoundland without accident. St. John's was\ntaken possession of, and a colony left there; and Sir Humfrey then set\nout exploring along the American coast to the south, he himself doing\nall the work in his little 10-ton cutter, the service being too\ndangerous for the larger vessels to venture on. One of these had\nremained at St. John's. He was now accompanied only by the 'Delight' and\nthe 'Golden Hinde,' and these two keeping as near the shore as they\ndared, he spent what remained of the summer examining every creek and\nbay, marking the soundings, taking the bearings of the possible\nharbours, and risking his life, as every hour he was obliged to risk it\nin such a service, in thus leading, as it were, the forlorn hope in the\nconquest of the New World. How dangerous it was we shall presently see.\nIt was towards the end of August.\n\n    The evening was fair and pleasant, yet not without token of storm to\n    ensue, and most part of this Wednesday night, like the swan that\n    singeth before her death, they in the 'Delight' continued in\n    sounding of drums and trumpets and fifes, also winding the cornets\n    and hautboys, and in the end of their jollity left with the battell\n    and ringing of doleful knells.\n\nTwo days after came the storm; the 'Delight' struck upon a bank, and\nwent down in sight of the other vessels, which were unable to render her\nany help. Sir Humfrey's papers, among other things, were all lost in\nher; at the time considered by him an irreparable misfortune. But it was\nlittle matter, he was never to need them. The 'Golden Hinde' and the\n'Squirrel' were now left alone of the five ships. The provisions were\nrunning short, and the summer season was closing. Both crews were on\nshort allowance; and with much difficulty Sir Humfrey was prevailed upon\nto be satisfied for the present with what he had done, and to lay off\nfor England.\n\n    So upon Saturday, in the afternoon, the 31st of August, we changed\n    our course, and returned back for England, at which very instant,\n    even in winding about, there passed along between us and the land,\n    which we now forsook, a very lion, to our seeming, in shape, hair,\n    and colour; not swimming after the manner of a beast by moving of\n    his feet, but rather sliding upon the water with his whole body,\n    except his legs, in sight, neither yet diving under and again\n    rising as the manner is of whales, porpoises, and other fish, but\n    confidently showing himself without hiding, notwithstanding that we\n    presented ourselves in open view and gesture to amaze him. Thus he\n    passed along, turning his head to and fro, yawning and gaping wide,\n    with ougly demonstration of long teeth and glaring eyes; and to\n    bidde us farewell, coming right against the 'Hinde,' he sent forth a\n    horrible voice, roaring and bellowing as doth a lion, which\n    spectacle we all beheld so far as we were able to discern the same,\n    as men prone to wonder at every strange thing. What opinion others\n    had thereof, and chiefly the General himself, I forbear to deliver.\n    But he took it for _Bonum Omen_, rejoicing that he was to war\n    against such an enemy, if it were the devil.\n\nWe have no doubt that he did think it was the devil; men in those days\nbelieving really that evil was more than a principle or a necessary\naccident, and that in all their labour for God and for right, they must\nmake their account to have to fight with the devil in his proper person.\nBut if we are to call it superstition, and if this were no devil in the\nform of a roaring lion, but a mere great seal or sea-lion, it is a more\ninnocent superstition to impersonate so real a power, and it requires a\nbolder heart to rise up against it and defy it in its living terror,\nthan to sublimate it away into a philosophical principle, and to forget\nto battle with it in speculating on its origin and nature. But to follow\nthe brave Sir Humfrey, whose work of fighting with the devil was now\nover, and who was passing to his reward. The 2nd of September the\nGeneral came on board the 'Golden Hinde' 'to make merry with us.' He\ngreatly deplored the loss of his books and papers, but he was full of\nconfidence from what he had seen, and talked with eagerness and warmth\nof the new expedition for the following spring. Apocryphal gold-mines\nstill occupying the minds of Mr. Hayes and others, they were persuaded\nthat Sir Humfrey was keeping to himself some such discovery which he had\nsecretly made, and they tried hard to extract it from him. They could\nmake nothing, however, of his odd, ironical answers, and their sorrow at\nthe catastrophe which followed is sadly blended with disappointment that\nsuch a secret should have perished. Sir Humfrey doubtless saw America\nwith other eyes than theirs, and gold-mines richer than California in\nits huge rivers and savannahs.\n\n    Leaving the issue of this good hope (about the gold), (continues Mr.\n    Hayes), to God, who only knoweth the truth thereof, I will hasten\n    to the end of this tragedy, which must be knit up in the person of\n    our General, and as it was God's ordinance upon him, even so the\n    vehement persuasion of his friends could nothing avail to divert him\n    from his wilful resolution of going in his frigate; and when he was\n    entreated by the captain, master, and others, his well-wishers in\n    the 'Hinde,' not to venture, this was his answer--'I will not\n    forsake my little company going homewards, with whom I have passed\n    so many storms and perils.'\n\nTwo-thirds of the way home they met foul weather and terrible seas,\n'breaking-short and pyramid-wise.' Men who had all their lives 'occupied\nthe sea' had never seen it more outrageous. 'We had also upon our\nmainyard an apparition of a little fier by night, which seamen do call\nCastor and Pollux.'\n\n    Monday the ninth of September, in the afternoon, the frigate was\n    near cast away oppressed by waves, but at that time recovered, and\n    giving forth signs of joy, the General, sitting abaft with a book in\n    his hand, cried out unto us in the 'Hinde' so often as we did\n    approach within hearing, 'We are as near to heaven by sea as by\n    land,' reiterating the same speech, well beseeming a soldier\n    resolute in Jesus Christ, as I can testify that he was. The same\n    Monday night, about twelve of the clock, or not long after, the\n    frigate being ahead of us in the 'Golden Hinde,' suddenly her lights\n    were out, whereof as it were in a moment we lost the sight; and\n    withal our watch cried, 'The General was cast away,' which was too\n    true.\n\n    Thus faithfully (concludes Mr. Hayes, in some degree rising above\n    himself) I have related this story, wherein some spark of the\n    knight's virtues, though he be extinguished, may happily appear; he\n    remaining resolute to a purpose honest and godly as was this, to\n    discover, possess, and reduce unto the service of God and Christian\n    piety, those remote and heathen countries of America. Such is the\n    infinite bounty of God, who from every evil deriveth good, that\n    fruit may grow in time of our travelling in these North-Western\n    lands (as has it not grown?), and the crosses, turmoils, and\n    afflictions, both in the preparation and execution of the voyage,\n    did correct the intemperate humours which before we noted to be in\n    this gentleman, and made unsavoury and less delightful his other\n    manifold virtues.\n\n    Thus as he was refined and made nearer unto the image of God, so it\n    pleased the Divine will to resume him unto Himself, whither both his\n    and every other high and noble mind have always aspired.\n\nSuch was Sir Humfrey Gilbert; still in the prime of his years when the\nAtlantic swallowed him. Like the gleam of a landscape lit suddenly for a\nmoment by the lightning, these few scenes flash down to us across the\ncenturies: but what a life must that have been of which this was the\nconclusion! We have glimpses of him a few years earlier, when he won his\nspurs in Ireland--won them by deeds which to us seem terrible in their\nruthlessness, but which won the applause of Sir Henry Sidney as too high\nfor praise or even reward. Chequered like all of us with lines of light\nand darkness, he was, nevertheless, one of a race which has ceased to\nbe. We look round for them, and we can hardly believe that the same\nblood is flowing in our veins. Brave we may still be, and strong perhaps\nas they, but the high moral grace which made bravery and strength so\nbeautiful is departed from us for ever.\n\nOur space is sadly limited for historical portrait painting; but we must\nfind room for another of that Greenaway party whose nature was as fine\nas that of Gilbert, and who intellectually was more largely gifted. The\nlatter was drowned in 1583. In 1585 John Davis left Dartmouth on his\nfirst voyage into the Polar seas; and twice subsequently he went again,\nventuring in small ill-equipped vessels of thirty or forty tons into the\nmost dangerous seas. These voyages were as remarkable for their success\nas for the daring with which they were accomplished, and Davis's epitaph\nis written on the map of the world, where his name still remains to\ncommemorate his discoveries. Brave as he was, he is distinguished by a\npeculiar and exquisite sweetness of nature, which, from many little\nfacts of his life, seems to have affected everyone with whom he came in\ncontact in a remarkable degree. We find men, for the love of Master\nDavis, leaving their firesides to sail with him, without other hope or\nmotion; we find silver bullets cast to shoot him in a mutiny; the hard\nrude natures of the mutineers being awed by something in his carriage\nwhich was not like that of a common man. He has written the account of\none of his northern voyages himself; one of those, by-the-by, which the\nHakluyt Society have mutilated; and there is an imaginative beauty in\nit, and a rich delicacy of expression, which is called out in him by the\nfirst sight of strange lands and things and people.\n\nTo show what he was, we should have preferred, if possible, to have\ntaken the story of his expedition into the South Seas, in which, under\ncircumstances of singular difficulty, he was deserted by Candish, under\nwhom he had sailed; and after inconceivable trials from famine, mutiny,\nand storm, ultimately saved himself and his ship, and such of the crew\nas had chosen to submit to his orders. But it is a long history, and\nwill not admit of being curtailed. As an instance of the stuff of which\nit was composed, he ran back in the black night in a gale of wind\nthrough the Straits of Magellan, _by a chart which he had made with the\neye in passing up_. His anchors were lost or broken; the cables were\nparted. He could not bring up the ship; there was nothing for it but to\nrun, and he carried her safe through along a channel often not three\nmiles broad, sixty miles from end to end, and twisting like the reaches\nof a river.\n\nFor the present, however, we are forced to content ourselves with a few\nsketches out of the north-west voyages. Here is one, for instance, which\nshows how an Englishman could deal with the Indians. Davis had landed at\nGilbert's Sound, and gone up the country exploring. On his return he\nfound his crew loud in complaints of the thievish propensities of the\nnatives, and urgent to have an example made of some of them. On the next\noccasion he fired a gun at them with blank cartridge; but their nature\nwas still too strong for them.\n\n    Seeing iron (he says), they could in no case forbear stealing;\n    which, when I perceived, it did but minister to me occasion of\n    laughter to see their simplicity, and I willed that they should not\n    be hardly used, but that our company should be more diligent to keep\n    their things, supposing it to be very hard in so short a time to\n    make them know their evils.\n\nIn his own way, however, he took an opportunity of administering a\nlesson to them of a more wholesome kind than could be given with\ngunpowder and bullets. Like the rest his countrymen, he believed the\nsavage Indians in their idolatries to be worshippers of the devil. 'They\nare witches,' he says; 'they have images in great store, and use many\nkinds of enchantments.' And these enchantments they tried on one\noccasion to put in force against himself and his crew.\n\n    Being on shore on the 4th day of July, one of them made a long\n    oration, and then kindled a fire, into which with many strange words\n    and gestures he put divers things, which we supposed to be a\n    sacrifice. Myself and certain of my company standing by, they\n    desired us to go into the smoke. I desired them to go into the\n    smoke, which they would by no means do. I then took one of them and\n    thrust him into the smoke, and willed one of my company to tread out\n    the fire, and spurn it into the sea, which was done to show them\n    that we did contemn their sorceries.\n\nIt is a very English story--exactly what a modern Englishman would do;\nonly, perhaps, not believing that there was any real devil in the case,\nwhich makes a difference. However, real or not real, after seeing him\npatiently put up with such an injury, we will hope the poor Greenlander\nhad less respect for the devil than formerly.\n\nLeaving Gilbert's Sound, Davis went on to the north-west, and in lat.\n63 deg. fell in with a barrier of ice, which he coasted for thirteen days\nwithout finding an opening. The very sight of an iceberg was new to all\nhis crew; and the ropes and shrouds, though it was midsummer, becoming\ncompassed with ice,--\n\n    The people began to fall sick and faint-hearted--whereupon, very\n    orderly, with good discretion, they entreated me to regard the\n    safety of mine own life, as well as the preservation of theirs; and\n    that I should not, through overbouldness, leave their widows and\n    fatherless children to give me bitter curses.\n\n    Whereupon, seeking counsel of God, it pleased His Divine Majesty to\n    move my heart to prosecute that which I hope shall be to His glory,\n    and to the contentation of every Christian mind.\n\nHe had two vessels--one of some burthen, the other a pinnace of thirty\ntons. The result of the counsel which he had sought was, that he made\nover his own large vessel to such as wished to return, and himself,\n'thinking it better to die with honour than to return with infamy,' went\non, with such volunteers as would follow him, in a poor leaky cutter, up\nthe sea now in commemoration of that adventure called Davis's Straits.\nHe ascended 4 deg. North of the furthest known point, among storms and\nicebergs, when the long days and twilight nights alone saved him from\nbeing destroyed, and, coasting back along the American shore, he\ndiscovered Hudson's Straits, supposed then to be the long-desired\nentrance into the Pacific. This exploit drew the attention of\nWalsingham, and by him Davis was presented to Burleigh, 'who was also\npleased to show him great encouragement.' If either these statesmen or\nElizabeth had been twenty years younger, his name would have filled a\nlarger space in history than a small corner of the map of the world;\nbut if he was employed at all in the last years of the century, no\n_vates sacer_ has been found to celebrate his work, and no clue is left\nto guide us. He disappears; a cloud falls over him. He is known to have\ncommanded trading vessels in the Eastern seas, and to have returned five\ntimes from India. But the details are all lost, and accident has only\nparted the clouds for a moment to show us the mournful setting with\nwhich he, too, went down upon the sea.\n\nIn taking out Sir Edward Michellthorne to India, in 1604, he fell in\nwith a crew of Japanese, whose ship had been burnt, drifting at sea,\nwithout provisions, in a leaky junk. He supposed them to be pirates, but\nhe did not choose to leave them to so wretched a death, and took them on\nboard; and in a few hours, watching their opportunity, they murdered\nhim.\n\nAs the fool dieth, so dieth the wise, and there is no difference; it was\nthe chance of the sea, and the ill reward of a humane action--a\nmelancholy end for such a man--like the end of a warrior, not dying\nEpaminondas-like on the field of victory, but cut off in some poor brawl\nor ambuscade. But so it was with all these men. They were cut off in the\nflower of their days, and few of them laid their bones in the sepulchres\nof their fathers. They knew the service which they had chosen, and they\ndid not ask the wages for which they had not laboured. Life with them\nwas no summer holiday, but a holy sacrifice offered up to duty, and what\ntheir Master sent was welcome. Beautiful is old age--beautiful as the\nslow-dropping mellow autumn of a rich glorious summer. In the old man,\nnature has fulfilled her work; she loads him with her blessings; she\nfills him with the fruits of a well-spent life; and, surrounded by his\nchildren and his children's children, she rocks him softly away to a\ngrave, to which he is followed with blessings. God forbid we should not\ncall it beautiful. It is beautiful, but not the most beautiful. There is\nanother life, hard, rough, and thorny, trodden with bleeding feet and\naching brow; the life of which the cross is the symbol; a battle which\nno peace follows, this side the grave; which the grave gapes to finish,\nbefore the victory is won; and--strange that it should be so--this is\nthe highest life of man. Look back along the great names of history;\nthere is none whose life has been other than this. They to whom it has\nbeen given to do the really highest work in this earth--whoever they\nare, Jew or Gentile, Pagan or Christian, warriors, legislators,\nphilosophers, priests, poets, kings, slaves--one and all, their fate has\nbeen the same--the same bitter cup has been given to them to drink. And\nso it was with the servants of England in the sixteenth century. Their\nlife was a long battle, either with the elements or with men; and it was\nenough for them to fulfil their work, and to pass away in the hour when\nGod had nothing more to bid them do. They did not complain, and why\nshould we complain for them? Peaceful life was not what they desired,\nand an honourable death had no terrors for them. Theirs was the old\nGrecian spirit, and the great heart of the Theban poet lived again in\nthem:--\n\n    [Greek:\n    Thanein d' hoisin ananka, ti ke tis anonumon\n    geras en skoto kathemenos hepsoi matan,\n    hapanton kalon ammoros?]\n\n'Seeing,' in Gilbert's own brave words, 'that death is inevitable, and\nthe fame of virtue is immortal; wherefore in this behalf _mutare vel\ntimere sperno_.'\n\nIn the conclusion of these light sketches we pass into an element\ndifferent from that in which we have been lately dwelling. The scenes in\nwhich Gilbert and Davis played out their high natures were of the kind\nwhich we call peaceful, and the enemies with which they contended were\nprincipally the ice and the wind, and the stormy seas and the dangers of\nunknown and savage lands. We shall close amidst the roar of cannon, and\nthe wrath and rage of battle. Hume, who alludes to the engagement which\nwe are going to describe, speaks of it in a tone which shows that he\nlooked at it as something portentous and prodigious; as a thing to\nwonder at--but scarcely as deserving the admiration which we pay to\nactions properly within the scope of humanity--and as if the energy\nwhich was displayed in it was like the unnatural strength of madness. He\ndoes not say this, but he appears to feel it; and he scarcely would have\nfelt it if he had cared more deeply to saturate himself with the temper\nof the age of which he was writing. At the time, all England and all the\nworld rang with the story. It struck a deeper terror, though it was but\nthe action of a single ship, into the hearts of the Spanish people; it\ndealt a more deadly blow upon their fame and moral strength than the\ndestruction of the Armada itself; and in the direct results which arose\nfrom it, it was scarcely less disastrous to them. Hardly, as it seems to\nus, if the most glorious actions which are set like jewels in the\nhistory of mankind are weighed one against the other in the balance,\nhardly will those 300 Spartans who in the summer morning sate 'combing\ntheir long hair for death' in the passes of Thermopylae, have earned a\nmore lofty estimate for themselves than this one crew of modern\nEnglishmen.\n\nIn August 1591, Lord Thomas Howard, with six English line-of-battle\nships, six victuallers, and two or three pinnaces, was lying at anchor\nunder the Island of Florez. Light in ballast and short of water, with\nhalf his men disabled by sickness, Howard was unable to pursue the\naggressive purpose on which he had been sent out. Several of the ships'\ncrews were on shore: the ships themselves 'all pestered and rommaging,'\nwith everything out of order. In this condition they were surprised by a\nSpanish fleet consisting of 53 men-of-war. Eleven out of the twelve\nEnglish ships obeyed the signal of the admiral, to cut or weigh their\nanchors and escape as they might. The twelfth, the 'Revenge,' was unable\nfor the moment to follow. Of her crew of 190, ninety were sick on shore,\nand, from the position of the ship, there was some delay and difficulty\nin getting them on board. The 'Revenge' was commanded by Sir Richard\nGrenville, of Bideford, a man well known in the Spanish seas, and the\nterror of the Spanish sailors; so fierce he was said to be, that mythic\nstories passed from lip to lip about him, and, like Earl Talbot or\nCoeur de Lion, the nurses at the Azores frightened children with the\nsound of his name. 'He was of great revenues, of his own inheritance,'\nthey said, 'but of unquiet mind, and greatly affected to wars;' and from\nhis uncontrollable propensities for blood-eating, he had volunteered his\nservices to the queen; 'of so hard a complexion was he, that I (John\nHuighen von Linschoten, who is our authority here, and who was with the\nSpanish fleet after the action) have been told by divers credible\npersons who stood and beheld him, that he would carouse three or four\nglasses of wine, and take the glasses between his teeth and crush them\nin pieces and swallow them down.' Such Grenville was to the Spaniard. To\nthe English he was a goodly and gallant gentleman, who had never turned\nhis back upon an enemy, and was remarkable in that remarkable time for\nhis constancy and daring. In this surprise at Florez he was in no haste\nto fly. He first saw all his sick on board and stowed away on the\nballast; and then, with no more than 100 men left him to fight and work\nthe ship, he deliberately weighed, uncertain, as it seemed at first,\nwhat he intended to do. The Spanish fleet were by this time on his\nweather bow, and he was persuaded (we here take his cousin Raleigh's\nbeautiful narrative, and follow it in Raleigh's words) 'to cut his\nmainsail and cast about, and trust to the sailing of the ship:'--\n\n    But Sir Richard utterly refused to turn from the enemy, alledging\n    that he would rather choose to die than to dishonour himself, his\n    country, and her Majesty's ship, persuading his company that he\n    would pass through their two squadrons in spite of them, and enforce\n    those of Seville to give him way: which he performed upon diverse of\n    the foremost, who, as the mariners term it, sprang their luff, and\n    fell under the lee of the 'Revenge.' But the other course had been\n    the better; and might right well have been answered in so great an\n    impossibility of prevailing: notwithstanding, out of the greatness\n    of his mind, he could not be persuaded.\n\nThe wind was light; the 'San Philip,' 'a huge high-carged ship' of 1,500\ntons, came up to windward of him, and, taking the wind out of his sails,\nran aboard him.\n\n    After the 'Revenge' was entangled with the 'San Philip,' four others\n    boarded her, two on her larboard and two on her starboard. The fight\n    thus beginning at three o'clock in the afternoon continued very\n    terrible all that evening. But the great 'San Philip,' having\n    received the lower tier of the 'Revenge,' shifted herself with all\n    diligence from her sides, utterly misliking her first entertainment.\n    The Spanish ships were tilled with soldiers, in some 200, besides\n    the mariners, in some 500, in others 800. In ours there were none at\n    all, besides the mariners, but the servants of the commander and\n    some few voluntary gentlemen only. After many enterchanged vollies\n    of great ordnance and small shot, the Spaniards deliberated to enter\n    the 'Revenge,' and made divers attempts, hoping to force her by the\n    multitude of their armed soldiers and musketeers; but were still\n    repulsed again and again, and at all times beaten back into their\n    own ship or into the sea. In the beginning of the fight the 'George\n    Noble,' of London, having received some shot through her by the\n    Armadas, fell under the lee of the 'Revenge,' and asked Sir Richard\n    what he would command him; but being one of the victuallers, and of\n    small force, Sir Richard bade him save himself and leave him to his\n    fortune.\n\nThis last was a little touch of gallantry, which we should be glad to\nremember with the honour due to the brave English sailor who commanded\nthe 'George Noble;' but his name has passed away, and his action is an\n_in memoriam_, on which time has effaced the writing. All that August\nnight the fight continued, the stars rolling over in their sad majesty,\nbut unseen through the sulphurous clouds which hung over the scene. Ship\nafter ship of the Spaniards came on upon the 'Revenge,' 'so that never\nless than two mighty galleons were at her side and aboard her,' washing\nup like waves upon a rock, and falling foiled and shattered back amidst\nthe roar of the artillery. Before morning fifteen several Armadas had\nassailed her, and all in vain; some had been sunk at her side; and the\nrest, 'so ill approving of their entertainment, that at break of day\nthey were far more willing to hearken to a composition, than hastily to\nmake more assaults or entries.' 'But as the day increased,' says\nRaleigh, 'so our men decreased; and as the light grew more and more, by\nso much the more grew our discomfort, for none appeared in sight but\nenemies, save one small ship called the \"Pilgrim,\" commanded by Jacob\nWhiddon, who hovered all night to see the success, but in the morning,\nbearing with the \"Revenge,\" was hunted like a hare among many ravenous\nhounds--but escaped.'\n\nAll the powder in the 'Revenge' was now spent, all her pikes were\nbroken, 40 out of her 100 men killed, and a great number of the rest\nwounded. Sir Richard, though badly hurt early in the battle, never\nforsook the deck till an hour before midnight; and was then shot through\nthe body while his wounds were being dressed, and again in the head. His\nsurgeon was killed while attending on him; the masts were lying over the\nside, the rigging cut or broken, the upper works all shot in pieces, and\nthe ship herself, unable to move, was settling slowly in the sea; the\nvast fleet of Spaniards lying round her in a ring, like dogs round a\ndying lion, and wary of approaching him in his last agony. Sir Richard,\nseeing that it was past hope, having fought for fifteen hours, and\n'having by estimation eight hundred shot of great artillery through\nhim,' 'commanded the master gunner, whom he knew to be a most resolute\nman, to split and sink the ship, that thereby nothing might remain of\nglory or victory to the Spaniards; seeing in so many hours they were not\nable to take her, having had above fifteen hours' time, above ten\nthousand men, and fifty-three men-of-war to perform it withal; and\npersuaded the company, or as many as he could induce, to yield\nthemselves unto God and to the mercy of none else; but as they had, like\nvaliant resolute men, repulsed so many enemies, they should not now\nshorten the honour of their nation by prolonging their own lives for a\nfew hours or a few days.'\n\nThe gunner and a few others consented. But such [Greek: daimonie arete]\nwas more than could be expected of ordinary seamen. They had dared do\nall which did become men, and they were not more than men. Two Spanish\nships had gone down, above 1,500 of their crew were killed, and the\nSpanish admiral could not induce any one of the rest of his fleet to\nboard the 'Revenge' again, 'doubting lest Sir Richard would have blown\nup himself and them, knowing his dangerous disposition.' Sir Richard\nlying disabled below, the captain, 'finding the Spaniards as ready to\nentertain a composition as they could be to offer it,' gained over the\nmajority of the surviving company; and the remainder then drawing back\nfrom the master gunner, they all, without further consulting their dying\ncommander, surrendered on honourable terms. If unequal to the English in\naction, the Spaniards were at least as courteous in victory. It is due\nto them to say, that the conditions were faithfully observed; and 'the\nship being marvellous unsavourie,' Alonzo de Bacon, the Spanish admiral,\nsent his boat to bring Sir Richard on board his own vessel.\n\nSir Richard, whose life was fast ebbing away, replied that 'he might do\nwith his body what he list, for that he esteemed it not;' and as he was\ncarried out of the ship he swooned, and reviving again, desired the\ncompany to pray for him.\n\nThe admiral used him with all humanity, 'commending his valour and\nworthiness, being unto them a rare spectacle, and a resolution seldom\napproved.' The officers of the fleet, too, John Higgins tells us,\ncrowded round to look at him; and a new fight had almost broken out\nbetween the Biscayans and the 'Portugals,' each claiming the honour of\nhaving boarded the 'Revenge.'\n\n    In a few hours Sir Richard, feeling his end approaching, showed not\n    any sign of faintness, but spake these words in Spanish, and said,\n    'Here die I, Richard Grenville, with a joyful and quiet mind, for\n    that I have ended my life as a true soldier ought to do that hath\n    fought for his country, queen, religion, and honour. Whereby my soul\n    most joyfully departeth out of this body, and shall always leave\n    behind it an everlasting fame of a valiant and true soldier that\n    hath done his duty as he was bound to do.' When he had finished\n    these or other such like words, he gave up the ghost with great and\n    stout courage, and no man could perceive any sign of heaviness in\n    him.\n\nSuch was the fight at Florez, in that August of 1591, without its equal\nin such of the annals of mankind as the thing which we call history has\npreserved to us; scarcely equalled by the most glorious fate which the\nimagination of Barrere could invent for the 'Vengeur.' Nor did the\nmatter end without a sequel awful as itself. Sea battles have been often\nfollowed by storms, and without a miracle; but with a miracle, as the\nSpaniards and the English alike believed, or without one, as we moderns\nwould prefer believing, 'there ensued on this action a tempest so\nterrible as was never seen or heard the like before.' A fleet of\nmerchantmen joined the Armada immediately after the battle, forming in\nall 140 sail; and of these 140, only 32 ever saw Spanish harbour. The\nrest foundered, or were lost on the Azores. The men-of-war had been so\nshattered by shot as to be unable to carry sail; and the 'Revenge'\nherself, disdaining to survive her commander, or as if to complete his\nown last baffled purpose, like Samson, buried herself and her 200 prize\ncrew under the rocks of St. Michael's.\n\n    And it may well be thought and presumed (says John Huighen) that it\n    was no other than a just plague purposely sent upon the Spaniards;\n    and that it might be truly said, the taking of the 'Revenge' was\n    justly revenged on them; and not by the might or force of man, but\n    by the power of God. As some of them openly said in the Isle of\n    Terceira, that they believed verily God would consume them, and that\n    he took part with the Lutherans and heretics ... saying further,\n    that so soon as they had thrown the dead body of the Vice-Admiral\n    Sir Richard Grenville overboard, they verily thought that as he had\n    a devilish faith and religion, and therefore the devil loved him, so\n    he presently sunk into the bottom of the sea and down into hell,\n    where he raised up all the devils to the revenge of his death, and\n    that they brought so great a storm and torments upon the Spaniards,\n    because they only maintained the Catholic and Romish religion. Such\n    and the like blasphemies against God they ceased not openly to\n    utter.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[U] _Westminster Review_, 1853.\n\n[V] This essay was written 15 years ago.\n\n[W] Here is the old stanza. Let whoever is disposed to think us too hard\non Captain Bethune compare them:--\n\n    'For Wetharrington my harte was wo,\n      That even he slayne sholde be;\n    For when both his leggis were hewen in to,\n      He knyled and fought on his knee.'\n\nEven Percy, who, on the whole, thinks well of the modern ballad, gives\nup this stanza as hopeless.\n\n\n\n\nHOMER.[X]\n\n\nTroy fell before the Greeks; and in its turn the war of Troy is now\nfalling before the critics. That ten years' death-struggle, in which the\nimmortals did not disdain to mingle--those massive warriors, with their\ngrandeur and their chivalry, have, 'like an unsubstantial pageant,\nfaded' before the wand of these modern enchanters; and the Iliad and the\nOdyssey, and the other early legends, are discovered to be no more than\nthe transparent myths of an old cosmogony, the arabesques and frescoes\nwith which the imagination of the Ionian poets set off and ornamented\nthe palace of the heavens, the struggle of the earth with the seasons,\nand the labours of the sun through his twelve signs.\n\nNay, with Homer himself it was likely at one time to have fared no\nbetter. His works, indeed, were indestructible, yet if they could not be\ndestroyed, they might be disorganised; and with their instinctive hatred\nof facts, the critics fastened on the historical existence of the poet.\nThe origin of the poems was distributed among the clouds of pre-historic\nimagination; and--instead of a single inspired Homer for their author,\nwe were required to believe in some extraordinary spontaneous\ngeneration, or in some collective genius of an age which ignorance had\npersonified.\n\nBut the person of a poet has been found more difficult of elimination\nthan a mere fact of history. Facts, it was once said, were stubborn\nthings; but in our days we have changed all that; a fact, under the\nknife of a critic, splits in pieces, and is dissected out of belief with\nincredible readiness. The helpless thing lies under his hand like a\nfoolish witness in a law court, when browbeaten by an unscrupulous\nadvocate, and is turned about and twisted this way and that way, till\nin its distraction it contradicts itself, and bears witness against\nitself; and to escape from torture, at last flies utterly away, itself\nhalf doubting its own existence.\n\nBut it requires more cunning weapons to destroy a Homer; like his own\nimmortals, he may be wounded, but he cannot have the life carved out of\nhim by the prosaic strokes of common men. His poems have but to be\ndisintegrated to unite again, so strong are they in the individuality of\ntheir genius. The singleness of their structure--the unity of\ndesign--the distinctness of drawing in the characters--the inimitable\npeculiarities of manner in each of them, seem to place beyond serious\nquestion, after the worst onslaught of the Wolfian critics, that both\nIliad and Odyssey, whether or not the work of the same mind, are at\nleast each of them singly the work of one.\n\nLet them leave us Homer, however, and on the rank and file of facts they\nmay do their worst; we can be indifferent to, or even thankful for, what\nslaughter they may make. In the legends of the Theogonia, in that of\nZeus and Cronus, for instance, there is evidently a metaphysical\nallegory; in the legends of Persephone, or of the Dioscuri, a physical\none; in that of Athene, a profoundly philosophical one; and fused as the\nentire system was in the intensely poetical conception of the early\nthinkers, it would be impossible, even if it were desirable, at this\ntime of day, to disentangle the fibres of all these various elements.\nFact and theory, the natural and the supernatural, the legendary and the\nphilosophical, shade off so imperceptibly one into the other, in the\nstories of the Olympians, or of their first offspring, that we can never\nassure ourselves that we are on historic ground, or that, antecedent to\nthe really historic age, there is any such ground to be found anywhere.\nThe old notion, that the heroes were deified men, is no longer tenable.\nWith but few exceptions, we can trace their names as the names of the\nold gods of the Hellenic or Pelasgian races; and if they appeared later\nin human forms, they descended from Olympus to assume them. Diomed was\nthe OEtolian sun-god; Achilles was worshipped in Thessaly long before\nhe became the hero of the tale of Troy. The tragedy of the house of\nAtreus, and the bloody bath of Agamemnon, as we are now told with\nappearance of certainty,[Y] are humanised stories of the physical\nstruggle of the opposing principles of life and death, light and\ndarkness, night and day, winter and summer.\n\nAnd let them be so; we need not be sorry to believe that there is no\nsubstantial basis for these tales of crime. The history of mankind is\nnot so pure but that we can afford to lose a few dark pages out of the\nrecord. Let it be granted that of the times which Homer sung\nhistorically we know nothing literal at all--not any names of any kings,\nof any ministers, wars, intrigues, revolutions, crimes. They are all\ngone--dead--passed away; their vacant chronicles may be silent as the\ntombs in which their bones are buried. Of such stuff as that with which\nhistorians fill their pages there is no trace; it is a blank, vacant as\nthe annals of the Hottentot or of the Red Indian. Yet when all is said,\nthere remain still to us in Homer's verse, materials richer, perhaps,\nthan exist for any period of the ancient world, richer than even for the\nbrilliant days of Pericles, or of the Caesars, to construct a history of\nanother kind--a history, a picture not of the times of which he sang,\nbut of the men among whom he lived. How they acted; how they thought,\ntalked, and felt; what they made of this earth, and of their place in\nit; their private life and their public life; men and women; masters and\nservants; rich and poor--we have it all delineated in the marvellous\nverse of a poet who, be he what he may, was in this respect the greatest\nwhich the earth has ever seen. In extent, the information is little\nenough; but in the same sense as it has been said that an hour at an\nAthenian supper-party would teach us more Grecian life and character\nthan all Aristophanes, Homer's pictures of life and manners are so\nliving, so distinct, so palpable, that a whole prose encyclopaedia of\ndisconnected facts could give us nothing like them. It is the marvellous\nproperty of verse--one, if we rightly consider it, which would excuse\nany superstition on the origin of language--that the metrical and\nrhythmic arrangement of syllable and sound is able to catch and express\nback to us, not the stories of actions, but the actions themselves, with\nall the feelings which inspire them; to call up human action, and all\nother outward things in which human hearts take interest--to produce\nthem, or to reproduce them, with a distinctness which shall produce the\nsame emotions which they would themselves produce when really existing.\nThe thing itself is made present before us by an exercise of creative\npower as genuine as that of Nature herself; which, perhaps, is but the\nsame power manifesting itself at one time in words, at another in\noutward phenomena. Whatever be the cause, the fact is so. Poetry has\nthis life-giving power, and prose has it not; and thus the poet is the\ntruest historian. Whatever is properly valuable in history the poet\ngives us--not events and names, but emotion, but action, but life. He is\nthe heart of his age, and his verse expresses his age; and what matter\nis it by what name he describes his places or his persons? What matter\nis it what his own name was, while we have himself, and while we have\nthe originals, from which he drew? The work and the life are all for\nwhich we need care, are all which can really interest us; the names are\nnothing. Though Phoeacia was a dream-land, or a symbol of the Elysian\nfields, yet Homer drew his material, his island, his palaces, his\nharbour, his gardens of perennial beauty, from those fair cities which\nlay along the shores of his own Ionia; and like his blind Demodocus,\nHomer doubtless himself sung those very hymns which now delight us so,\nin the halls of many a princely Alcinous.\n\nThe prose historian may give us facts and names; he may catalogue the\nsuccessions, and tell us long stories of battles, and of factions, and\nof political intrigues; he may draw characters for us, of the sort which\nfigure commonly in such features of human affairs, men of the unheroic,\nunpoetic kind--the Cleons, the Sejanuses, the Tiberiuses, a Philip the\nSecond or a Louis Quatorze, in whom the noble element died out into\nselfishness and vulgarity. But great men--and all MEN properly so called\n(whatever is genuine and natural in them)--lie beyond prose, and can\nonly be really represented by the poet. This is the reason why such men\nas Alexander, or as Caesar, or as Cromwell, so perplex us in histories,\nbecause they and their actions are beyond the scope of the art through\nwhich we have looked at them. We compare the man as the historian\nrepresents him, with the track of his path through the world. The work\nis the work of a giant; the man, stripped of the vulgar appendages with\nwhich the stunted imagination of his biographer may have set him off, is\nfull of meannesses and littlenesses, and is scarcely greater than one\nof ourselves. Prose, that is, has attempted something to which it is not\nequal. It describes a figure which it calls Caesar; but it is not Caesar,\nit is a monster. For the same reason, prose fictions, novels, and the\nlike, are worthless for more than a momentary purpose. The life which\nthey are able to represent is not worth representing. There is no person\nso poor in his own eyes as not to gaze with pleasure into a\nlooking-glass; and the prose age may value its own image in the novel.\nBut the value of all such representations is ephemeral. It is with the\npoet's art as with the sculptor's--sandstone will not carve like marble,\nits texture is too loose to retain a sharply moulded outline. The\nactions of men, if they are true, noble, and genuine, are strong enough\nto bear the form and bear the polish of verse; if loose or feeble, they\ncrumble away into the softer undulations of prose.\n\nWhat the life was whose texture bore shaping into Homer's verse, we\nintend to spend these pages in examining. It is, of course, properly to\nbe sought for in the poems themselves. But we shall here be concerned\nmainly with features which in the original are rather secondary than\nprominent, and which have to be collected out of fragments, here a line,\nand there a line, out of little hints, let fall by Homer as it were by\naccident. Things too familiar to his own hearers to require dwelling on,\nto us, whose object is to make out just those very things which were\nfamiliar, are of special and singular value. It is not an enquiry which\nwill much profit us, if we come to it with any grand notions of the\n'progress of the species,' for in many ways it will discourage the\nbelief in progress.\n\nWe have fallen into ways of talking of the childhood and infancy of the\nrace, as if no beards had grown on any face before the modern\nReformation; and even people who know what old Athens was under\nPericles, look commonly on earlier Greece as scarcely struggling out of\nits cradle. It would have fared so with all early history except for the\nBible. The Old Testament has operated partially to keep us in our modest\nsenses, and we can see something grand about the patriarchs; but this is\nowing to exceptional causes, which do not apply to other literature; and\nin spite of our admiration of Homer's poetry, we regard his age, and the\ncontemporary periods in the other people of the earth, as a kind of\nchildhood little better than barbarism. We look upon it, at all events,\nas too far removed in every essential of spirit or of form from our own,\nto enable us to feel for it any strong interest or sympathy. More or\nless, we have, every one of us, felt something of this kind. Homer's men\nare, at first sight, unlike any men that we have ever seen; and it is\nnot without a shock of surprise that, for the first time, we fall, in\nreading him, across some little trait of humanity which in form as well\nas spirit is really identical with our own experience. Then, for the\nmoment, all is changed with us--gleams of light flash out, in which the\ndrapery becomes transparent, and we see the human form behind it, and\nthat entire old world in the warm glow of flesh and blood. Such is the\neffect of those few child scenes of his, which throw us back into our\nold familiar childhood. With all these years between us, there is no\ndifference between their children and ours, and child would meet child\nwithout sense of strangeness in common games and common pleasures.\n\nThe little Ulysses climbing on the knees of his father's guest, coaxing\nfor a taste of the red wine, and spilling it as he starts at the unusual\ntaste; or that other most beautiful picture of him running at Laertes's\nside in the garden at Ithaca, the father teaching the boy the names of\nthe fruit-trees, and making presents to him of this tree and of that\ntree for his very own, to help him to remember what they were called;\nthe partition wall of three thousand years melts away as we look back at\nscenes like these; that broad, world-experienced man was once, then,\nsuch a little creature as we remember ourselves, and Laertes a calm,\nkind father of the nineteenth century. Then, as now, the children loved\nto sport upon the shore, and watch the inrolling waves;--then, as now,\nthe boy-architect would pile the moist sand into mimic town or castle,\nand when the work was finished, sweep it away again in wanton humour\nwith foot and hand;--then, as now, the little tired maiden would cling\nto her mother's skirt, and, trotting painfully along beside her, look up\nwistfully and plead with moist eyes to be carried in her arms. Nay, and\namong the grown ones, where time has not changed the occupation, and the\nforms of culture have little room to vary, we meet again with very\nfamiliar faces. There is Melantho, the not over-modest tittering\nwaiting-maid--saucy to her mistress and the old housekeeper, and always\nrunning after the handsome young princes. Unhappy Melantho, true child\nof universal nature! grievous work we should make with most households,\nif all who resemble thee were treated to as rough a destiny. And there\nare other old friends whom it is pleasant enough to recognise at so long\na distance. 'Certain smooth-haired, sleek-faced fellows--insolent where\ntheir lords would permit them; inquisitive and pert, living but to eat\nand drink, and pilfering the good things, to convey them stealthily to\ntheir friends outside the castle wall.' The thing that hath been, that\nshall be again. When Homer wrote, the type had settled into its long\nenduring form. 'Such are they,' he adds, in his good-natured irony, 'as\nthe valet race ever love to be.'\n\nWith such evidence of identity among us all, it is worth while to look\ncloser at the old Greeks, to try to find in Homer something beyond fine\npoetry, or exciting adventures, or battle-scenes, or material for\nscholarship; for awhile to set all that aside, and look in him for the\nstory of real living men--set to pilgrimise in the old way on the same\nold earth--men such as we are, children of one family, with the same\nwork to do, to live the best life they could, and to save their\nsouls--with the same trials, the same passions, the same difficulties,\nif with weaker means of meeting them.\n\nAnd first for their religion.\n\nLet those who like it, lend their labour to the unravelling the secrets\nof the mythologies. Theogonies and Theologies are not religion; they are\nbut its historic dress and outward or formal expression, which, like a\nlanguage, may be intelligible to those who see the inward meaning in the\nsign, but no more than confused sound to us who live in another\natmosphere, and have no means of transferring ourselves into the\nsentiment of an earlier era. It is not in these forms of a day or of an\nage that we should look for the real belief--the real feelings of the\nheart; but in the natural expressions which burst out\nspontaneously--expressions of opinion on Providence, on the relation of\nman to God, on the eternal laws by which this world is governed. Perhaps\nwe misuse the word in speaking of religion; we ought rather to speak of\npiety: piety is always simple; the emotion is too vast, too\noverpowering, whenever it is genuine, to be nice or fantastic in its\nform; and leaving philosophies and cosmogonies to shape themselves in\nmyth and legend, it speaks itself out with a calm and humble clearness.\nWe may trifle with our own discoveries, and hand them over to the fancy\nor the imagination for elaborate decoration. We may shroud over supposed\nmysteries under an enigmatic veil, and adapt the degrees of initiation\nto the capacities of our pupils; but before the vast facts of God and\nProvidence, the difference between man and man dwarfs into nothing. They\nare no discoveries of our own with which we can meddle, but revelations\nof the Infinite, which, like the sunlight, shed themselves on all alike,\nwise and unwise, good and evil, and they claim and they permit no other\nacknowledgment from us than the simple obedience of our lives, and the\nplainest confession of our lips.\n\nSuch confessions, except in David's Psalms, we shall not anywhere find\nmore natural or unaffected than in Homer--most definite, yet never\nelaborate--as far as may be from any complimenting of Providence, yet\nexpressing the most unquestioning conviction. We shall not often\nremember them when we set about religion as a business; but when the\noccasions of life stir the feelings in us on which religion itself\nreposes, if we were as familiar with the Iliad as with the Psalms, the\nwords of the old Ionian singer would leap as naturally to our lips as\nthose of the Israelite king.\n\nZeus is not always the questionable son of Cronus, nor the gods always\nthe mythologic Olympians. Generally, it is true, they appear as a larger\norder of subject beings--beings like men, and subject to a higher\ncontrol--in a position closely resembling that of Milton's angels, and\nliable like them to passion and to error. But at times, the father of\ngods and men is the Infinite and Eternal Ruler--the living Providence of\nthe world--and the lesser gods are the immortal administrators of his\nDivine will throughout the lower creation. For ever at the head of the\nuniverse there is an awful spiritual power; when Zeus appears with a\ndistinct and positive personality, he is himself subordinate to an\nauthority which elsewhere is one with himself. Wherever either he or the\nother gods are made susceptible of emotion, the Invisible is beyond and\nabove them. When Zeus is the personal father of Sarpedon, and his\nprivate love conflicts with the law of the eternal order, though he has\npower to set aside the law, he dares not break it; but in the midst of\nhis immortality, and on his own awful throne, he weeps tears of blood in\nineffectual sorrow for his dying child. And again, there is a power\nsupreme both over Zeus and over Poseidon, of which Iris reminds the\nlatter, when she is sent to rebuke him for his disobedience to his\nbrother. It is a law, she says, that the younger shall obey the elder,\nand the Erinnys will revenge its breach even on a god.\n\nBut descending from the more difficult Pantheon among mankind, the\nDivine law of justice is conceived as clearly as we in this day can\nconceive it. The supreme power is the same immortal lover of justice and\nthe same hater of iniquity; and justice means what we mean by justice,\nand iniquity what we mean by iniquity. There is no diffidence, no\nscepticism on this matter; the moral law is as sure as day and night,\nsummer and winter. Thus in the sixteenth Iliad--\n\n'When in the market-place men deal unjustly, and the rulers decree\ncrooked judgment, not regarding the fear of God,' God sends the storm,\nand the earthquake, and the tempest, as the executors of his vengeance.\n\nAgain, Ulysses says--\n\n'God looks upon the children of men, and punishes the wrong-doer.'\n\nAnd Eumaeus--\n\n'The gods love not violence and wrong; but the man whose ways are\nrighteous, him they honour.'\n\nEven when as mere Olympians they put off their celestial nature, and mix\nin earthly strife, and are thus laid open to earthly suffering, a\nmystery still hangs about them; Diomed, even while he crosses the path\nof Ares, feels all the while 'that they are short-lived who contend with\nthe Immortals.' Ajax boasts that he will save himself in spite of\nheaven, and immediately the wave dashes him upon the rocks. One light\nword escaped Ulysses in the excitement of his escape from the Cyclops,\nwhich nine years of suffering hardly expiated.\n\nThe same spirit which teaches Christians that those who have no earthly\nfriend have specially a friend above to care for and to avenge them,\ntaught the Ionians a proverb which appears again and again in Homer,\nthat the stranger and the poor man are the patrimony of God; and it\ntaught them, also, that sometimes men entertained the Immortals\nunawares. It was a faith, too, which was more than words with them; for\nwe hear of no vagrant acts or alien acts, and it was sacrilege to turn\naway from the gate whoever asked its hospitality. Times are changed. The\nworld was not so crowded as it is now, and perhaps rogues were less\nabundant; but at any rate those antique Greeks did what they said. We\nsay what they said, while in the same breath we say, too, that it is\nimpossible to do it.\n\nIn every way, the dependence of man on a special heavenly Providence was\na matter of sure and certain conviction with them. Telemachus appeals to\nthe belief in the Council at Ithaca. He questions it at Pylos, and is at\nonce rebuked by Athene. Both in Iliad and Odyssey to live justly is the\nsteady service which the gods require, and their favour as surely\nfollows when that service is paid, as a Nemesis sooner or later follows\nsurely, too, on the evil-doers.\n\nBut without multiplying evidence, as we easily might, from every part of\nboth Iliad and Odyssey, the sceptical and the believing forms of thought\nand feeling on this very subject are made points of dramatic contrast,\nto show off the opposition of two separate characters; and this is clear\nproof that such thoughts and feelings must have been familiar to Homer's\nhearers: if it were not so, his characters would have been without\ninterest to his age--they would have been individual, and not universal;\nand no expenditure of intellect, or passion, would have made men care to\nlisten to him. The two persons who throughout the Iliad stand out in\nrelief in contrast to each other are, of course, Hector and Achilles;\nand faith in God (as distinct from a mere recognition of him) is as\ndirectly the characteristic of Hector as in Achilles it is entirely\nabsent. Both characters are heroic, but the heroism in them springs from\nopposite sources. Both are heroic, because both are strong; but the\nstrength of one is in himself, and the strength of the other is in his\nfaith. Hector is a patriot; Achilles does not know what patriotism\nmeans;--Hector is full of tenderness and human affection; Achilles is\nself-enveloped. Even his love for Patroclus is not pure, for Patroclus\nis as the moon to the sun of Achilles, and Achilles sees his own glory\nreflected on his friend. They have both a forecast of their fate; but\nHector, in his great brave way, scoffs at omens; he knows that there is\na special providence in the fall of a sparrow, and defies augury. To do\nhis duty is the only omen for which Hector cares; and if death must be,\nhe can welcome it like a gallant man, if it find him fighting for his\ncountry. Achilles is moody, speculative, and subjective; he is too proud\nto attempt an ineffectual resistance to what he knows to be inevitable,\nbut he alternately murmurs at it and scorns it. Till his passion is\nstirred by his friend's death, he seems equally to disdain the greatness\nof life and the littleness of it; the glories of a hero are not worth\ndying for; and like Solomon, and almost in Solomon's words, he complains\nthat there is one event to all--\n\n    [Greek: En de ie time e men kakos ee kai esthlos.]\n\nTo gratify his own spleen, he will accept an inglorious age in Thessaly,\nin exchange for a hero's immortality; as again in the end it is but to\ngratify his own wounded pride that he goes out to brave a fate which he\nscorns while he knows that it will subdue him. Thus, Achilles is the\nhero of the stern human, self-sufficing spirit, which does not deny or\nquestion destiny, but seeing nothing in it except a cold, iron law,\nmeets force with force, and holds up against it an unbroken, unbending\nwill. Human nature is at its best but a miserable business to him; death\nand sorrow are its inevitable lot. As a brave man, he will not fear such\nthings, but he will not pretend to regard them as anything but\ndetestable; and he comforts the old, weeping king of Troy, whose age he\nwas himself bringing down to the grave in sorrow, with philosophic\nmeditations on the vanity of all things, and a picture of Zeus mixing\nthe elements of life out of the two urns of good and evil.\n\nTurn to Hector, and we turn from shadow into sunlight. Achilles is all\nself, Hector all self-forgetfulness; Achilles all pride, Hector all\nmodesty. The confidence of Achilles is in himself and in his own arm;\nHector knows (and the strongest expressions of the kind in all the Iliad\nare placed pointedly in Hector's mouth) that there is no strength except\nfrom above. 'God's will,' he says, 'is over all; he makes the strong man\nto fear, and gives the victory to the weak, if it shall please him.' And\nat last, when he meets Achilles, he answers his bitter words, not with a\ndefiance, but calmly saying, 'I know that thou art mighty, and that my\nstrength is far less than thine; but these things lie in the will of\nthe gods, and I, though weaker far than thou, may yet take thy life from\nthee, if the Immortals choose to have it so.'\n\nSo far, then, on the general fact of Divine Providence, the feeling of\nHomer, and therefore of his countrymen, is distinct. Both the great\npoems bearing his name speak in the same language. But beyond the\ngeneral fact, many questions rise in the application of the creed, and\non one of these (it is among several remarkable differences which seem\nto mark the Odyssey as of a later age) there is a very singular\ndiscrepancy. In the Iliad, the life of man on this side the grave is\nenough for the completion of his destiny--for his reward, if he lives\nnobly; for his punishment, if he be base or wicked. Without repinings or\nscepticisms at the apparent successes of bad men, the poet is contented\nwith what he finds, accepting cheerfully the facts of life as they are;\nit never seems to occur to him as seriously possible that a bad man\ncould succeed or a good one fail; and as the ways of Providence,\ntherefore, require no vindicating, neither his imagination nor his\ncuriosity tempts him into penetrating the future. The house of Hades is\nthe long home to which men go when dismissed out of their bodies; but it\nis a dim, shadowy place, of which we see nothing, and concerning which\nno conjectures are ventured. Achilles, in his passion over Patroclus,\ncries out, that although the dead forget the dead in the halls of the\ndeparted, yet that he will remember his friend; and through the Iliad\nthere is nothing clearer than these vague words to show with what hopes\nor fears the poet looked forward to death. So far, therefore, his faith\nmay seem imperfect; yet, perhaps, not the less noble because imperfect;\nreligious men in general are too well contented with the promise of a\nfuture life, as of a scene where the seeming shortcomings of the Divine\nadministration will be carried out with larger equity. But whether\nimperfect or not, or whatever be the account of the omission, the theory\nof Hades in the Odyssey is developed into far greater distinctness; the\nfuture is still, indeed, shadowy, but it is no longer uncertain; there\nis the dreadful prison-house, with the judge upon his throne--and the\ndarker criminals are overtaken by the vengeance which was delayed in\nlife. The thin phantoms of the great ones of the past flit to and fro,\nmourning wearily for their lost mortality, and feeding on its memory.\nAnd more than this, as if it were beginning to be felt that something\nmore was wanted after all to satisfy us with the completeness of the\nDivine rule, we have a glimpse--it is but one, but it is like a ray of\nsunshine falling in upon the darkness of the grave--'of the far-off\nElysian fields where dwells Rhadamanthus with the golden hair, where\nlife is ever sweet, and sorrow is not, nor winter, nor any rain or\nstorm, and the never-dying zephyrs blow soft and cool from off the\nocean.'\n\nHowever vague the filling up of such a picture, the outline is correct\nto the best which has been revealed even in Christianity, and it speaks\nnobly for the people among whom, even in germ, such ideas could root\nthemselves. But think what we will of their notions of the future, the\nold Greek faith, considered as a practical and not a theological system,\nis truly admirable, clear, rational, and moral; if it does not profess\nto deal with the mysteries of evil in the heart, it is prompt and stern\nwith them in their darker outward manifestations, and, as far as it\ngoes, as a guide in the common daily business of life, it scarcely\nleaves anything unsaid.\n\nHow far it went we shall see in the details of the life itself, the most\nimportant of which in the eyes of a modern will be the social\norganisation; and when he looks for organisation, he will be at once at\na loss, for he will find the fact of government yet without defined\nform;--he will find law, but without a public sword to enforce it; and a\n'social machine' moving without friction under the easy control of\nopinion. There are no wars of classes, no politics, no opposition of\ninterests, a sacred feeling of the will of the gods keeping every one in\nhis proper subordination. It was a sacred duty that the younger should\nobey the elder, that the servant should obey his master, that property\nshould be respected; in war, that the leader should be obeyed without\nquestioning; in peace, that public questions should be brought before\nthe assembly of the people, and settled quietly as the Council\ndetermined. In this assembly the prince presided, and beyond this\npresidency his authority at home does not seem to have extended. Of\ncourse there was no millennium in Ionia, and men's passions were pretty\nmuch what they are now. Without any organised means of repressing crime\nwhen it did appear, the people were exposed to, and often suffered\nunder, extreme forms of violence--violence such as that of the suitors\nat Ithaca, or of AEgisthus at Argos. On the other hand, what a state of\ncultivation it implies, what peace and comfort in all classes, when\nsociety could hold together for a day with no more complete defence.\nAnd, moreover, there are disadvantages in elaborate police systems.\nSelf-reliance is one of the highest virtues in which this world is\nintended to discipline us; and to depend upon ourselves even for our own\npersonal safety is a large element in moral training.\n\nBut not to dwell on this, and to pass to the way in which the men of\nthose days employed themselves.\n\nOur first boy's feeling with the Iliad is, that Homer is pre-eminently a\npoet of war; that battles were his own passion, and tales of battles the\ndelight of his listeners. His heroes appear like a great fighting\naristocracy, such as the after Spartans were, Homer himself like another\nTyrtaeus, and the poorer occupations of life too menial for their notice\nor for his. They seem to live for glory--the one glory worth caring for\nonly to be won upon the battle-field, and their exploits the one worthy\ntheme of the poet's song. This is our boyish impression, and, like other\nsuch, it is very different from the truth. If war had been a passion\nwith the Ionians, as it was with the Teutons and the Norsemen, the god\nof battles would have been supreme in the Pantheon; and Zeus would\nscarcely have called Ares the most hateful spirit in Olympus--most\nhateful, _because_ of his delight in war and carnage. Mr. Carlyle looks\nforward to a chivalry of labour. He rather wishes than expects that a\ntime may come when the campaign of industry against anarchic nature may\ngather into it those feelings of gallantry and nobleness which have\nfound their vent hitherto in fighting only. The modern man's work, Mr.\nCarlyle says, is no longer to splinter lances or break down walls, but\nto break soil, to build barns and factories, and to find a high\nemployment for himself in what hitherto has been despised as degrading.\nHow to elevate labour--how to make it beautiful--how to enlist the\n_spirit_ in it (for in no other way can it be made humanly profitable),\nthat is the problem which he looks wistfully to the future to solve for\nus. He may look to the past as well as to the future; in the old Ionia\nhe will find all for which he wishes. The wise Ulysses built his own\nhouse, and carved his own bed. Princes killed and cooked their own\nfood. It was a holy work with them--their way of saying grace for it;\nfor they offered the animal in his death to the gods, and they were not\nbutchers, but sacrificing priests. Even a keeper of swine is called\nnoble, and fights like a hero; and the young princess of Phoeacia--the\nloveliest and gracefullest of Homer's women--drove the clothes-cart and\nwashed linen with her own beautiful hands. Not only was labour free--for\nso it was among the early Romans; or honourable, so it was among the\nIsraelites,--but it was beautiful--beautiful in the artist's sense, as\nperhaps elsewhere it has never been. In later Greece--in what we call\nthe glorious period--toil had gathered about it its modern crust of\nsupposed baseness--it was left to slaves; and wise men, in their\nphilosophic lecture-rooms, spoke of it as unworthy of the higher\nspecimens of cultivated humanity.\n\nBut Homer finds, in its most homely forms, fit illustrations for the\nmost glorious achievements of his heroes; and in every page we find, in\nsimile or metaphor some common scene of daily life worked out with\nelaborate beauty. What the popular poet chooses for his illustrations\nare as good a measure as we can have of the popular feeling, and the\nimages which he suggests are, of course, what he knows his hearers will\nbe pleased to dwell upon. There is much to be said about this, and we\nshall return to it presently; in the meantime, we must not build on\nindirect evidence. The designs on the shield of Achilles are, together,\na complete picture of Homer's microcosm; Homer surely never thought\ninglorious or ignoble what the immortal art of Hephaistos condescended\nto imitate.\n\nThe first groups of figures point a contrast which is obviously\nintentional; and the significance becomes sadly earnest when we remember\nwho it was that was to bear the shield. The moral is a very modern one,\nand the picture might be called by the modern name of Peace and War.\nThere are two cities, embodying in their condition the two ideas. In\none, a happy wedding is going forward; the pomp of the hymeneal\nprocession is passing along the streets; the air is full of music, and\nthe women are standing at their doors to gaze. The other is in the\nterrors of a siege; the hostile armies glitter under the walls, the\nwomen and children press into the defence, and crowd to the\nbattlements. In the first city, a quarrel rises, and wrong is made\nright, not by violence and fresh wrong, but by the majesty of law and\norder. The heads of the families are sitting gravely in the\nmarket-place, the cause is heard, the compensation set, the claim\nawarded. Under the walls of the other city an ambush lies, like a wild\nbeast on the watch for its prey. The unsuspecting herdsmen pass on with\ntheir flocks to the waterside; the spoilers spring from their\nhiding-place, and all is strife, and death, and horror, and confusion.\nIf there were other war-scenes on the shield, it might be doubted\nwhether Homer intended so strong a contrast as he executed; but fighting\nfor its own sake was evidently held in slight respect with him. The\nforms of life which were really beautiful to him follow in a series of\nexquisite Rubens-like pictures: harvest scenes and village festivals;\nthe ploughing and the vintage, or the lion-hunt on the reedy margin of\nthe river; and he describes them with a serene, sunny enjoyment which no\nother old world art or poetry gives us anything in the least resembling.\nEven we ourselves, in our own pastorals, are struggling with but half\nsuccess, after what Homer entirely possessed. What a majesty he has\nthrown into his harvest scene! The yellow corn falling, the boys\nfollowing to gather up the large arms-full as they drop behind the\nreapers; in the distance a banquet preparing under the trees; in the\ncentre, in the midst of his workmen, the king sitting in mellow silence,\nsceptre in hand, looking on with gladdened heart. Again we see the\nploughmen, unlike what are to be seen in our corn-grounds, turning their\nteams at the end of the furrow, and attendants standing ready with the\nwine-cup, to hand to them as they pass. Homer had seen these things, or\nhe would not have sung of them; and princes and nobles might have shared\nsuch labour without shame, when kings took part in it, and gods designed\nit, and the divine Achilles bore its image among his insignia in the\nfield.\n\nAnalogous to this, and as part of the same feeling, is that intense\nenjoyment of natural scenery, so keen in Homer, and of which the\nAthenian poets show not a trace; as, for instance, in that night\nlandscape by the sea, finished off in a few lines only, but so\nexquisitely perfect! The broad moon, gleaming through the mist as it\nparts suddenly from off the sky; the crags and headlands, and soft\nwooded slopes, shining out in the silver light, and earth and sea\ntransformed into fairy land.\n\nWe spoke of Homer's similes as illustrative of the Ionic feelings about\nwar. War, of course, was glorious to him--but war in a glorious cause.\nWars there were--wars in plenty, as there have been since, and as it is\nlike there will be for some time to come; and a just war, of all human\nemployments, is the one which most calls out whatever nobleness there is\nin man. It was the thing itself, the actual fighting and killing, as\napart from the heroism for which it makes opportunities, for which we\nsaid that he showed no taste. His manner shows that he felt like a\ncultivated man, and not like a savage. His spirit stirs in him as he\ngoes out with his hero to the battle; but there is no drunken delight in\nblood; we never hear of warriors as in that grim Hall of the Nibelungen,\nquenching their thirst in the red stream; never anything of that fierce\nexultation in carnage with which the war poetry of so many nations, late\nand old, is crimsoned. Everything, on the contrary, is contrived so as\nto soften the merely horrible, and fix our interest only on what is\ngrand or beautiful. We are never left to dwell long together on scenes\nof death, and when the battle is at its fiercest, our minds are called\noff by the rapid introduction (either by simile or some softer turn of\nhuman feeling) of other associations, not contrived, as an inferior\nartist would contrive, to deepen our emotions, but to soften and relieve\nthem. Two warriors meet, and exchange their high words of defiance; we\nhear the grinding of the spear-head, as it pierces shield and\nbreast-plate, and the crash of the armour, as this or that hero falls.\nBut at once, instead of being left at his side to see him bleed, we are\nsummoned away to the soft water meadow, the lazy river, the tall poplar,\nnow waving its branches against the sky, now lying its length along in\nthe grass beside the water, and the woodcutter with peaceful industry\nlabouring and lopping at it.\n\nIn the thick of the universal melee, when the stones and arrows are\nraining on the combatants, and some furious hailstorm is the slightest\nillustration with which we should expect him to heighten the effect of\nthe human tempest, so sure Homer is that he has painted the thing itself\nin its own intense reality, that his simile is the stillest phenomenon\nin all nature--a stillness of activity, infinitely expressive of the\ndensity of the shower of missiles, yet falling like oil on water on the\nruffled picture of the battle; the snow descending in the _still_ air,\ncovering first hills, then plains and fields and farmsteads; covering\nthe rocks down to the very water's edge, and clogging the waves as they\nroll in. Again, in that fearful death-wrestle at the Grecian wall, when\ngates and battlements are sprinkled over with blood, and neither Greeks\nnor Trojans can force their way against the other, we have, first, as an\nimage of the fight itself, two men in the field, with measuring rods,\ndisputing over a land boundary; and for the equipoise of the two armies,\nthe softest of all home scenes, a poor working woman weighing out her\nwool before weaving it, to earn a scanty subsistence for herself and for\nher children. Of course the similes are not all of this kind; it would\nbe monotonous if they were; but they occur often enough to mark their\nmeaning. In the direct narrative, too, we see the same tendency.\nSarpedon struck through the thigh is borne off the field, the long spear\ntrailing from the wound, and there is too much haste to draw it out.\nHector flies past him and has no time to speak; all is dust, hurry, and\nconfusion. Even Homer can only pause for a moment, but in three lines he\nlays the wounded hero under a tree, he brings a dear friend to his side,\nand we refresh ourselves in a beautiful scene, when the lance is taken\nout, and Sarpedon faints, and comes slowly back to life, with the cool\nair fanning him. We may look in vain through the Nibelungen Lied for\nanything like this. The Swabian poet can be tender before the battle,\nbut in the battle itself his barbaric nature is too strong for him, and\nhe scents nothing but blood. In the Iliad, on the contrary, the very\nbattles of the gods, grand and awful as they are, relieve rather than\nincrease the human horror. In the magnificent scene, where Achilles,\nweary with slaughter, pauses on the bank of the Scamander, and the angry\nriver god, whose course is checked by the bodies of the slain, swells up\nto revenge them and destroy him, the natural and the supernatural are so\nstrangely blended, that when Poseidon lights the forest, and god meets\ngod and element meets element, the convulsion is too tremendous to\nenhance the fierceness of Achilles; it concentrates the interest on\nitself, and Achilles and Hector, flying Trojan and pursuing Greek, for\nthe time melt out and are forgotten.\n\nWe do not forget that there is nothing of this kind, no relief, no\nsoftening, in the great scene at the conclusion of the Odyssey. All is\nstern enough and terrible enough there; more terrible, if possible,\nbecause more distinct, than its modern counterpart in Criemhildas Hall.\nBut there is an obvious reason for this, and it does not make against\nwhat we have been saying. It is not delight in slaughter, but it is the\nstern justice of revenge which we have here; not, as in the Iliad, hero\nmeeting hero, but the long crime receiving at last its Divine\npunishment; the breaking of the one storm, which from the beginning has\nbeen slowly and awfully gathering.\n\nWith Homer's treatment of a battle-field, and as illustrating the\nconclusion which we argue from it, we are tempted to draw parallels from\ntwo modern poets--one a German, who was taken away in the morning of his\nlife; the other, the most gifted of modern Englishmen. Each of these two\nhas attempted the same subject, and the treatment in each case embodies,\nin a similar manner, modern ways of thinking about it.\n\nThe first is from the 'Albigenses' of young Lenau, who has since died\nlunatic, we have heard, as he was not unlikely to have died with such\nthoughts in him. It is the eve of one of those terrible struggles at\nToulouse, and the poet's imagination is hanging at moon-rise over the\nscene. 'The low broad field scattered over thick with corpses, all\nsilent, dead,--the last sob spent,'--the priest's thanksgiving for the\nCatholic victory having died into an echo, and only the 'vultures crying\ntheir Te Deum laudamus.'\n\n    Hat Gott der Herr den Koerperstoff erschaffen,\n    Hat ihn hervorgebracht ein boeser Geist,\n    Darueber stritten sie mit allen Waffen\n    Und werden von den Voegeln nun gespeist,\n    Die, ohne ihren Ursprung nachzufragen,\n    Die Koerper da sich lassen wohl behagen.\n\n'Was it God the Lord who formed the substance of their bodies? or did\nsome evil spirit bring it forth? It was for this with all their might\nthey fought, and now they are devoured there by the wild birds, who sit\ngorging merrily over their carrion, _without asking from whence it\ncame_.'\n\nIn Homer, as we saw, the true hero is master over death--death has no\nterror for him. He meets it, if it is to be, calmly and proudly, and\nthen it is over; whatever offensive may follow after it, is concealed,\nor at least passed lightly over. Here, on the contrary, everything most\noffensive is dwelt upon with an agonising intensity, and the triumph of\ndeath is made to extend, not over the body only, but over the soul,\nwhose heroism it turns to mockery. The cause in which a man dies, is\nwhat can make his death beautiful; but here nature herself, in her\nstern, awful way, is reading her sentence over the cause itself as a\nwild and frantic dream. We ought to be revolted--doubly revolted, one\nwould think, and yet we are not so; instead of being revolted, we are\naffected with a sense of vast, sad magnificence. Why is this? Because we\nlose sight of the scene, or lose the sense of its horror, in the tragedy\nof the spirit. It is the true modern tragedy; the note which sounds\nthrough Shakespeare's 'Sonnets,' through 'Hamlet,' through 'Faust;' all\nthe deeper trials of the modern heart might be gathered out of those few\nlines; the sense of wasted nobleness--nobleness spending its energies\nupon what time seems to be pronouncing no better than a dream--at any\nrate, misgivings, sceptic and distracting; yet the heart the while, in\nspite of the uncertainty of the issue, remaining true at least to\nitself. If the spirit of the Albigensian warriors had really broken\ndown, or if the poet had pointed his lesson so as to say, Truth is a\nlie; faith is folly; eat, drink, and die,--then his picture would have\nbeen revolting; but the noble spirit remains, though it is borne down\nand trifled with by destiny, and therefore it is not revolting, but\ntragic.\n\nFar different from this--as far inferior in tone to Lenau's lines, as it\nexceeds them in beauty of workmanship--is the well-known picture of the\nscene under the wall in the Siege of Corinth:--\n\n    He saw the lean dogs beneath the wall\n    Hold o'er the dead their carnival;\n    Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb;\n    They were too busy to bark at him!\n    From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh,\n    As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh;\n    And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull,\n    As it slipp'd through their jaws when their edge grew dull,\n    As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead,\n    When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed;\n    So well had they broken a lingering fast\n    With those who had fallen for that night's repast.\n    And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand,\n    The foremost of these were the best of his band:\n\n      .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .\n\n    The scalps were in the wild dog's maw,\n    The hair was tangled round his jaw.\n    Close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf,\n    There sate a vulture flapping a wolf,\n    Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away,\n    Scared by the dogs, from the human prey;\n    But he seized on his share of a steed that lay,\n    Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay.\n\nFor a parallel to the horribleness of this wonderfully painted scene we\nneed not go to the Nibelungen, for we shall find nothing like it there:\nwe must go back to the carved slabs which adorned the banquet halls of\nthe Assyrian kings, where the foul birds hover over the stricken fields,\nand trail from their talons the entrails of the slain.\n\nAnd for what purpose does Byron introduce these frightful images? Was it\nin contrast to the exquisite moonlight scene which tempts the renegade\nout of his tent? Was it to bring his mind into a fit condition to be\nworked upon by the vision of Francesca? It does but mar and untune the\nsoftening influences of nature, which might have been rendered more\npowerful, perhaps, by some slight touch to remind him of his past day's\nwork, but are blotted out and paralysed by such a mass of horrors.\n\nTo go back to Homer.\n\nWe must omit for the present any notice of the domestic pictures, of\nwhich there are so many, in the palaces of Ulysses, of Nestor, or of\nAlcinous; of the games, so manly, yet, in point of refinement, so\nsuperior even to those of our own middle ages; of the supreme good of\nlife as the Greeks conceived it, and of the arts by which they\nendeavoured to realise that good. It is useless to notice such things\nbriefly, and the detail would expand into a volume. But the impression\nwhich we gather from them is the same which we have gathered all\nalong--that if the proper aim of all human culture be to combine, in the\nhighest measure in which they are compatible, the two elements of\nrefinement and of manliness, then Homer's age was cultivated to a degree\nthe like of which the earth has not witnessed since. There was more\nrefinement under Pericles, as there is more in modern London and Paris;\nbut there was, and there is, infinitely more vice. There was more\nfierceness (greater manliness there never was) in the times of\nfeudalism. But take it for all in all, and in a mere human sense, apart\nfrom any other aspect of the world which is involved in Christianity, it\nis difficult to point to a time when life in general was happier, and\nthe character of man set in a more noble form. If we have drawn the\npicture with too little shadow, let it be allowed for. The shadow was\nthere, doubtless, though we see it only in a few dark spots. The\nMargites would have supplied the rest, but the Margites, unhappily for\nus, is lost. Even heroes have their littlenesses, and Comedy is truer to\nthe details of littleness than Tragedy or Epic. The grand is always more\nor less ideal, and the elevation of a moment is sublimed into the spirit\nof a life. Comedy, therefore, is essential for the representing of men;\nand there were times, doubtless, when the complexion of Agamemnon's\ngreatness was discoloured, like Prince Henry's, by remembering, when he\nwas weary, that poor creature--small beer--_i.e._ if the Greeks had got\nany.\n\nA more serious discoloration, however, we are obliged to say that we\nfind in Homer himself, in the soil or taint which even he is obliged to\ncast over the position of women. In the Iliad, where there is no sign of\nmale slavery, women had already fallen under the chain, and though there\ndoes not seem to have been any practice of polygamy, the female\nprisoners fell, as a matter of course, into a more degraded position. It\nis painful, too, to observe that their own feelings followed the\npractice of the times, and that they composed themselves to bear without\nreluctance whatever their destiny forced upon them. When Priam ventured\ninto the Grecian camp for Hector's body, and stood under the roof of\nAchilles, he endured to do what, as he says, no mortal father had ever\nyet endured--to give his hand to his son's destroyer. Briseis, whose bed\nwas made desolate by the hand of the same Achilles, finds it her one\ngreatest consolation, that the conqueror stoops to choose her to share\nhis own. And when Hector in his last sad parting scene anticipates a\nlike fate for his own Andromache, it is not with the revolted agony of\nhorror with which such a possible future would be regarded by a modern\nhusband; nor does Andromache, however bitterly she feels the danger,\nprotest, as a modern wife would do, that there was no fear for\nher--that death by sorrow's hand, or by her own, would preserve her to\nrejoin him.\n\nNor, again, was unfaithfulness, of however long duration, conclusively\nfatal against a wife; for we meet Helen, after a twenty years'\nelopement, again the quiet, hospitable mistress in the Spartan palace,\nentertaining her husband's guests with an easy matronly dignity, and not\nafraid even in Menelaus's presence to allude to the past--in strong\nterms of self-reproach, indeed, but with nothing like despairing\nprostration. Making the worst of this, however, yet even in this respect\nthe Homeric Greeks were better than their contemporaries in Palestine;\nand on the whole there was, perhaps, no time anterior to Christianity\nwhen women held a higher place, or the relation between wife and husband\nwas of a more free and honourable kind.\n\nFor we have given but one side of the picture. When a woman can be the\ntheme of a poet, her nature cannot be held in slight esteem; and there\nis no doubt that Penelope is Homer's heroine in the Odyssey. One design,\nat least, which Homer had before him was to vindicate the character of\nthe virtuous matron against the stain which Clytemnestra had inflicted\non it. Clytemnestra has every advantage, Penelope every difficulty: the\ntrial of the former lasted only half as long as that of the latter.\nAgamemnon in leaving her gave herself and his house in charge to a\ndivine [Greek: aoidos], a heaven-inspired prophet, who should stand\nbetween her and temptation, and whom she had to murder before her\npassion could have its way. Penelope had to bear up alone for twenty\nweary years, without a friend, without a counsellor, and with even a\nchild whose constancy was wavering. It is obvious that Homer designed\nthis contrast. The story of the Argos tragedy is told again and again.\nThe shade of Agamemnon himself forebodes a fate like his own to Ulysses.\nIt is Ulysses's first thought when he wakes from his sleep to find\nhimself in his own land; and the scene in Hades, in the last book, seems\nonly introduced that the husband of Clytemnestra may meet the shades of\nthe Ithacan suitors, and learn, in their own tale of the sad issue of\ntheir wooing, how far otherwise it had fared with Ulysses than with\nhimself. Women, therefore, according to Homer, were as capable of heroic\nvirtue as men were, and the ideal of this heroism is one to which we\nhave scarcely added.\n\nFor the rest, there is no trace of any oriental seraglio system. The\nsexes lived together in easy unaffected intercourse. The ladies appeared\nin society naturally and gracefully, and their chief occupations were\nhousehold matters, care of clothes and linen, and other domestic\narrangements. When a guest came, they prepared his dressing-room,\nsettled the bath, and arranged the convenience of his toilet-table. In\ntheir leisure hours, they were to be found, as now, in the hall or the\nsaloon, and their work-table contained pretty much the same materials.\nHelen was winding worsted as she entertained Telemachus, and Andromache\nworked roses in very modern cross-stitch. A literalist like Mr. Mackay,\nwho finds out that the Israelites were cannibals, from such expressions\nas 'drinking the blood of the slain,' might discover, perhaps, a similar\nunpleasant propensity in an excited wish of Hecuba, that she might eat\nthe heart of Achilles; but in the absence of other evidence, it is\nunwise in either case to press a metaphor; and the food of ladies,\nwherever Homer lets us see it, is very innocent cake and wine, with such\nfruits as were in season. To judge by Nausicaa, their breeding must have\nbeen exquisite. Nausicaa standing still, when the uncouth figure of\nUlysses emerged from under the wood, all sea slime and nakedness, and\nonly covered with a girdle of leaves--standing still to meet him when\nthe other girls ran away tittering and terrified, is the perfect\nconception of true female modesty; and in the whole scene between them,\nHomer shows the most finished understanding of the delicate and\ntremulous relations which occur occasionally in the accidents of\nintercourse between highly cultivated men and women, and which he could\nonly have learnt by living in a society where men and women met and felt\nin the way which he has described.\n\nWho, then, was Homer? What was he? When did he live? History has\nabsolutely nothing to answer. His poems were not written; for the art of\nwriting (at any rate for a poet's purpose) was unknown to him. There is\na vague tradition that the Iliad, and the Odyssey, and a comic poem\ncalled the Margites, were composed by an Ionian whose name was Homer,\nabout four hundred years before Herodotus, or in the ninth century B.C.\nWe know certainly that these poems were preserved by the Rhapsodists, or\npopular reciters, who repeated them at private parties or festivals,\nuntil writing came into use, and they were fixed in a less precarious\nform. A later story was current, that we owe the collection to\nPisistratus; but an exclusive claim for him was probably only Athenian\nconceit. It is incredible that men of genius in Homer's own\nland--Alcaeus, for instance--should have left such a work to be done by a\nforeigner. But this is really all which is known; and the creation of\nthe poems lies in impenetrable mystery. Nothing remains to guide us,\ntherefore, except internal evidence (strangely enough, it is the same\nwith Shakespeare), and it has led to wild conclusions: yet the wildest\nis not without its use; it has commonly something to rest upon; and\ninternal evidence is only really valuable when outward testimony has\nbeen sifted to the uttermost. The present opinion seems to be, that each\npoem is unquestionably the work of one man; but whether both poems are\nthe work of the same is yet _sub judice_. The Greeks believed they were;\nand that is much. There are remarkable points of resemblance in style,\nyet not greater than the resemblances in the 'Two Noble Kinsmen' and in\nthe 'Yorkshire Tragedy' to 'Macbeth' and 'Hamlet;' and there are more\nremarkable points of non-resemblance, which deepen upon us the more we\nread. On the other hand, tradition is absolute. If the style of the\nOdyssey is sometimes unlike the Iliad, so is one part of the Iliad\nsometimes unlike another. It is hard to conceive a genius equal to the\ncreation of either Iliad or Odyssey to have existed without leaving at\nleast a legend of his name; and the difficulty of criticising style\naccurately in an old language will be appreciated by those who have\ntried their hand in their own language with the disputed plays of\nShakespeare. There are heavy difficulties every way; and we shall best\nconclude our own subject by noting down briefly the most striking points\nof variation of which as yet no explanation has been attempted. We have\nalready noticed several: the non-appearance of male slavery in the Iliad\nwhich is common in the Odyssey; the notion of a future state; and\nperhaps a fuller cultivation in the female character. Andromache is as\ndelicate as Nausicaa, but she is not as grand as Penelope; and in marked\ncontrast to the feeling expressed by Briseis, is the passage where the\ngrief of Ulysses over the song of Demodocus is compared to the grief of\na young wife flinging herself on the yet warm body of her husband, and\nlooking forward to her impending slavery with feelings of horror and\nrepulsion. But these are among the slightest points in which the two\npoems are dissimilar. Not only are there slaves in the Odyssey, but\nthere are [Greek: Thetes], or serfs, an order with which we are familiar\nin later times, but which again are not in the Iliad. In the Odyssey the\nTrojans are called [Greek: epibetores hippon], which must mean _riders_.\nIn the Iliad, horses are never ridden; they are always in harness.\n\nWherever in the Odyssey the Trojan war is alluded to (and it is very\noften), in no one case is the allusion to anything which is mentioned in\nthe Iliad. We hear of the wooden horse, the taking of Troy, the death of\nAchilles, the contention of Ulysses with Ajax for his arms. It might be\nsaid that the poet wished to supply afterwards indirectly what he had\nleft in the Iliad untold; but again, this is impossible, for a very\ncurious reason. The Iliad opens with the wrath of Achilles, which caused\nsuch bitter woe to the Achaians. In the Odyssey it is still the wrath of\nAchilles; but singularly _not with Agamemnon, but with Ulysses_. Ulysses\nto the author of the Odyssey was a far grander person at _Troy_ than he\nappears in the Iliad. In the latter poem he is great, but far from one\nof the greatest; in the other, he is evidently the next to Achilles; and\nit seems almost certain that whoever wrote the Odyssey was working from\nsome other legend of the war. There were a thousand versions of it. The\ntale of Ilium was set to every lyre in Greece, and the relative position\nof the heroes was doubtless changed according to the sympathies or the\npatriotism of the singer. The character of Ulysses is much stronger in\nthe Odyssey; and even when the same qualities are attributed to him--his\nsoft-flowing tongue, his cunning, and his eloquence--they are held in\nvery different estimation. The Homer of the Iliad has little liking for\na talker. Thersites is his pattern specimen of such; and it is the\ncurrent scoff at unready warriors to praise their father's courage, and\nthen to add--\n\n    [Greek:\n                                alla ton huion\n    geinato heio cherea mache, agore de t' ameino.]\n\nBut the Phoeacian Lord who ventured to reflect, in the Iliad style, on\nthe supposed unreadiness of Ulysses, is taught a different notion of\nhuman excellence. Ulysses tells him that he is a fool. 'The gods,'\nUlysses says, 'do not give all good things to all men, and often a man\nis made unfair to look upon, but over his ill favour they fling, like a\ngarland, a power of lovely speech, and the people delight to _look_ on\nhim. He speaks with modest dignity, and he shines among the multitude.\nAs he walks through the city, men gaze on him as on a god.'\n\nDifferences like these, however, are far from decisive. The very\nslightest external evidence would weigh them all down together. Perhaps\nthe following may be of more importance:--\n\nIn both poems there are 'questionings of destiny,' as the modern phrase\ngoes. The thing which we call human life is looked in the face--this\nlittle chequered island of lights and shadows, in the middle of an ocean\nof darkness; and in each we see the sort of answer which the poet finds\nfor himself, and which might be summed up briefly in the last words of\nEcclesiastes, 'Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is the\nwhole duty of man.' But the world bears a different aspect, and the\nanswer looks different in its application. In the Iliad, in spite of the\ngloom of Achilles, and his complaint of the double urn, the sense of\nlife, on the whole, is sunny and cheerful. There is no yearning for\nanything beyond--nothing vague, nothing mystical. The earth, the men,\nthe gods, have all a palpable reality about them. From first to last, we\nknow where we are, and what we are about. In the Odyssey we are\nbreathing another atmosphere. The speculations on the moral mysteries of\nour being hang like a mist over us from the beginning to the end; and\nthe cloud from time to time descends on the actors, and envelopes them\nwith a preternatural halo. The poet evidently dislikes the expression of\n'suffering being the lot of mortals,' as if it had been abused already\nfor ungodly purposes. In the opening of the first book, Zeus reproves\nthe folly of mortal men for casting the blame upon the gods, when they\nthemselves, in spite of all the gods can do to save them, persist in\ntheir own perverseness; and we never know as we go on, so fast we pass\nfrom one to the other, when we are among mere human beings, and when\namong the spiritual or the mystical. Those sea-nymphs, those cannibals,\nthose enchantresses, if intended to be real, are neither mortal nor\ndivine--at any rate, like nothing divine which we had seen in Olympus,\nor on the plains of Ilium; and at times there is a strangeness even in\nthe hero himself. Sometimes it is Ulysses painfully toiling his way home\nacross the unknown ocean; sometimes it is we that are Ulysses, and that\nunknown ocean is the life across which we are wandering, with too many\nCirces, and Sirens, and 'Isles of Error' in our path. In the same spirit\ndeath is no longer the end; and on every side long vistas seem to\nstretch away into the infinite, peopled with shadowy forms.\n\nBut, as if this palpable initiation into the unseen were still\ninsufficient or unconvincing, the common ground on which we are treading\nsometimes shakes under us, and we feel as Humboldt describes himself to\nhave felt at the first shock of an earthquake. Strange pieces of\nmysterious wildness are let fall in our way, coming suddenly on us like\nspectres, and vanishing without explanation or hint of their purpose.\nWhat are those Phoeacian ships meant for, which required neither sail\nnor oar, but of their own selves read the hearts of those they carried,\nand bore them wherever they would go?--or the wild end of the ship which\ncarried Ulysses home?--or that terrible piece of second sight in the\nHall at Ithaca, for which the seer was brought from Pylos?--or those\nislands, one of which is for ever wasting while another is born into\nbeing to complete the number?--or those mystical sheep and oxen, which\nknew neither age nor death, nor ever had offspring born to them, and\nwhose flesh upon the spits began to crawl and bellow?--or Helen singing\nround the horse inside the Trojan walls, when every Grecian chief's\nheart fainted in him as he thought he heard the voice of his own dear\nwife far away beyond the sea?\n\nIn the far gates of the Loestrygones, 'where such a narrow rim of\nnight divided day from day, that a man who needed not sleep might earn a\ndouble hire, and the cry of the shepherd at evening driving home his\nflock was heard by the shepherd going out in the morning to pasture,' we\nhave, perhaps, some tale of a Phoenician mariner, who had wandered\ninto the North Seas, and seen 'the Norway sun set into sunrise.' But\nwhat shall we say to that Syrian isle, 'where disease is not, nor\nhunger, nor thirst, and where, when men grow old, Apollo comes with\nArtemis, and slays them with his silver bow?' There is nothing in the\nIliad like any of these stories.\n\nYet, when all is said, it matters little who wrote the poems. Each is\nso magnificent, that to have written both could scarcely have increased\nthe greatness of the man who had written one; and if there were two\nHomers, the earth is richer by one more divine-gifted man than we had\nknown. After all, it is perhaps more easy to believe that the\ndifferences which we seem to see arise from Homer's own choice of the\nmaterial which best suited two works so different, than that nature was\nso largely prodigal as to have created in one age and in one people two\nsuch men; for whether one or two, the authors of the Iliad and the\nOdyssey stand alone with Shakespeare far away above mankind.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[X] _Fraser's Magazine_, 1851.\n\n[Y] Mackay's _Progress of the Intellect_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LIVES OF THE SAINTS.\n\n1850.\n\n\nIf the enormous undertaking of the Bollandist editors had been\ncompleted, it would have contained the histories of 25,000 saints. So\nmany the Catholic Church acknowledged and accepted as her ideals--as men\nwho had not only done her honour by the eminence of their sanctity, but\nwho had received while on earth an openly divine recognition of it in\ngifts of supernatural power. And this vast number is but a selection;\nthe editors chose only out of the mass before them what was most\nnoteworthy and trustworthy, and what was of catholic rather than of\nnational interest. It is no more than a fraction of that singular\nmythology which for so many ages delighted the Christian world, which is\nstill held in external reverence among the Romanists, and of which the\nmodern historians, provoked by its feeble supernaturalism, and by the\nentire absence of critical ability among its writers to distinguish\nbetween fact and fable, have hitherto failed to speak a reasonable word.\nOf the attempt in our own day to revive an interest in them we shall say\nlittle in this place. The 'Lives' have no form or beauty to give them\nattraction in themselves; and for their human interest the broad\natmosphere of the world suited ill with these delicate plants, which had\ngrown up under the shadow of the convent wall; they were exotics, not\nfrom another climate, but from another age; the breath of scorn fell on\nthem, and having no root in the hearts and beliefs of men any more, but\nonly in the sentimentalities and make-beliefs, they withered and sank.\nAnd yet, in their place as historical phenomena, the legends of the\nsaints are as remarkable as any of the Pagan mythologies; to the full as\nremarkable, perhaps far more so, if the length and firmness of hold\nthey once possessed on the convictions of mankind is to pass for\nanything in the estimate--and to ourselves they have a near and peculiar\ninterest, as spiritual facts in the growth of the Catholic faith.\n\nPhilosophy has rescued the old theogonies from ridicule; their\nextravagancies, even the most grotesque of them, can be now seen to have\ntheir root in an idea, often a deep one, representing features of\nnatural history or of metaphysical speculation, and we do not laugh at\nthem any more. In their origin, they were the consecration of the\nfirst-fruits of knowledge; the expression of a real reverential belief.\nThen time did its work on them; knowledge grew, and they could not grow;\nthey became monstrous and mischievous, and were driven out by\nChristianity with scorn and indignation. But it is with human\ninstitutions as it is with men themselves; we are tender with the dead\nwhen their power to hurt us has passed away; and as Paganism can never\nmore be dangerous, we have been able to command a calmer attitude\ntowards it, and to detect under its most repulsive features sufficient\nlatent elements of genuine thought to satisfy us that even in their\ndarkest aberrations men are never wholly given over to falsehood and\nabsurdity. When philosophy has done for mediaeval mythology what it has\ndone for Hesiod and for the Edda, we shall find there also at least as\ndeep a sense of the awfulness and mystery of life, and we shall find a\nmoral element which the Pagans never had. The lives of the saints are\nalways simple, often childish, seldom beautiful; yet, as Goethe\nobserved, if without beauty, they are always good.\n\nAnd as a phenomenon, let us not deceive ourselves on the magnitude of\nthe Christian hagiology. The Bollandists were restricted on many sides.\nThey took only what was in Latin--while every country in Europe had its\nown home growth in its own language--and thus many of the most\ncharacteristic of the lives are not to be found at all in their\ncollection. And again, they took but one life of each saint, composed in\nall cases late, and compiled out of the mass of various shorter lives\nwhich had grown up in different localities out of popular tradition; so\nthat many of their longer productions have an elaborate literary\ncharacter, with an appearance of artifice, which, till we know how they\ncame into existence, might blind us to the vast width and variety of\nthe traditionary sources from which they are drawn. In the twelfth\ncentury there were sixty-six lives extant of St. Patrick alone; and that\nin a country where every parish had its own special saint and special\nlegend of him. These sixty-six lives may have contained (Mr. Gibbon says\n_must_ have contained) at least as many thousand lies. Perhaps so. To\nsevere criticism, even the existence of a single apostle, St. Patrick,\nappears problematical. But at least there is the historical fact, about\nwhich there can be no mistake, that the stories did grow up in some way\nor other, that they were repeated, sung, listened to, written, and read;\nthat these lives in Ireland, and all over Europe and over the earth,\nwherever the Catholic faith was preached, stories like these, sprang out\nof the heart of the people, and grew and shadowed over the entire\nbelieving mind of the Catholic world. Wherever church was founded, or\nsoil was consecrated for the long resting-place of those who had died in\nthe faith; wherever the sweet bells of convent or of monastery were\nheard in the evening air, charming the unquiet world to rest and\nremembrance of God, there dwelt the memory of some apostle who had laid\nthe first stone, there was the sepulchre of some martyr whose relics\nreposed beneath the altar, of some confessor who had suffered there for\nhis Master's sake, of some holy ascetic who in silent self-chosen\nausterity had woven a ladder there of prayer and penance, on which the\nangels of God were believed to have ascended and descended. It is not a\nphenomenon of an age or of a century; it is characteristic of the\nhistory of Christianity. From the time when the first preachers of the\nfaith passed out from their homes by that quiet Galilean lake, to go to\nand fro over the earth, and did their mighty work, and at last\ndisappeared and were not any more seen, these sacred legends began to\ngrow. Those who had once known the Apostles, who had drawn from their\nlips the blessed message of light and life, one and all would gather\ntogether what fragments they could find of their stories. Rumours blew\nin from all the winds. They had been seen here, had been seen there, in\nthe farthest corners of the earth, preaching, contending, suffering,\nprevailing. Affection did not stay to scrutinise. When some member of a\nfamily among ourselves is absent in some far place from which sure news\nof him comes slowly and uncertainly; if he has been in the army, or on\nsome dangerous expedition, or at sea, or anywhere where real or\nimaginary dangers stimulate anxiety; or when one is gone away from us\naltogether--fallen perhaps in battle--and when the story of his end can\nbe collected but fitfully from strangers, who only knew his name, but\nhad heard him nobly spoken of; the faintest threads are caught at;\nreports, the vagueness of which might be evident to indifference, are to\nlove strong grounds of confidence, and 'trifles light as air' establish\nthemselves as certainties. So, in those first Christian communities,\ntravellers came through from east and west; legions on the march, or\ncaravans of wandering merchants; and one had been in Rome, and seen\nPeter disputing with Simon Magus; another in India, where he had heard\nSt. Thomas preaching to the Brahmins; a third brought with him, from the\nwilds of Britain, a staff which he had cut, as he said, from a thorn\ntree, the seed of which St. Joseph had sown there, and which had grown\nto its full size in a single night, making merchandise of the precious\nrelic out of the credulity of the believers. So the legends grew, and\nwere treasured up, and loved, and trusted; and alas! all which we have\nbeen able to do with them is to call them lies, and to point a shallow\nmoral on the impostures and credulities of the early Catholics. An\nAtheist could not wish us to say more. If we can really believe that the\nChristian Church was made over in its very cradle to lies and to the\nfather of lies, and was allowed to remain in his keeping, so to say,\ntill yesterday, he will not much trouble himself with any faith which\nafter such an admission we may profess to entertain. For, as this spirit\nbegan in the first age in which the Church began to have a history, so\nit continued so long as the Church as an integral body retained its\nvitality, and only died out in the degeneracy which preceded and which\nbrought on the Reformation. For fourteen hundred years these stories\nheld their place, and rang on from age to age, from century to century;\nas the new faith widened its boundaries, and numbered ever more and more\ngreat names of men and women who had fought and died for it, so long\ntheir histories, living in the hearts of those for whom they laboured,\nlaid hold of them and filled them: and the devout imagination, possessed\nwith what was often no more than the rumour of a name, bodied it out\ninto life, and form, and reality. And doubtless, if we try them by any\nhistorical canon, we have to say that quite endless untruths grew in\nthis way to be believed among men; and not believed only, but held\nsacred, passionately and devotedly; not filling the history books only,\nnot only serving to amuse and edify the refectory, or to furnish matter\nfor meditation in the cell, but claiming days for themselves of special\nremembrance, entering into liturgies and inspiring prayers, forming the\nspiritual nucleus of the hopes and fears of millions of human souls.\n\nFrom the hard barren standing ground of the fact idolator, what a\nstrange sight must be that still mountain-peak on the wild west Irish\nshore, where, for more than ten centuries, a rude old bell and a carved\nchip of oak have witnessed, or seemed to witness, to the presence long\nago there of the Irish apostle; and where, in the sharp crystals of the\ntrap rock, a path has been worn smooth by the bare feet and bleeding\nknees of the pilgrims, who still, in the August weather, drag their\npainful way along it as they have done for a thousand years. Doubtless\nthe 'Lives of the Saints' are full of lies. Are there none in the Iliad?\nor in the legends of AEneas? Were the stories sung in the liturgy of\nEleusis all so true? so true as fact? Are the songs of the Cid or of\nSiegfried true? We say nothing of the lies in these; but why? Oh, it\nwill be said, but they are fictions; they were never supposed to be\ntrue. But they _were_ supposed to be true, to the full as true as the\n'Legenda Aurea.' Oh, then, they are poetry; and besides, they have\nnothing to do with Christianity. Yes, that is it; they have nothing to\ndo with Christianity. Religion has grown such a solemn business with us,\nand we bring such long faces to it, that we cannot admit or conceive to\nbe at all naturally admissible such a light companion as the\nimagination. The distinction between secular and religious has been\nextended even to the faculties; and we cannot tolerate in others the\nfulness and freedom which we have lost or rejected for ourselves. Yet it\nhas been a fatal mistake with the critics. They found themselves off the\nrecognised ground of Romance and Paganism, and they failed to see the\nsame principles at work, though at work with new materials. In the\nrecords of all human affairs, it cannot be too often insisted on that\ntwo kinds of truth run for ever side by side, or rather, crossing in and\nout with each other, form the warp and the woof of the coloured web\nwhich we call history: the one, the literal and external truths\ncorresponding to the eternal and as yet undiscovered laws of fact; the\nother, the truths of feeling and of thought, which embody themselves\neither in distorted pictures of outward things, or in some entirely new\ncreation--sometimes moulding and shaping real history; sometimes taking\nthe form of heroic biography, of tradition, or popular legend; sometimes\nappearing as recognised fiction in the epic, the drama, or the novel. It\nis useless to tell us that this is to confuse truth and falsehood. We\nare stating a fact, not a theory; and if it makes truth and falsehood\ndifficult to distinguish, that is nature's fault, not ours. Fiction is\nonly false, when it is false, not to fact, else how could it be fiction?\nbut when it is--to _law_. To try it by its correspondence to the real is\npedantry. Imagination creates as nature creates, by the force which is\nin man, which refuses to be restrained; we cannot help it, and we are\nonly false when we make monsters, or when we pretend that our inventions\nare facts, when we substitute truths of one kind for truths of another;\nwhen we substitute,--and again we must say when we _intentionally_\nsubstitute:--whenever persons, and whenever facts seize strongly on the\nimagination (and of course when there is anything remarkable in them\nthey must and will do so), invention glides into the images which form\nin our minds; so it must be, and so it ever has been, from the first\nlegends of a cosmogony to the written life of the great man who died\nlast year or century, or to the latest scientific magazine. We cannot\nrelate facts as they are; they must first pass through ourselves, and we\nare more or less than mortal if they gather nothing in the transit. The\ngreat outlines alone lie around us as imperative and constraining; the\ndetail we each fill up variously, according to the turn of our\nsympathies, the extent of our knowledge, or our general theories of\nthings: and therefore it may be said that the only literally true\nhistory possible is the history which mind has left of itself in all the\nchanges through which it has passed.\n\nSuetonius is to the full as extravagant and superstitious as Surius, and\nSuetonius was most laborious and careful, and was the friend of Tacitus\nand Pliny. Suetonius gives us prodigies, where Surius has miracles, but\nthat is all the difference; each follows the form of the supernatural\nwhich belonged to the genius of his age. Plutarch writes a life of\nLycurgus, with details of his childhood, and of the trials and\nvicissitudes of his age; and the existence of Lycurgus is now quite as\nquestionable as that of St. Patrick or of St. George of England.\n\nNo rectitude of intention will save us from mistakes. Sympathies and\nantipathies are but synonyms of prejudice, and indifference is\nimpossible. Love is blind, and so is every other passion. Love believes\neagerly what it desires; it excuses or passes lightly over blemishes, it\ndwells on what is beautiful; while dislike sees a tarnish on what is\nbrightest, and deepens faults into vices. Do we believe that all this is\na disease of unenlightened times, and that in our strong sunlight only\ntruth can get received?--then let us contrast the portrait, for\ninstance, of Sir Robert Peel as it is drawn in the Free Trade Hall at\nManchester,[Z] at the county meeting, and in the Oxford Common Room. It\nis not so. Faithful and literal history is possible only to an impassive\nspirit. Man will never write it, until perfect knowledge and perfect\nfaith in God shall enable him to see and endure every fact in its\nreality; until perfect love shall kindle in him under its touch the one\njust emotion which is in harmony with the eternal order of all things.\n\nHow far we are in these days from approximating to such a combination we\nneed not here insist. Criticism in the hands of men like Niebuhr seems\nto have accomplished great intellectual triumphs; and in Germany and\nFrance, and among ourselves, we have our new schools of the philosophy\nof history: yet their real successes have hitherto only been\ndestructive. When philosophy reconstructs, it does nothing but project\nits own idea; when it throws off tradition, it cannot work without a\ntheory: and what is a theory but an imperfect generalisation caught up\nby a predisposition? What is Comte's great division of the eras but a\ntheory, and facts are but as clay in his hands, which he can mould to\nillustrate it, as every clever man will find facts to be, let his theory\nbe what it will? Intellect can destroy, but it cannot restore life; call\nin the creative faculties--call in Love, Idea, Imagination, and we have\nliving figures, but we cannot tell whether they are figures which ever\nlived before. The high faith in which Love and Intellect can alone\nunite in their fulness, has not yet found utterance in modern\nhistorians.\n\nThe greatest man who has as yet given himself to the recording of human\naffairs is, beyond question, Cornelius Tacitus. Alone in Tacitus a\nserene calmness of insight was compatible with intensity of feeling. He\ntook no side; he may have been Imperialist, he may have been Republican,\nbut he has left no sign whether he was either: he appears to have sifted\nfacts with scrupulous integrity; to administer his love, his scorn, his\nhatred, according only to individual merit: and his sentiments are\nrather felt by the reader in the life-like clearness of his portraits,\nthan expressed in words by himself. Yet such a power of seeing into\nthings was only possible to him, because there was no party left with\nwhich he could determinedly side, and no wide spirit alive in Rome\nthrough which he could feel. The spirit of Rome, the spirit of life had\ngone away to seek other forms, and the world of Tacitus was a heap of\ndecaying institutions; a stage where men and women, as they themselves\nwere individually base or noble, played over their little parts. Life\nindeed was come into the world, was working in it, and silently shaping\nthe old dead corpse into fresh and beautiful being. Tacitus alludes to\nit once only, in one brief scornful chapter; and the most poorly gifted\nof those forlorn biographers whose unreasoning credulity was piling up\nthe legends of St. Mary and the Apostles, which now drive the\necclesiastical historian to despair, knew more, in his divine hope and\nfaith, of the real spirit which had gone out among mankind, than the\nkeenest and gravest intellect which ever set itself to contemplate them.\n\nAnd now having in some degree cleared the ground of difficulties, let us\ngo back to the Lives of the Saints. If Bede tells us lies about St.\nCuthbert, we will disbelieve his stories; but we will not call Bede a\nliar, even though he prefaces his life with a declaration that he has\nset down nothing but what he has ascertained on the clearest evidence.\nWe are driven to no such alternative; our canons of criticism are\ndifferent from Bede's, and so are our notions of probability. Bede would\nexpect _a priori_, and would therefore consider as sufficiently attested\nby a consent of popular tradition, what the oaths of living witnesses\nwould fail to make credible to a modern English jury. We will call Bede\na liar only if he put forward his picture of St. Cuthbert as a picture\nof a life which he considered admirable and excellent, as one after\nwhich he was endeavouring to model his own, and which he held up as a\npattern of imitation, when in his heart he did not consider it admirable\nat all, when he was making no effort at the austerities which he was\nlauding. The histories of the saints are written as ideals of a\nChristian life; they have no elaborate and beautiful forms; single and\nstraightforward as they are,--if they are not this they are nothing. For\nfourteen centuries the religious mind of the Catholic world threw them\nout as its form of hero worship, as the heroic patterns of a form of\nhuman life which each Christian within his own limits was endeavouring\nto realise. The first martyrs and confessors were to those poor monks\nwhat the first Dorian conquerors were in the war songs of Tyrtaeus, what\nAchilles and Ajax and Agamemnon and Diomed were wherever Homer was sung\nor read; or in more modern times, what the Knights of the Round Table\nwere in the halls of the Norman castles. The Catholic mind was\nexpressing its conception of the highest human excellence; and the\nresult is that immense and elaborate hagiology. As with the battle\nheroes, too, the inspiration lies in the universal idea; the varieties\nof character (with here and there an exception) are slight and\nunimportant; the object being to create examples for universal human\nimitation. Lancelot or Tristram were equally true to the spirit of\nchivalry; and Patrick on the mountain, or Antony in the desert, are\nequal models of patient austerity. The knights fight with giants,\nenchanters, robbers, unknightly nobles, or furious wild beasts; the\nChristians fight with the world, the flesh, and the devil. The knight\nleaves the comforts of home in quest of adventures, the saint in quest\nof penance, and on the bare rocks or in desolate wildernesses subdues\nthe devil in his flesh with prayers and penances; and so alien is it all\nto the whole thought and system of the modern Christian, that he either\nrejects such stories altogether as monks' impostures, or receives them\nwith disdainful wonder, as one more shameful form of superstition with\nwhich human nature has insulted heaven and disgraced itself.\n\nLeaving, however, for the present, the meaning of monastic asceticism,\nit seems necessary to insist that there really was such a thing; there\nis no doubt about it. If the particular actions told of each saint are\nnot literally true, as belonging to him, abundance of men did for many\ncenturies lead the sort of life which saints are said to have led. We\nhave got a notion that the friars were a snug, comfortable set, after\nall; and the life in a monastery pretty much like that in a modern\nuniversity, where the old monks' language and affectation of\nunworldliness does somehow contrive to co-exist with as large a mass of\nbodily enjoyment as man's nature can well appropriate. Very likely this\nwas the state into which many of the monasteries had fallen in the\nfifteenth century. It was a symptom of a very rapid disorder which had\nset in among them, and which promptly terminated in dissolution. But\nlong, long ages lay behind the fifteenth century, in which, wisely or\nfoolishly, these old monks and hermits did make themselves a very hard\nlife of it; and the legend only exceeded the reality in being a very\nslightly idealised portrait. We are not speaking of the miracles; that\nis a wholly different question. When men knew little of the order of\nnature, whatever came to pass without an obvious cause was at once set\ndown to influences beyond nature and above it; and so long as there were\nwitches and enchanters, strong with the help of the bad powers, of\ncourse the especial servants of God would not be left without graces to\noutmatch and overcome the devil. And there were many other reasons why\nthe saints should work miracles. They had done so under the old\ndispensation, and there was no obvious reason why Christians should be\nworse off than Jews. And again, although it be true, in the modern\nphrase, which is beginning to savour a little of cant, that the highest\nnatural is the highest supernatural, nevertheless natural facts permit\nus to be so easily familiar with them, that they have an air of\ncommonness; and when we have a vast idea to express, there is always a\ndisposition to the extraordinary. But the miracles are not the chief\nthing; nor ever were they so. Men did not become saints by working\nmiracles, but they worked miracles because they had become saints; and\nthe instructiveness and value of their lives lay in the means which they\nhad used to make themselves what they were: and as we said, in this part\nof the business there is unquestionable basis of truth--scarcely even\nexaggeration. We have documentary evidence, which has been filtered\nthrough the sharp ordeal of party hatred, of the way in which some men\n(and those, not mere ignorant fanatics, but men of vast mind and vast\ninfluence in their days) conducted themselves, where _myth_ has no room\nto enter. We know something of the hair-shirt of Thomas a Becket; and\nthere was another poor monk, whose asceticism imagination could not\neasily outrun; he who, when the earth's mighty ones were banded together\nto crush him under their armed heels, spoke but one little word, and it\nfell among them like the spear of Cadmus; the strong ones turned their\nhands against each other, and the armies melted away; and the proudest\nmonarch of the earth lay at that monk's threshold three winter nights in\nthe scanty clothing of penance, suing miserably for forgiveness. Or\nagain, to take a fairer figure. There is a poem extant, the genuineness\nof which, we believe, has not been challenged, composed by Columbkill,\ncommonly called St. Columba. He was a hermit in Arran, a rocky island in\nthe Atlantic, outside Galway Bay; from which he was summoned, we do not\nknow how, but in a manner which appeared to him to be a Divine call, to\ngo away and be Bishop of Iona. The poem is a 'Farewell to Arran,' which\nhe wrote on leaving it; and he lets us see something of a hermit's life\nthere. 'Farewell,' he begins (we are obliged to quote from memory), 'a\nlong farewell to thee, Arran of my heart. Paradise is with thee; the\ngarden of God within the sound of thy bells. The angels love Arran. Each\nday an angel comes there to join in its services.' And then he goes on\nto describe his 'dear cell,' and the holy happy hours which he had spent\nthere, 'with the wind whistling through the loose stones, and the sea\nspray hanging on his hair.' Arran is no better than a wild rock. It is\nstrewed over with the ruins which may still be seen of the old\nhermitages; and at their best they could have been but such places as\nsheep would huddle under in a storm, and shiver in the cold and wet\nwhich would pierce through the chinks of the walls.\n\nOr, if written evidence be too untrustworthy, there are silent witnesses\nwhich cannot lie, that tell the same touching story. Whoever loiters\namong the ruins of a monastery will see, commonly leading out of the\ncloisters, rows of cellars half under-ground, low, damp, and\nwretched-looking; an earthen floor, bearing no trace of pavement; a roof\nfrom which the mortar and the damp keep up (and always must have kept\nup) a perpetual ooze; for a window a narrow slip in the wall, through\nwhich the cold and the wind find as free an access as the light. Such as\nthey are, a well-kept dog would object to accept a night's lodging in\nthem; and if they had been prison cells, thousands of philanthropic\ntongues would have trumpeted out their horrors. The stranger perhaps\nsupposes that they were the very dungeons of which he has heard such\nterrible things. He asks his guide, and his guide tells him they were\nthe monks' dormitories. Yes; there on that wet soil, with that dripping\nroof above them, was the self-chosen home of those poor men. Through\nwinter frost, through rain and storm, through summer sunshine,\ngeneration after generation of them, there they lived and prayed, and at\nlast lay down and died.\n\nIt is all gone now--gone as if it had never been; and it was as foolish\nas, if the attempt had succeeded, it would have been mischievous, to\nrevive a devotional interest in the Lives of the Saints. It would have\nproduced but one more unreality in an age already too full of such. No\none supposes we should have set to work to live as they lived; that any\nman, however earnest in his religion, would have gone looking for earth\nfloors and wet dungeons, or wild islands to live in, when he could get\nanything better. Either we are wiser, or more humane, or more\nself-indulgent; at any rate we are something which divides us from\nmediaeval Christianity by an impassable gulf which this age or this epoch\nwill not see bridged over. Nevertheless, these modern hagiologists,\nhowever wrongly they went to work at it, had detected, and were\nendeavouring to fill, a very serious blank in our educational system; a\nvery serious blank indeed, and one which, somehow, we must contrive to\nget filled if the education of character is ever to be more than a name\nwith us. To try and teach people how to live without giving them\nexamples in which our rules are illustrated, is like teaching them to\ndraw by the rules of perspective, and of light and shade, without\ndesigns in which to study the effects; or to write verse by the laws of\nrhyme and metre, without song or poem in which rhyme and metre are\nexhibited. It is a principle which we have forgotten, and it is one\nwhich the old Catholics did not forget. We do not mean that they set out\nwith saying to themselves, 'We must have examples, we must have\nideals;' very likely they never thought about it at all; love for their\nholy men, and a thirst to know about them, produced the histories; and\nlove unconsciously working gave them the best for which they could have\nwished. The boy at school at the monastery, the young monk disciplining\nhimself as yet with difficulty under the austerities to which he had\ndevoted himself, the old one halting on toward the close of his\npilgrimage,--all of them had before their eyes, in the legend of the\npatron saint, a personal realisation of all they were trying after;\nleading them on, beckoning to them, and pointing, as they stumbled among\ntheir difficulties, to the marks which his own footsteps had left, as he\nhad trod that hard path before them. It was as if the Church was for\never saying to them:--'You have doubts and fears, and trials and\ntemptations, outward and inward; you have sinned, perhaps, and feel the\nburden of your sin. Here was one who, like you, _in this very spot_,\nunder the same sky, treading the same soil, among the same hills and\nwoods and rocks and rivers, was tried like you, tempted like you, sinned\nlike you; but here he prayed, and persevered, and did penance, and\nwashed out his sins; he fought the fight, he vanquished the Evil One, he\ntriumphed, and now he reigns a saint with Christ in heaven. The same\nground which yields you your food, once supplied him; he breathed, and\nlived, and felt, and died _here_; and now, from his throne in the sky,\nhe is still looking lovingly down on his children, making intercession\nfor you that you may have grace to follow him, that by-and-by he may\nhimself offer you at God's throne as his own.' It is impossible to\nmeasure the influence which a personal reality of this kind must have\nexercised on the mind, thus daily and hourly impressed upon it through a\nlife; there is nothing vague any more, no abstract excellences to strain\nafter; all is distinct, personal, palpable. It is no dream. The saint's\nbones are under the altar; nay, perhaps, his very form and features\nundissolved. Under some late abbot the coffin may have been opened and\nthe body seen without mark or taint of decay. Such things have been, and\nthe emaciation of a saint will account for it without a miracle. Daily\nsome incident of his story is read aloud, or spoken of, or preached\nupon. In quaint beautiful forms it lives in light in the long chapel\nwindows; and in the summer matins his figure, lighted up in splendour,\ngleams down on the congregation as they pray, or streams in mysterious\ntints along the pavement, clad, as it seems, in soft celestial glory,\nand shining as he shines in heaven. Alas, alas! where is it all gone?\n\nWe are going to venture a few thoughts on the wide question, what\npossibly may have been the meaning of so large a portion of the human\nrace, and so many centuries of Christianity, having been surrendered and\nseemingly sacrificed to the working out this dreary asceticism. If right\nonce, then it is right now; if now worthless, then it could never have\nbeen more than worthless; and the energies which spent themselves on it\nwere like corn sown upon the rock, or substance given for that which is\nnot bread. We supposed ourselves challenged recently for our facts. Here\nis an enormous fact which there is no evading. It is not to be slurred\nover with indolent generalities, with unmeaning talk of superstition, of\nthe twilight of the understanding, of barbarism, and of nursery\ncredulity; it is matter for the philosophy of history, if the philosophy\nhas yet been born which can deal with it; one of the solid, experienced\nfacts in the story of mankind which must be accepted and considered with\nthat respectful deference which all facts claim of their several\nsciences, and which will certainly not disclose its meaning (supposing\nit to have a meaning) except to reverence, to sympathy, to love. We must\nremember that the men who wrote these stories, and who practised these\nausterities, were the same men who composed our liturgies, who built our\nchurches and our cathedrals--and the gothic cathedral is, perhaps, on\nthe whole, the most magnificent creation which the mind of man has as\nyet thrown out of itself. If there be any such thing as a philosophy of\nhistory, real or possible, it is in virtue of there being certain\nprogressive organising laws in which the fretful lives of each of us are\ngathered into and subordinated in some larger unity, through which age\nis linked to age, as we move forward, with an horizon expanding and\nadvancing. And if this is true, the magnitude of any human phenomenon is\na criterion of its importance, and definite forms of thought working\nthrough long historic periods imply an effect of one of these vast\nlaws--imply a distinct step in human progress. Something previously\nunrealised is being lived out, and rooted into the heart of mankind.\n\nNature never half does her work. She goes over it, and over it, to make\nassurance sure, and makes good her ground with wearying repetition. A\nsingle section of a short paper is but a small space to enter on so vast\nan enterprise; nevertheless, a few very general words shall be ventured\nas a suggestion of what this monastic or saintly spirit may possibly\nhave meant.\n\nFirst, as the spirit of Christianity is antagonistic to the world,\nwhatever form the spirit of the world assumes, the ideals of\nChristianity will of course be their opposite; as one verges into one\nextreme, the other will verge into the contrary. In those rough times\nthe law was the sword; animal might of arm, and the strong animal heart\nwhich guided it, were the excellences which the world rewarded; and\nmonasticism, therefore, in its position of protest, would be the\ndestruction and abnegation of the animal nature. The war hero in the\nbattle or the tourney yard might be taken as the apotheosis of the\nfleshly man--the saint in the desert of the spiritual.\n\nBut this interpretation is slight, imperfect, and if true at all only\npartially so. The animal and the spiritual are not contradictories; they\nare the complements in the perfect character; and in the middle ages, as\nin all ages of genuine earnestness, they interfused and penetrated each\nother. There were warrior saints and saintly warriors; and those grand\nold figures which sleep cross-legged in the cathedral aisles were\nsomething higher than only one more form of the beast of prey.\nMonasticism represented something more positive than a protest against\nthe world. We believe it to have been the realisation of the infinite\nloveliness and beauty of personal purity.\n\nIn the earlier civilisation, the Greeks, however genuine their reverence\nfor the gods, do not seem to have supposed any part of their duty to the\ngods to consist in keeping their bodies untainted. Exquisite as was\ntheir sense of beauty, of beauty of mind as well as beauty of form, with\nall their loftiness and their nobleness, with their ready love of moral\nexcellence when manifested, as fortitude, or devotion to liberty and to\nhome, they had little or no idea of what we mean by morality. With a few\nrare exceptions, pollution, too detestable to be even named among\nourselves, was of familiar and daily occurrence among their greatest\nmen; was no reproach to philosopher or to statesman; and was not\nsupposed to be incompatible, and was not, in fact, incompatible with any\nof those especial excellences which we so admire in the Greek character.\n\nAmong the Romans (that is, the early Romans of the republic), there was\na sufficiently austere morality. A public officer of state, whose\nbusiness was to enquire into the private lives of the citizens, and to\npunish offences against morals, is a phenomenon which we have seen only\nonce on this planet. There was never a nation before, and there has been\nnone since, with sufficient virtue to endure it. But the Roman morality\nwas not lovely for its own sake, nor excellent in itself. It was\nobedience to law, practised and valued, loved for what resulted from it,\nfor the strength and rigid endurance which it gave, but not loved for\nitself. The Roman nature was fierce, rugged, almost brutal; and it\nsubmitted to restraint as stern as itself, as long as the energy of the\nold spirit endured. But as soon as that energy grew slack--when the\nreligion was no longer believed, and taste, as it was called, came in,\nand there was no more danger to face, and the world was at their feet,\nall was swept away as before a whirlwind; there was no loveliness in\nvirtue to make it desired, and the Rome of the Caesars presents, in its\nlater ages, a picture of enormous sensuality, of the coarsest animal\ndesire, with means unlimited to gratify it. In Latin literature, as\nlittle as in the Greek, is there any sense of the beauty of purity.\nMoral essays on temperance we may find, and praise enough of the wise\nman whose passions and whose appetites are trained into obedience to\nreason. But this is no more than the philosophy of the old Roman life,\nwhich got itself expressed in words when men were tired of the reality.\nIt involves no sense of sin. If sin could be indulged without weakening\nself-command, or without hurting other people, Roman philosophy would\nhave nothing to say against it.\n\nThe Christians stepped far out beyond philosophy. Without speculating on\nthe _why_, they felt that indulgence of animal passion did, in fact,\npollute them, and so much the more, the more it was deliberate.\nPhilosophy, gliding into Manicheism, divided the forces of the universe,\ngiving the spirit to God, but declaring matter to be eternally and\nincurably evil; and looking forward to the time when the spirit should\nbe emancipated from the body, as the beginning of, or as the return to,\nits proper existence, a man like Plotinus took no especial care what\nbecame the meanwhile of its evil tenement of flesh. If the body sinned,\nsin was its element; it could not do other than sin; purity of conduct\ncould not make the body clean, and no amount of bodily indulgence could\nshed a taint upon the spirit--a very comfortable doctrine, and one\nwhich, under various disguises, has appeared a good many times on the\nearth. But Christianity, shaking all this off, would present the body to\nGod as a pure and holy sacrifice, as so much of the material world\nconquered from the appetites and lusts, and from the devil whose abode\nthey were. This was the meaning of the fastings and scourgings, the\npenances and night-watchings; it was this which sent St. Anthony to the\ntombs and set Simeon on his pillar, to conquer the devil in the flesh,\nand keep themselves, if possible, undefiled by so much as one corrupt\nthought.\n\nAnd they may have been absurd and extravagant. When the feeling is\nstronger than the judgment, men are very apt to be extravagant. If, in\nthe recoil from Manicheism, they conceived that a body of a saint thus\npurified had contracted supernatural virtue and could work miracles,\nthey had not sufficiently attended to the facts, and so far are not\nunexceptionable witnesses to them. Nevertheless they did their work, and\nin virtue of it we are raised to a higher stage--we are lifted forward a\nmighty step which we can never again retrace. Personal purity is not the\nwhole for which we have to care: it is but one feature in the ideal\ncharacter of man. The monks may have thought it was all, or more nearly\nall than it is; and therefore their lives may seem to us poor, mean, and\nemasculate. Yet it is with life as it is with science; generations of\nmen have given themselves exclusively to single branches, which, when\nmastered, form but a little section in a cosmic philosophy; and in life,\nso slow is progress, it may take a thousand years to make good a single\nstep. Weary and tedious enough it seems when we cease to speak in large\nlanguage, and remember the numbers of individual souls who have been at\nwork at the process; but who knows whereabouts we are in the duration\nof the race? Is humanity crawling out of the cradle, or tottering into\nthe grave? Is it in nursery, in schoolroom, or in opening manhood? Who\nknows? It is enough for us to be sure of our steps when we have taken\nthem, and thankfully to accept what has been done for us. Henceforth it\nis impossible for us to give our unmixed admiration to any character\nwhich moral shadows overhang. Henceforth we require, not greatness only,\nbut goodness; and not that goodness only which begins and ends in\nconduct correctly regulated, but that love of goodness, that keen pure\nfeeling for it, which resides in a conscience as sensitive and\nsusceptible as woman's modesty.\n\nSo much for what seems to us the philosophy of this matter. If we are\nright, it is no more than a first furrow in the crust of a soil which\nhitherto the historians have been contented to leave in its barrenness.\nIf they are conscientious enough not to trifle with the facts, as they\nlook back on them from the luxurious self-indulgence of modern\nChristianity, they either revile the superstition or pity the ignorance\nwhich made such large mistakes on the nature of religion--and, loud in\ntheir denunciations of priestcraft and of lying wonders, they point\ntheir moral with pictures of the ambition of mediaeval prelacy or the\nscandals of the annals of the papacy. For the inner life of all those\nmillions of immortal souls who were struggling, with such good or bad\nsuccess as was given them, to carry Christ's cross along their journey\nthrough life, they set it by, pass it over, dismiss it out of history,\nwith some poor commonplace simper of sorrow or of scorn. It will not do.\nMankind have not been so long on this planet altogether, that we can\nallow so large a chasm to be scooped out of their spiritual existence.\n\nWe intended to leave our readers with something lighter than all this in\nthe shape of literary criticism, and a few specimens of the biographical\nstyle: in both of these we must now, however, be necessarily brief.\nWhoever is curious to study the lives of the saints in their originals,\nshould rather go anywhere than to the Bollandists, and universally never\nread a late life when he can command an early one; for the genius in\nthem is in the ratio of their antiquity, and, like river-water, is most\npure nearest to the fountain. We are lucky in possessing several\nspecimens of the mode of their growth in late and early lives of the\nsame saints, and the process in all is similar. Out of the unnumbered\nlives of St. Bride, three are left; out of the sixty-six of St. Patrick,\nthere are eight; the first of each belonging to the sixth century, the\nlatest to the thirteenth. The earliest in each instance are in verse;\nthey belong to a time when there was no one to write such things, and\nwere popular in form and popular in their origin. The flow is easy, the\nstyle graceful and natural; but the step from poetry to prose is\nsubstantial as well as formal; the imagination is ossified, and we\nexchange the exuberance of legendary creativeness for the dogmatic\nrecord of fact without reality, and fiction without grace. The\nmarvellous in the poetical lives is comparatively slight; the\nafter-miracles being composed frequently out of a mistake of poets'\nmetaphors for literal truth. There is often real, genial, human beauty\nin the old verse. The first two stanzas, for instance, of St. Bride's\nHymn are of high merit, as may, perhaps, be imperfectly seen in a\ntranslation:--\n\n    Bride the queen, she loved not the world;\n    She floated on the waves of the world\n    As the sea-bird floats upon the billow.\n\n    Such sleep she slept as the mother sleeps\n    In the far land of her captivity,\n    Mourning for her child at home.\n\nWhat a picture is there of the strangeness and yearning of the poor\nhuman soul in this earthly pilgrimage!\n\nThe poetical 'Life of St. Patrick,' too, is full of fine, wild, natural\nimagery. The boy is described as a shepherd on the hills of Down, and\nthere is a legend, well told, of the angel Victor coming to him, and\nleaving a gigantic footprint on a rock from which he sprang back into\nheaven. The legend, of course, rose from some remarkable natural feature\nof the spot; as it is first told, a shadowy unreality hangs over it, and\nit is doubtful whether it is more than a vision of the boy; but in the\nlater prose all is crystalline; the story is drawn out, with a barren\nprolixity of detail, into a series of angelic visitations. And again,\nwhen Patrick is described, as the after-apostle, raising the dead Celts\nto life, the metaphor cannot be left in its natural force, and we have a\nlong weary list of literal deaths and literal raisings. So in many ways\nthe freshness and individuality was lost with time. The larger saints\nswallowed up the smaller and appropriated their exploits; chasms were\nsupplied by an ever ready fancy; and, like the stock of good works laid\nup for general use, there was a stock of miracles ever ready when any\ndefect was to be supplied. So it was that, after the first impulse, the\nprogressive life of a saint rolled on like a snowball down a mountain\nside, gathering up into itself whatever lay in its path, fact or legend,\nappropriate or inappropriate--sometimes real jewels of genuine old\ntradition, sometimes the debris of the old creeds and legends of\nheathenism; and on, and on, till at length it reached the bottom, and\nwas dashed in pieces on the Reformation.\n\nOne more illustration shall serve as evidence of what the really\ngreatest, most vigorous, minds in the twelfth century could accept as\npossible or probable, which they could relate (on what evidence we do\nnot know) as really ascertained facts. We remember something of St.\nAnselm: both as a statesman and as a theologian, he was unquestionably\namong the ablest men of his time alive in Europe. Here is a story which\nAnselm tells of a certain Cornish St. Kieran. The saint, with thirty of\nhis companions, was preaching within the frontiers of a lawless Pagan\nprince; and, disregarding all orders to be quiet or to leave the\ncountry, continued to agitate, to threaten, and to thunder even in the\nears of the prince himself. Things took their natural course.\nDisobedience provoked punishment. A guard of soldiers was sent, and the\nsaint and his little band were decapitated. The scene of the execution\nwas a wood, and the heads and trunks were left lying there for the\nwolves and the wild birds.\n\n    But now a miracle, such as was once heard of before in the Church in\n    the person of the holy Denis, was again wrought by Divine Providence\n    to preserve the bodies of these saints from profanation. The trunk\n    of Kieran rose from the ground, and selecting first his own head,\n    and carrying it to a stream, and there carefully washing it, and\n    afterwards performing the same sacred office for each of his\n    companions, giving each body its own head, he dug graves for them\n    and buried them, and last of all buried himself.\n\nIt is even so. So it stands written in a life claiming Anselm's\nauthorship; and there is no reason why the authorship should not be his.\nOut of the heart come the issues of evil and of good, and not out of the\nintellect or the understanding. Men are not good or bad, noble or\nbase--thank God for it!--as they judge well or ill of the probabilities\nof nature, but as they love God and hate the devil. And yet the story is\ninstructive. We have heard grave good men--men of intellect and\ninfluence--with all the advantages of modern science, learning,\nexperience; men who would regard Anselm with sad and serious pity; yet\ntell us stories, as having fallen within their own experience, of the\nmarvels of mesmerism, to the full as ridiculous (if anything is\nridiculous) as this of the poor decapitated Kieran.\n\n      Mutato nomine, de te\n    Fabula narratur.\n\nWe see our natural faces in the glass of history, and turn away and\nstraightway forget what manner of men we are. The superstition of\nscience scoffs at the superstition of faith.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Z] Written in 1850.\n\n\n\n\nREPRESENTATIVE MEN.\n\n1850.\n\n\nFrom St. Anselm to Mr. Emerson, from the 'Acta Sanctorum' to the\n'Representative Men;' so far in seven centuries we have travelled. The\nraces of the old Ideals have become extinct like the Preadamite\nSaurians; and here are our new pattern specimens on which we are to\nlook, and take comfort and encouragement to ourselves.\n\nThe philosopher, the mystic, the poet, the sceptic, the man of the\nworld, the writer; these are the present moral categories, the _summa\ngenera_ of human greatness as Mr. Emerson arranges them. From every\npoint of view an exceptionable catalogue. They are all thinkers, to\nbegin with, except one: and thought is but a poor business compared to\naction. Saints did not earn canonisation by the number of their folios;\nand if the necessities of the times are now driving our best men out of\naction into philosophy and verse-making, so much the worse for them and\nso much the worse for the world. The one pattern actor, 'the man of the\nworld,' is Napoleon Bonaparte, not in the least a person, as we are most\nof us at present feeling, whose example the world desires to see\nfollowed. Mr. Emerson would have done better if he had kept to his own\nside of the Atlantic. He is paying his own countrymen but a poor\ncompliment by coming exclusively to Europe for his heroes; and he would\nbe doing us in Europe more real good by a great deal if he would tell us\nsomething of the backwoodsmen in Kentucky and Ohio. However, to let that\npass; it is not our business here to quarrel either with him or his\nbook; and the book stands at the head of our article rather because it\npresents a very noticeable deficiency of which its writer is either\nunaware or careless.\n\nThese six predicables, as the logician would call them, what are they?\nAre they _ultimate genera_ refusing to be classified farther? or is\nthere any other larger type of greatness under which they fall? In the\nnaturalist's catalogue, poet, sceptic, and the rest will all be\nclassified as men--man being an intelligible entity. Has Mr. Emerson any\nsimilar clear idea of great man or good man? If so, where is he? what is\nhe? It is desirable that we should know. Men will not get to heaven\nbecause they lie under one or other of these predicables. What is that\nsupreme type of character which is in itself good or great, unqualified\nwith any farther _differentia_? Is there any such? and if there be,\nwhere is the representative of this? It may be said that the generic man\nexists nowhere in an ideal unity--that if considered at all, he must be\nabstracted from the various sorts of men, black and white, tame or\nsavage. So if we would know what a great man or a good man means, we\nmust look to some specific line in which he is good, and abstract our\ngeneral idea. And that is very well, provided we know what we are about;\nprovided we understand, in our abstracting, how to get the essential\nidea distinctly out before ourselves, without entangling ourselves in\nthe accidents. Human excellence, after all the teaching of the last\neighteen hundred years, ought to be something palpable by this time. It\nis the one thing which we are all taught to seek and to aim at forming\nin ourselves; and if representative men are good for anything at all, it\ncan only be, not as they represent merely curious combinations of\nphenomena, but as they illustrate us in a completely realised form, what\nwe are, every single one of us, equally interested in understanding. It\nis not the 'great man' as 'man of the world' that we care for, but the\n'man of the world' as a 'great man'--which is a very different thing.\nHaving to live in this world, how to live greatly here is the question\nfor us; not, how, being great, we can cast our greatness in a worldly\nmould. There may be endless successful 'men of the world' who are mean\nor little enough all the while; and the Emersonian attitude will confuse\nsuccess with greatness, or turn our ethics into a chaos of absurdity. So\nit is with everything which man undertakes and works in. Life has grown\ncomplicated; and for one employment in old times there are a hundred\nnow. But it is not _they_ which are anything, but _we_. We are the end,\nthey are but the means, the material--like the clay, or the marble, or\nthe bronze in which the sculptor carves his statue. The _form_ is\neverything; and what is the form? From nursery to pulpit every teacher\nrings on the one note--be good, be noble, be men. What is goodness then?\nand what is nobleness? and where are the examples? We do not say that\nthere are none. God forbid! That is not what we are meaning at all. If\nthe earth had ceased to bear men pleasant in God's sight, it would have\npassed away like the cities in the plain. But who are they? which are\nthey? how are we to know them? They are our leaders in this life\ncampaign of ours. If we could see them, we would follow them, and save\nourselves many and many a fall, and many an enemy whom we could have\navoided, if we had known of him. It cannot be that the thing is so\nsimple, when names of highest reputation are wrangled over, and such\npoor counterfeits are mobbed with applauding followers. In art and\nscience we can detect the charlatan, but in life we do not recognise him\nso readily--we do not recognise the charlatan, and we do not recognise\nthe true man. Rajah Brooke is alternately a hero or a pirate; and fifty\nof the best men among us are likely to have fifty opinions on the merits\nof Elizabeth or Cromwell.\n\nBut surely, men say, the thing is simple. The commandments are simple.\nIt is not that people do not know, but that they will not act up to what\nthey know. We hear a great deal of this in sermons, and elsewhere; and\nof course, as everybody's experience will tell him, there is a great\ndeal too much reason why we should hear of it. But there are two sorts\nof duty, positive and negative; what we ought to do, and what we ought\nnot to do. To the latter of these, conscience is pretty much awake; but\nby cunningly concentrating its attention on one side of the matter,\nconscience has contrived to forget altogether that any other sort exists\nat all. 'Doing wrong' is breaking a commandment which forbids us to do\nsome particular thing. That is all the notion which in common language\nis attached to the idea. Do not kill, steal, lie, swear, commit\nadultery, or break the Lord's day--these are the commandments; very\nsimple, doubtless, and easy to be known. But, after all, what are they?\nThey are no more than the very first and rudimental conditions of\ngoodness. Obedience to these is not more than a small part of what is\nrequired of us; it is no more than the foundation on which the\nsuperstructure of character is to be raised. To go through life, and\nplead at the end of it that we have not broken any of these\ncommandments, is but what the unprofitable servant did, who kept his\ntalent carefully unspent, and yet was sent to outer darkness for his\nuselessness. Suppose these commandments obeyed--what then? It is but a\nsmall portion of our time which, we will hope, is spent in resisting\ntemptation to break them. What are we to do with the rest of it? Or\nsuppose them (and this is a high step indeed) resolved into love of God\nand love of our neighbour. Suppose we know that it is our duty to love\nour neighbour as ourselves. What are we to do, then, for our neighbour,\nbesides abstaining from doing him injury? The saints knew very well what\n_they_ were to do; but our duties, we suppose, lie in a different\ndirection; and it does not appear that we have found them. 'We have\nduties so positive to our neighbour,' says Bishop Butler, 'that if we\ngive more of our time and of our attention to ourselves and our own\nmatters than is our just due, we are taking what is not ours, and are\nguilty of fraud.' What does Bishop Butler mean? It is easy to answer\ngenerally. In detail, it is not only difficult, it is impossible to\nanswer at all. The modern world says--'Mind your own business, and leave\nothers to take care of theirs;' and whoever among us aspires to more\nthan the negative abstaining from wrong, is left to his own guidance.\nThere is no help for him, no instruction, no modern ideal which shall be\nto him what the heroes were to the young Greek or Roman, or the martyrs\nto the middle age Christian. There is neither track nor footprint in the\ncourse which he will have to follow, while, as in the old fairy tale,\nthe hillside which he is climbing is strewed with black stones mocking\nat him with their thousand voices. We have no moral criterion, no idea,\nno counsels of perfection; and surely this is the reason why education\nis so little prosperous with us; because the only education worth\nanything is the education of character, and we cannot educate a\ncharacter unless we have some notion of what we would form. Young men,\nas we know, are more easily led than driven. It is a very old story that\nto forbid this and that (so curious and contradictory is our nature) is\nto stimulate a desire to do it. But place before a boy a figure of a\nnoble man; let the circumstances in which he has earned his claim to be\ncalled noble be such as the boy himself sees round himself; let him see\nthis man rising over his temptation, and following life victoriously and\nbeautifully forward, and, depend on it, you will kindle his heart as no\nthreat of punishment here or anywhere will kindle it.\n\nPeople complain of the sameness in the 'Lives of the Saints.' It is that\nvery sameness which is the secret of their excellence. There is a\nsameness in the heroes of the 'Iliad;' there is a sameness in the\nhistorical heroes of Greece and Rome. A man is great as he contends best\nwith the circumstances of his age, and those who fight best with the\nsame circumstances, of course grow like each other. And so with our own\nage--if we really could have the lives of our best men written for us\n(and written well, by men who knew what to look for, and what it was on\nwhich they should insist), they would be just as like as each other too,\nand would for that reason be of such infinite usefulness. They would not\nbe like the old Ideals. Times are changed; they were one thing, we have\nto be another--their enemies are not ours. There is a moral\nmetempsychosis in the change of era, and probably no lineament of form\nor feature remains identical; yet surely not because less is demanded of\nus--not less, but more--more, as we are again and again told on Sundays\nfrom the pulpits; if the preachers would but tell us in what that 'more'\nconsists. The loftiest teaching we ever hear is, that we are to work in\nthe spirit of love; but we are still left to generalities, while action\ndivides and divides into ever smaller details. It is as if the Church\nsaid to the painter or to the musician whom she was training, you must\nwork in the spirit of love and in the spirit of truth; and then adding,\nthat the Catholic painting or the Catholic music was what he was _not_\nto imitate, supposed that she had sent him out into the world equipped\nfully for his enterprise.\n\nAnd what comes of this? Emersonianism has come, modern hagiology has\ncome, and Ainsworth novels and Bulwer novels, and a thousand more\nunclean spirits. We have cast out the Catholic devil, and the Puritan\nhas swept the house and garnished it; but as yet we do not see any\nsymptoms showing of a healthy incoming tenant, and there may be worse\nstates than Catholicism. If we wanted proof of the utter spiritual\ndisintegration into which we have fallen, it would be enough that we\nhave no biographies. We do not mean that we have no written lives of our\nfellow-creatures; there are enough and to spare. But not any one is\nthere in which the ideal tendencies of this age can be discerned in\ntheir true form; not one, or hardly any one, which we could place in a\nyoung man's hands, with such warm confidence as would let us say of\nit--'Read that; there is a man--such a man as you ought to be; read it,\nmeditate on it; see what he was, and how he made himself what he was,\nand try and be yourself like him.' This, as we saw lately, is what\nCatholicism did. It had its one broad type of perfection, which in\ncountless thousands of instances was perpetually reproducing itself--a\ntype of character not especially belonging to any one profession; it was\na type to which priest and layman, knight or bishop, king or peasant,\nmight equally aspire: men of all sorts aspired to it, and men of all\nsorts attained to it; and as fast as she had realised them (so to say),\nthe Church took them in her arms, and held them up before the world as\nfresh and fresh examples of victory over the devil. This is what that\nChurch was able to do, and it is what we cannot do; and yet, till we can\nlearn to do it, no education which we can offer has any chance of\nprospering. Perfection is not easy; it is of all things most difficult;\ndifficult to know and difficult to practise. Rules of life will not do;\neven if our analysis of life in all its possible forms were as complete\nas it is in fact rudimentary, they would still be inefficient. The\nphilosophy of the thing might be understood, but the practice would be\nas far off as ever. In life, as in art, and as in mechanics, the only\nprofitable teaching is the teaching by example. Your mathematician, or\nyour man of science, may discourse excellently on the steam engine, yet\nhe cannot make one; he cannot make a bolt or a screw. The master workman\nin the engine-room does not teach his apprentice the theory of\nexpansion, or of atmospheric pressure; he guides his hand upon the\nturncock, he practises his eye upon the index, and he leaves the science\nto follow when the practice has become mechanical. So it is with\neverything which man learns to do; and yet for the art of arts, the\ntrade of trades, for _life_, we content ourselves with teaching our\nchildren the catechism and the commandments; we preach them sermons on\nthe good of being good, and the evil of being evil; in our higher\neducation we advance to the theory of habit and the freedom of the will;\nand then, when failure follows failure, _ipsa experientia reclamante_,\nwe hug ourselves with a complacent self-satisfied reflection that the\nfault is not ours, that all which men could do we have done. The freedom\nof the will!--as if a blacksmith would ever teach a boy to make a\nhorseshoe, by telling him he could make one if he chose.\n\nIn setting out on our journey through life, we are like strangers set to\nfind their way across a difficult and entangled country. It is not\nenough for us to know that others have set out as we set out, that\nothers have faced the lions in the path and overcome them, and have\narrived at last at the journey's end. Such a knowledge may give us\nheart--but the help it gives is nothing beyond teaching us that the\ndifficulties are not insuperable. It is the _track_, which these others,\nthese pioneers of godliness, have beaten in, that we cry to have shown\nus; not a mythic 'Pilgrim's Progress,' but a real path trodden in by\nreal men. Here is a crag, and there is but one spot where it can be\nclimbed; here is a morass or a river, and there is a bridge in one\nplace, and a ford in another. There are robbers in this forest, and wild\nbeasts in that; the tracks cross and recross, and, as in the old\nlabyrinth, only one will bring us right. The age of the saints has\npassed; they are no longer any service to us; we must walk in their\nspirit, but not along their road; and in this sense we say, that we have\nno pattern great men, no biographies, no history, which are of real\nservice to us. It is the remarkable characteristic of the present time,\nas far as we know--a new phenomenon since history began to be written;\none more proof, if we wanted proof, that we are entering on another era.\nIn our present efforts at educating, we are like workmen setting about\nto make a machine which they know is to be composed of plates and\njoints, and wheels and screws and springs:--they temper their springs,\nand smooth their plates, and carve out carefully their wheels and\nscrews, but having no idea of the machine in its combination, they\neither fasten them together at random, and create some monster of\ndisjointed undirected force, or else pile the finished materials into a\nheap together, and trust to some organic spirit in themselves which will\nshape them into unity. We do not know what we would be at--make our\nchildren into men, says one--but what sort of men? The Greeks were men,\nso were the Jews, so were the Romans, so were the old Saxons, the\nNormans, the Duke of Alva's Spaniards, and Cromwell's Puritans. These\nwere all men, and strong men too; yet all different, and all differently\ntrained. 'Into Christian men,' say others: but the saints were Christian\nmen; yet the modern Englishmen have been offered the saints'\nbiographies, and have with sufficient clearness expressed their opinion\nof them.\n\nAlas! in all this confusion, only those keen-eyed children of this world\nfind their profit; their idea does not readily forsake them. In their\nsubstantial theory of life, the business of man in it is to get on, to\nthrive, to prosper, to have riches in possession. They will have their\nlittle ones taught, by the law of demand, what will fetch its price in\nthe market; and this is clear, bold, definite, straightforward--and\ntherefore it is strong, and works its way. It works and will prevail for\na time; for a time--but not for ever, unless indeed religion be all a\ndream, and our airy notions of ourselves a vision out of which our wise\nage is the long-waited-for awakening.\n\nIt would be a weary and odious business to follow out all the causes\nwhich have combined to bring us into our present state. Many of them lie\ndeep down in the roots of humanity, and many belong to that large system\nof moral causation which works through vast masses of mankind--which,\nimpressing peculiar and necessary features on the eras as they succeed,\nleaves individuals but a limited margin within which they may determine\nwhat they will be. One cause, however, may be mentioned, which lies near\nthe surface, and which for many reasons it may be advantageous to\nconsider. At first thought it may seem superficial and captious; but we\ndo not think it will at the second, and still less at the third.\n\nProtestantism, and even Anglo-Protestantism, has not been without its\ngreat men. In their first fierce struggle for existence, these creeds\ngave birth to thousands whose names may command any rank in history. But\nalone of all forms of religion, past or present, and we will add (as we\ndevoutly hope), to come (for in her present form, at least, the Church\nof England cannot long remain), Protestantism knows not what to do with\nher own offspring; she is unable to give them open and honourable\nrecognition. Entangled in speculative theories of human depravity, of\nthe worthlessness of the best which the best men can do, Protestantism\nis unable to say heartily of any one, 'Here is a good man to be loved\nand remembered with reverence.' There are no saints in the English\nChurch. The English Church does not pretend to saints. Her children may\nlive purely, holily, and beautifully, but her gratitude for them must be\nsilent; she may not thank God for them--she may not hold them up before\nher congregation. They may or they may not have been really good, but\nshe may not commit herself to attributing a substantial value to the\nactions of a nature so corrupt as that of man. Among Protestants, the\nChurch of England is the worst, for she is not wholly Protestant. In the\nutterness of the self-abnegation of the genuine Protestant there is\nsomething approaching the heroic. But she, ambitious of being Catholic\nas well as Protestant, like that old Church of evil memory which would\nbe neither hot nor cold, will neither wholly abandon merit, nor wholly\nclaim it; but halts on between two opinions, claiming and disclaiming,\nsaying and in the next breath again unsaying. The Oxford student being\nasked for the doctrine of the Anglican Church on good works, knew the\nrocks and whirlpools among which an unwary answer might involve him, and\nsteering midway between Scylla and Charybdis, replied, with laudable\ncaution, 'a few of them would not do a man any harm.' It is scarcely a\ncaricature of the prudence of the Articles. And so at last it has come\nto this with us. The soldier can raise a column to his successful\ngeneral; the halls of the law courts are hung round with portraits of\nthe ermined sages; Newton has his statue, and Harvey and Watt, in the\nacademies of the sciences; and each young aspirant after fame, entering\nfor the first time upon the calling which he has chosen, sees high\nexcellence highly honoured; sees the high career, and sees its noble\nending, marked out each step of it in golden letters. But the Church's\naisles are desolate, and desolate they must remain. There is no statue\nfor the Christian. The empty niches stare out like hollow eye-sockets\nfrom the walls. Good men live in the Church and die in her, whose story\nwritten out or told would be of inestimable benefit, but she may not\nwrite it. She may speak of goodness, but not of the good man; as she may\nspeak of sin, but may not censure the sinner. Her position is critical;\nthe Dissenters would lay hold of it. She may not do it, but she will do\nwhat she can. She cannot tolerate an image indeed, or a picture of her\nown raising; she has no praise to utter at her children's graves, when\ntheir lives have witnessed to her teaching. But if others will bear the\nexpense and will risk the sin, she will offer no objection. Her walls\nare naked. The wealthy ones among her congregation may adorn them as\nthey please; the splendour of a dead man's memorial shall be, not as his\nvirtues were, but as his purse; and his epitaph may be brilliant\naccording as there are means to pay for it. They manage things better at\nthe museums and the institutes.\n\nLet this pass, however, as the worst case. There are other causes at\nwork besides the neglect of churches; the neglect itself being as much a\nresult as a cause. There is a common dead level over the world, to which\nchurches and teachers, however seemingly opposite, are alike condemned.\nAs it is here in England, so it is with the American Emerson. The fault\nis not in them, but in the age of which they are no more than the\nindicators. We are passing out of old forms of activity into others new\nand on their present scale untried; and how to work nobly in them is the\none problem for us all. Surius will not profit us, nor the 'Mort\nd'Arthur.' Our calling is neither to the hermitage nor to the round\ntable. Our work lies now in those peaceful occupations which, in ages\ncalled heroic, were thought unworthy of noble souls. In those it was the\nslave who tilled the ground, and wove the garments. It was the ignoble\nburgher who covered the sea with his ships, and raised up factories and\nworkshops; and how far such occupations influenced the character, how\nthey could be made to minister to loftiness of heart, and high and\nbeautiful life, was a question which could not occur while the\natmosphere of the heroic was on all sides believed so alien to them.\nTimes have changed. The old hero worship has vanished with the need of\nit; but no other has risen in its stead, and without it we wander in the\ndark. The commonplaces of morality, the negative commandments, general\nexhortations to goodness, while neither speaker nor hearer can tell what\nthey mean by goodness--these are all which now remain to us; and thrown\ninto a life more complicated than any which the earth has yet\nexperienced, we are left to wind our way through the labyrinth of its\ndetails without any clue except our own instincts, our own knowledge,\nour own hopes and desires.\n\nWe complain of generalities; we will not leave ourselves exposed to the\nsame charge. We will mention a few of the thousand instances in which we\ncry for guidance and find none; instances on which those who undertake\nto teach us ought to have made up their minds.\n\nOn the surface at least of the Prayer-book, there seems to be something\nleft remaining of the Catholic penitential system. Fasting is spoken of\nand abstinence, and some form or other of self-inflicted self-denial is\nnecessarily meant. This thing can by no possibility be unimportant, and\nwe may well smile at the exclusive claims of a church to the cure of our\nsouls, who is unable to say what she thinks about it. Let us ask her\nliving interpreters then, and what shall we get for an answer? either no\nanswer at all, or contradictory answers; angrily, violently,\npassionately, contradictory. Among the many voices, what is a young man\nto conclude? He will conclude naturally according to his inclination;\nand if he chooses right, it will most likely be on a wrong motive.\n\nAgain, _courage_ is, on all hands, considered as an essential of high\ncharacter. Among all fine people, old and modern, wherever we are able\nto get an insight into their training system, we find it a thing\nparticularly attended to. The Greeks, the Romans, the old Persians, our\nown nation till the last two hundred years, whoever of mankind have\nturned out good for anything anywhere, knew very well, that to exhort a\nboy to be brave without training him in it, would be like exhorting a\nyoung colt to submit to the bridle without breaking him in. Step by\nstep, as he could bear it, the boy was introduced to danger, till his\npulse ceased to be agitated, and he became familiarised with peril as\nhis natural element. It was a matter of carefully considered, thoroughly\nrecognised, and organised education. But courage nowadays is not a\npaying virtue. Courage does not help to make money, and so we have\nceased to care about it; and boys are left to educate one another by\ntheir own semi-brutal instincts, in this, which is perhaps the most\nimportant of all features in the human character. Schools, as far as the\nmasters are concerned with them, are places for teaching Greek and\nLatin--that, and nothing more. At the universities, fox-hunting is,\nperhaps, the only discipline of the kind now to be found, and\nfox-hunting, by forbidding it and winking at it, the authorities have\ncontrived to place on as demoralising a footing as ingenuity could\ndevise.[AA]\n\nTo pass from training to life. A boy has done with school and college;\nhe has become a man, and has to choose his profession. It is the one\nmost serious step which he has yet taken. In most cases, there is no\nrecalling it. He believes that he is passing through life to eternity;\nthat his chance of getting to heaven depends on what use he makes of his\ntime; he prays every day that he may be delivered from temptation; it is\nhis business to see that he does not throw himself into it. Now, every\none of the many professions has a peculiar character of its own, which,\nwith rare exceptions, it inflicts on those who follow it. There is the\nshopkeeper type, the manufacturer type, the lawyer type, the medical\ntype, the clerical type, the soldier's, the sailor's. The nature of a\nman is\n\n            Like the dyer's hand,\n    Subdued to what it works in;\n\nand we can distinguish with ease, on the slightest intercourse, to what\nclass a grown person belongs. It is to be seen in his look, in his\nwords, in his tone of thought, his voice, gesture, even in his\nhand-writing; and in everything which he does. Every human employment\nhas its especial moral characteristic, its peculiar temptations, its\npeculiar influences--of a subtle and not easily analysed kind, and only\nto be seen in their effects. Here, therefore--here, if anywhere, we want\nMr. Emerson with his representatives, or the Church with her advice and\nwarning. But, in fact, what attempt do we see to understand any of this,\nor even to acknowledge it; to master the moral side of the professions;\nto teach young men entering them what they are to expect, what to avoid,\nor what to seek? Where are the highest types--the pattern lawyer, and\nshopkeeper, and merchant? Are they all equally favourable to excellence\nof character? Do they offer equal opportunities? Which best suits this\ndisposition, and which suits that? Alas! character is little thought of\nin the choice. It is rather, which shall I best succeed in? Where shall\nI make most money? Suppose an anxious boy to go for counsel to his\nspiritual mother; to go to her, and ask her to guide him. Shall I be a\nsoldier? he says. What will she tell him? This and no more--you may,\nwithout sin. Shall I be a lawyer, merchant, manufacturer, tradesman,\nengineer? Still the same answer. But which is best? he demands. We do\nnot know: we do not know. There is no guilt in either; you may take\nwhich you please, provided you go to church regularly, and are honest\nand good. If he is foolish enough to persist further, and ask, in what\ngoodness and honesty consist in _his especial department_ (whichever he\nselects), he will receive the same answer; in other words, he will be\ntold to give every man his due and be left to find out for himself in\nwhat 'his due' consists. It is like an artist telling his pupil to put\nthe lights and shadows in their due places, and leaving it to the\npupil's ingenuity to interpret such instructive directions.\n\nOne more instance of an obviously practical kind. Masters, few people\nwill now deny, owe certain duties to their workmen beyond payment at the\ncompetition price for their labour, and the workmen owe something to\ntheir masters beyond making their own best bargain. Courtesy, on the one\nside, and respect on the other, are at least due; and wherever human\nbeings are brought in contact, a number of reciprocal obligations at\nonce necessarily arise out of the conditions of their position. It is\nthis question which at the present moment is convulsing an entire branch\nof English trade. It is this question which has shaken the Continent\nlike an earthquake, and yet it is one which, the more it is thought\nabout, the more clearly seems to refuse to admit of being dealt with by\nlegislation. It is a question for the Gospel and not for the law. The\nduties are of the kind which it is the business, not of the State, but\nof the Church, to look to. Why is the Church silent? There are duties;\nlet her examine them, sift them, prove them, and then point them out.\nWhy not--why not? Alas! she cannot, she dare not give offence, and\ntherefore must find none. It is to be feared that we have a rough trial\nto pass through, before we find our way and understand our obligations.\nYet far off we seem to see a time when the lives, the actions of the\nreally great, great good masters, great good landlords, great good\nworking men, will be laid out once more before their several orders,\nlaid out in the name of God, as once the saints' lives were; and the\nsame sounds shall be heard in factory and in counting-house as once\nsounded through abbey, chapel, and cathedral aisle--'Look at these men;\nbless God for them, and follow them.'\n\nAnd let no one fear that, if such happy time were come, it would result\nin a tame and weary sameness; that the beautiful variety of individual\nform would be lost, drilled away in regimental uniformity. Even if it\nwere so, it need not be any the worse for us; we are not told to\ndevelope our individualities, we are told to bear fruit. The poor\nvagabond, with all his individualities about him, if by luck he falls\ninto the hands of the recruiting sergeant, finds himself, a year later,\nwith his red coat and his twelve months' training, not a little the\nbetter for the loss of them. But such schooling as we have been speaking\nof will drill out only such individualities as are of the unworthy kind,\nand will throw the strength of the nature into the development of the\nhealthiest features in it. Far more, as things now are, we see men\nsinking into sameness--an inorganic, unwholesome sameness, in which the\nhigher nature is subdued, and the _man_ is sacrificed to the profession.\nThe circumstances of his life are his world; and he sinks under them, he\ndoes not conquer them. If he has to choose between the two, God's\nuniform is better than the world's. The first gives him freedom; the\nsecond takes it from him. Only here, as in everything, we must\nunderstand the nature of the element in which we work; understand it;\nunderstand the laws of it. Throw off the lower laws; the selfish,\ndebasing influences of the profession; obey the higher; follow love,\ntruthfulness, manliness; follow these first, and make the profession\nserve them; and that is freedom; there is none else possible for man.\n\n    Das Gesetz soll nur uns Freiheit geben;\n\nand whatever individuality is lost in the process, we may feel assured\nthat the devil has too much to do with, to make us care to be rid of it.\n\nBut how to arrive at this? so easy as it is to suggest on paper, so easy\nto foretell in words. Raise the level of public opinion, we might say;\ninsist on a higher standard; in the economist's language, increase the\ndemand for goodness, and the supply will follow; or, at any rate, men\nwill do their best. Until we require more of one another, more will not\nbe provided. But this is but to restate the problem in other words. How\nare we to touch the heart; how to awaken the desire? We believe that the\ngood man, the great man, whatever he be, prince or peasant, is really\nlovely; that really and truly, if we can only see him, he more than\nanything will move us; and at least, we have a right to demand that the\nartificial hindrances which prevent our lifting him above the crowd,\nshall be swept away. He in his beautiful life is a thousand times more\nGod's witness than any preacher in a pulpit, and his light must not be\nconcealed any more. As we said, what lies in the way of our sacred\nrecognition of great men is more than anything else the Protestant\ndoctrine of good works. We do not forget what it meant when the world\nfirst heard of it. It was a cry from the very sanctuary of the soul,\nflinging off and execrating the accursed theory of merits, the sickening\nparade of redundant saintly virtues, which the Roman Church had\nconverted into stock, and dispensed for the benefit of the believers.\nThis is not the place to pour out our nausea on so poor, yet so\ndetestable a farce. But it seems with all human matters, that as soon as\nspiritual truths are petrified into doctrines, it is another name for\ntheir death. They die, corrupt, and breed a pestilence. The doctrine of\ngood works was hurled away by an instinct of generous feeling, and this\nfeeling itself has again become dead, and a fresh disease has followed\nupon it. Nobody (or, at least, nobody good for anything) will lay a\nclaim to merit for this or that good action which he may have done.\nExactly in proportion as a man is really good, will be the eagerness\nwith which he will refuse all credit for it; he will cry out, with all\nhis soul, 'Not unto us--not unto us.'\n\nAnd yet, practically, we all know and feel that between man and man\nthere is an infinite moral difference; one is good, one is bad, another\nhovers between the two; the whole of our conduct to each other is\nnecessarily governed by a recognition of this fact, just as it is in the\nanalogous question of the will. Ultimately, we are nothing of ourselves;\nwe know that we are but what God has given us grace to be--we did not\nmake ourselves--we do not keep ourselves here--we are but what in the\neternal order of Providence we were designed to be--exactly that and\nnothing else; and yet we treat each other as responsible; we cannot\nhelp it. The most rigid Calvinist cannot eliminate his instincts; his\nloves and hatreds seem rather to deepen in intensity of colouring as,\nlogically, his creed should lead him to conquer them as foolish. It is\nuseless, it is impossible, to bring down these celestial mysteries upon\nour earth, to try to see our way by them, or determine our feelings by\nthem; men are good, men are bad, relatively to us and to our\nunderstandings if you will, but still really, and so they must be\ntreated.\n\nThere is no more mischievous falsehood than to persist in railing at\nman's nature, as if it were all vile together, as if the best and the\nworst which comes of it were in God's sight equally without worth. These\ndenunciations tend too fatally to realise themselves. Tell a man that no\ngood which he can do is of any value, and depend upon it he will take\nyou at your word--most especially will the wealthy, comfortable,\nluxurious man, just the man who has most means to do good, and whom of\nall things it is most necessary to stimulate to it. Surely we should not\nbe afraid. The instincts which God has placed in our hearts are too\nmighty for us to be able to extinguish them with doctrinal sophistry. We\nlove the good man, we praise him, we admire him--we cannot help it; and\nsurely it is mere cowardice to shrink from recognising it\nopenly--thankfully, divinely recognising it. If true at all, there is no\ntruth in heaven or earth of deeper practical importance to us; and\nProtestantism must have lapsed from its once generous spirit, if it\npersists in imposing a dogma of its own upon our hearts, the touch of\nwhich is fatal as the touch of a torpedo to any high or noble endeavours\nafter excellence.\n\n'Drive out nature with a fork, she ever comes running back;' and while\nwe leave out of consideration the reality, we are filling the chasm with\ninventions of our own. The only novels which are popular among us are\nthose which picture the successful battles of modern men and women with\nmodern life, which are imperfect shadows of those real battles which\nevery reader has seen in some form or other, or has longed to see in his\nown small sphere. It shows where the craving lies if we had but the\ncourage to meet it; why need we fall back on imagination to create what\nGod has created ready for us? In every department of human life, in the\nmore and the less, there is always one man who is the best, and one\ntype of man which is the best, living and working his silent way to\nheaven in the very middle of us. Let us find this type then--let us see\nwhat it is which makes such men the best, and raise up their\nexcellencies into an acknowledged and open standard, of which they\nthemselves shall be the living witnesses. Is there a landlord who is\nspending his money, not on pineries and hothouses, but on schools, and\nwashhouses, and drains, who is less intent on the magnificence of his\nown grand house, than in providing cottages for his people where decency\nis possible; then let us not pass him by with a torpid wonder or a\nvanishing emotion of pleasure--rather let us seize him and raise him up\nupon a pinnacle, that other landlords may gaze upon him, if, perhaps,\ntheir hearts may prick them; and the world shall learn from what one man\nhas done what they have a right to require that others shall do.\n\nSo it might be through the thousand channels of life. It should not be\nso difficult; the machinery is ready, both to find your men and to use\nthem. In theory, at least, every parish has its pastor, and the state of\nevery soul is or ought to be known. We know not what turn things may\ntake, or what silent changes are rushing on below us. Even while the\npresent organisation remains--but, alas! no--it is no use to urge a\nChurch bound hand and foot in State shackles to stretch its limbs in any\nwholesome activity. If the teachers of the people really were the wisest\nand best and noblest men among us, this and a thousand other blessed\nthings would follow from it; till then let us be content to work and\npray, and lay our hand to the wheel wherever we can find a spoke to\ngrasp. _Corruptio optimi est pessima_; the national Church as it ought\nto be is the soul and conscience of the body politic, but a man whose\nbody has the direction of his conscience we do not commonly consider in\nthe most hopeful moral condition.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[AA] Written 1850.\n\n\n\n\nREYNARD THE FOX.[AB]\n\n\nLord Macaulay, in his Essay on Machiavelli, propounds a singular theory.\nDeclining the various solutions which have been offered to explain how a\nman supposed to be so great could have lent his genius to the doctrine\nof 'the Prince,' he has advanced a hypothesis of his own, which may or\nmay not be true, as an interpretation of Machiavelli's character, but\nwhich, as an exposition of a universal ethical theory, is as\nquestionable as what it is brought forward to explain. We will not show\nLord Macaulay the disrespect of supposing that he has attempted an\nelaborate piece of irony. It is possible that he may have been\nexercising his genius with a paradox, but the subject is not of the sort\nin which we can patiently permit such exercises. It is hard work with\nall of us to keep ourselves straight, even when we see the road with all\nplainness as it lies out before us; and clever men must be good enough\nto find something else to amuse themselves with, instead of dusting our\neyes with sophistry.\n\nAccording to this conception of human nature, the basenesses and the\nexcellencies of mankind are no more than accidents of circumstance, the\nresults of national feeling and national capabilities; and cunning and\ntreachery, and lying, and such other 'natural defences of the weak\nagainst the strong,' are in themselves neither good nor bad, except as\nthinking makes them so. They are the virtues of a weak people, and they\nwill be as much admired, and are as justly admirable; they are to the\nfull as compatible with the highest graces and most lofty features of\nthe heart and intellect as any of those opposite so called heroisms\nwhich we are generally so unthinking as to allow to monopolise the name.\nCunning is the only resource of the feeble; and why may we not feel for\nvictorious cunning as strong a sympathy as for the bold, downright, open\nbearing of the strong? That there may be no mistake in the essayist's\nmeaning, that he may drive the nail home into the English understanding,\nhe takes an illustration which shall be familiar to all of us in the\ncharacters of Iago and Othello. To our northern thought, the free and\nnoble nature of the Moor is wrecked through a single infirmity, by a\nfiend in the human form. To one of Machiavelli's Italians, Iago's\nkeen-edged intellect would have appeared as admirable as Othello's\ndaring appears to us, and Othello himself little better than a fool and\na savage. It is but a change of scene, of climate, of the animal\nqualities of the frame, and evil has become good, and good has become\nevil. Now, our displeasure with Lord Macaulay is, not that he has\nadvanced a novel and mischievous theory: it was elaborated long ago in\nthe finely tempered dialectics of the Schools of Rhetoric at Athens; and\nso long as such a phenomenon as a cultivated rogue remains possible\namong mankind, it will reappear in all languages and under any number of\nphilosophical disguises. Seldom or never, however, has it appeared with\nso little attempt at disguise. It has been left for questionable poets\nand novelists to idealise the rascal genus; philosophers have escaped\ninto the ambiguities of general propositions, and we do not remember\nelsewhere to have met with a serious ethical thinker deliberately laying\ntwo whole organic characters, with their vices and virtues in full life\nand bloom, side by side, asking himself which is best, and answering\ngravely that it is a matter of taste.\n\nLord Macaulay has been bolder than his predecessors; he has shrunk from\nno conclusion, and has looked directly into the very heart of the\nmatter; he has struck, as we believe, the very lowest stone of our\nethical convictions, and declared that the foundation quakes under it.\n\nFor, ultimately, how do we know that right is right, and wrong is wrong?\nPeople in general accept it on authority; but authority itself must\nrepose on some ulterior basis; and what is that? Are we to say that in\nmorals there is a system of primary axioms, out of which we develope our\nconclusions, and apply them, as they are needed, to life? It does not\nappear so. The analogy of morals is rather with art than with geometry.\nThe grace of heaven gives us good men, and gives us beautiful creations;\nand we, perceiving by the instincts within ourselves that celestial\npresence in the objects on which we gaze, find out for ourselves the\nlaws which make them what they are, not by comparing them with any\nantecedent theory, but by careful analysis of our own impressions, by\nasking ourselves what it is which we admire in them, and by calling that\ngood, and calling that beautiful.\n\nSo, then, if admiration be the first fact--if the sense of it be the\nultimate ground on which the after temple of morality, as a system,\nupraises itself--if we can be challenged here on our own ground, and\nfail to make it good, what we call the life of the soul becomes a dream\nof a feeble enthusiast, and we moralists a mark for the sceptic's finger\nto point at with scorn.\n\nBold and ably-urged arguments against our own convictions, if they do\nnot confuse us, will usually send us back over our ground to re-examine\nthe strength of our positions: and if we are honest with ourselves, we\nshall very often find points of some uncertainty left unguarded, of\nwhich the show of the strength of our enemy will oblige us to see better\nto the defence. It was not without some shame, and much uneasiness,\nthat, while we were ourselves engaged in this process, full of\nindignation with Lord Macaulay, we heard a clear voice ringing in our\near, 'Who art thou that judgest another?' and warning us of the presence\nin our own heart of a sympathy, which we could not 'deny,' with the\nsadly questionable hero of the German epic, 'Reynard the Fox.' With our\nvulpine friend, we were on the edge of the very same abyss, if, indeed,\nwe were not rolling in the depth of it. By what sophistry could we\njustify ourselves, if not by the very same which we had just been so\neagerly condemning? And our conscience whispered to us that we had been\nswift to detect a fault in another, because it was the very fault to\nwhich, in our own heart of hearts, we had a latent leaning.\n\nWas it so indeed, then? Was Reineke no better than Iago? Was the sole\ndifference between them, that the _vates sacer_ who had sung the\nexploits of Reineke loved the wicked rascal, and entangled us in loving\nhim? It was a question to be asked. And yet we had faith enough in the\nstraight-forwardness of our own sympathies to feel sure that it must\nadmit of some sort of answer. And, indeed, we rapidly found an answer\nsatisfactory enough to give us time to breathe, in remembering that\nReineke, with all his roguery, has no malice in him. It is not in his\nnature to hate; he could not do it if he tried. The characteristic of\nIago is that deep motiveless malignity which rejoices in evil as its\nproper element--which loves evil as good men love virtue. In\ncalculations on the character of the Moor, Iago despises Othello's\nunsuspicious trustingness as imbecility, while he hates him as a man\nbecause his nature is the perpetual opposite and perpetual reproach of\nhis own. Now, Reineke would not have hurt a creature, not even\nScharfenebbe, the crow's wife, when she came to peck his eyes out, if he\nhad not been hungry; and that [Greek: gastros ananke], that craving of\nthe stomach, makes a difference quite infinite. It is true that, like\nIago, Reineke rejoices in the exercise of his intellect: the sense of\nhis power and the scientific employment of his time are a real delight\nto him; but then, as we said, he does not love evil for its own sake; he\nis only somewhat indifferent to it. If the other animals venture to take\nliberties with him, he will repay them in their own coin, and get his\nquiet laugh at them at the same time; but the object generally for which\nhe lives is the natural one of getting his bread for himself and his\nfamily; and, as the great moralist says, 'It is better to be bad for\nsomething than for nothing.' Badness generally is undesirable; but\nbadness in its essence, which may be called heroic badness, is\ngratuitous.\n\nBut this first thought served merely to give us a momentary relief from\nour alarm, and we determined we would sift the matter to the bottom, and\nno more expose ourselves to be taken at such disadvantage. We went again\nto the poem, with our eyes open, and our moral sense as keenly awake as\na genuine wish to understand our feelings could make it. We determined\nthat we would really know what we did feel and what we did not. We would\nnot be lightly scared away from our friend, but neither would we any\nmore allow our judgment to be talked down by that fluent tongue of his;\nhe should have justice from us, he and his biographer, as far as it lay\nwith us to discern justice and to render it.\n\nAnd really on this deliberate perusal it did seem little less than\nimpossible that we could find any conceivable attribute illustrated in\nReineke's proceedings which we could dare to enter in our catalogue of\nvirtues, and not blush to read it there. What sin is there in the\nDecalogue in which he has not steeped himself to the lips? To the lips,\nshall we say? nay, over head and ears--rolling and rollicking in sin.\nMurder, and theft, and adultery; sacrilege, perjury, lying--his very\nlife is made of them. On he goes to the end, heaping crime on crime, and\nlie on lie, and at last, when it seems that justice, which has been so\nlong vainly halting after him, has him really in her iron grasp, there\nis a solemn appeal to heaven, a challenge, a battle ordeal, in which, by\nmeans we may not venture even to whisper, the villain prospers, and\ncomes out glorious, victorious, amidst the applause of a gazing world.\nTo crown it all, the poet tells us that under the disguise of the animal\nname and form the world of man is represented, and the true course of\nit; and the idea of the book is, that we who read it may learn therein\nto discern between good and evil, and choose the first and avoid the\nlast. It seemed beyond the power of sophistry to whitewash Reineke, and\nthe interest which still continued to cling to him seemed too nearly to\nresemble the unwisdom of the multitude, with whom success is the one\nvirtue, and failure the only crime.\n\nIt appeared, too, that although the animal disguises were too\ntransparent to endure a moment's reflection, yet that they were so\ngracefully worn that such moment's reflection was not to be come at\nwithout an effort. Our imagination following the costume, did\nimperceptibly betray our judgment; we admired the human intellect, the\never ready prompt sagacity and presence of mind. We delighted in the\nsatire on the foolishnesses and greedinesses of our own\nfellow-creatures; but in our regard for the hero we forgot his humanity\nwherever it was his interest that we should forget it, and while we\nadmired him as a man we judged him only as a fox. We doubt whether it\nwould have been possible, if he had been described as an open\nacknowledged biped in coat and trousers, to have retained our regard for\nhim. Something or other in us, either real rightmindedness, or humbug,\nor hypocrisy, would have obliged us to mix more censure with our liking\nthan most of us do in the case as it stands. It may be that the dress of\nthe fox throws us off our guard, and lets out a secret or two which we\ncommonly conceal even from ourselves. When we have to pass an opinion\nupon bad people, who at the same time are clever and attractive, we say\nrather what we think that we ought to feel than what we feel in reality;\nwhile with Reineke, being but an animal, we forget to make ourselves up,\nand for once our genuine tastes show themselves freely. Some degree of\ntruth there undoubtedly is in this. But making all allowance for\nit--making all and over allowance for the trick which is passed upon our\nsenses, there still remained a feeling unresolved. The poem was not\nsolely the apotheosis of a rascal in whom we were betrayed into taking\nan interest; and it was not a satire merely on the world, and on the men\nwhom the world delight to honour. There was still something which really\ndeserved to be liked in Reineke, and what it was we had as yet failed to\ndiscover.\n\n'Two are better than one,' and we resolved in our difficulty to try what\nour friends might have to say about it. The appearance of the Wurtemburg\nanimals at the Exhibition came fortunately _apropos_ to our assistance:\na few years ago it was rare to find a person who had read the Fox Epic;\nand still more, of course, to find one whose judgment would be worth\ntaking about it. But now the charming figures of Reineke himself, and\nthe Lion King, and Isegrim, and Bruin, and Bellyn, and Hintze, and\nGrimbart, had set all the world asking who and what they were, and the\nstory began to get itself known. The old editions, which had long slept\nunbound in reams upon the shelves, began to descend and clothe\nthemselves in green and crimson. Mr. Dickens sent a summary of it round\nthe households of England. Everybody began to talk of Reineke; and now,\nat any rate, we said to ourselves, we shall see whether we are alone in\nour liking--whether others share in this strange sympathy, or whether it\nbe some unique and monstrous moral obliquity in ourselves.\n\nWe set to work, therefore, with all earnestness, feeling our way first\nwith fear and delicacy, as conscious of our own delinquency, to gather\njudgments which should be wiser than our own, and correct ourselves, if\nit proved that we required correction, with whatever severity might be\nnecessary. The result of this labour of ours was not a little\nsurprising. We found that women invariably, with that clear moral\ninstinct of theirs, at once utterly reprobated and detested our poor\nReynard; detested the hero and detested the bard who sang of him with so\nmuch sympathy; while men we found almost invariably feeling just as we\nfelt ourselves, only with this difference, that we saw no trace of\nuneasiness in them about the matter. It was no little comfort to us,\nmoreover, to find that the exceptions were rather among the half-men,\nthe would-be extremely good, but whose goodness was of that dead and\npassive kind which spoke to but a small elevation of thought or\nactivity; while just in proportion as a man was strong, and real, and\nenergetic, was his ability to see good in Reineke. It was really most\nstrange: one near friend of ours--a man who, as far as we knew (and we\nknew him well), had never done a wrong thing--when we ventured to hint\nsomething about roguery, replied, 'You see, he was such a clever rogue,\nthat he had a right.' Another, whom we pressed more closely with that\ntreacherous cannibal feast at Malepartus, on the body of poor Lampe,\nsaid off-hand and with much impatience of such questioning, 'Such\nfellows were made to be eaten.' What could we do? It had come to\nthis;--as in the exuberance of our pleasure with some dear child, no\nordinary epithet will sometimes reach to express the vehemence of our\naffection, and borrowing language out of the opposites, we call him\nlittle rogue or little villain, so here, reversing the terms of the\nanalogy, we bestow the fulness of our regard on Reineke because of that\ntranscendently successful roguery.\n\nWhen we asked our friends how they came to feel as they did, they had\nlittle to say. They were not persons who could be suspected of any\nlatent disposition towards evil-doing; and yet though it appeared as if\nthey were falling under the description of those unhappy ones who, if\nthey did not such things themselves, yet 'had pleasure in those who did\nthem,' they did not care to justify themselves. The fact was so: [Greek:\narche to hoti]: it was a fact--what could we want more? Some few\nattempted feebly to maintain that the book was a satire. But this only\nmoved the difficulty a single step; for the fact of the sympathy\nremained unimpaired, and if it was a satire we were ourselves the\nobjects of it. Others urged what we said above, that the story was only\nof poor animals that, according to Descartes, not only had no souls, but\nscarcely had even life in any original and sufficient sense, and\ntherefore we need not trouble ourselves. But one of two alternatives it\nseemed we were bound to choose, either of which was fatal to the\nproposed escape. Either there was a man hiding under the fox's skin; or\nelse, if real foxes have such brains as Reineke was furnished withal, no\nhonest doubt could be entertained that some sort of conscience was not\nforgotten in the compounding of him, and he must be held answerable\naccording to his knowledge.\n\nWhat would Mr. Carlyle say of it, we thought, with his might and right?\n'The just thing in the long run is the strong thing.' But Reineke had a\nlong run out and came in winner. Does he only 'seem to succeed?' Who\ndoes succeed, then, if he no more than seems? The vulpine intellect\nknows where the geese live, it is elsewhere said; but among Reineke's\nvictims we do not remember one goose, in the literal sense of goose; and\nas to geese metaphorical, the whole visible world lies down complacently\nat his feet. Nor does Mr. Carlyle's expressed language on this very poem\nserve any better to help us--nay, it seems as if he feels uneasy in the\nneighbourhood of so strong a rascal, so briefly he dismisses him.\n'Worldly prudence is the only virtue which is certain of its reward.'\nNay, but there is more in it than that: no worldly prudence would\ncommand the voices which have been given in to us for Reineke.\n\nThree only possibilities lay now before us: either we should, on\nsearching, find something solid in the Fox's doings to justify success;\nor else the just thing was not always the strong thing; or it might be,\nthat such very semblance of success was itself the most miserable\nfailure; that the wicked man who was struck down and foiled, and foiled\nagain, till he unlearnt his wickedness, or till he was disabled from any\nmore attempting it, was blessed in his disappointment; that to triumph\nin wickedness, and to continue in it and to prosper to the end, was the\nlast, worst penalty inflicted by the divine vengeance. [Greek: Hin'\nathanatos e adikos on]--to go on with injustice through this world and\nthrough all eternity, uncleansed by any purgatorial fire, untaught by\nany untoward consequence to open his eyes and to see in its true\naccursed form the miserable demon to which he has sold himself--this, of\nall catastrophes which could befal an evil man, was the deepest, lowest,\nand most savouring of hell, which the purest of the Grecian moralists\ncould reason out for himself,--under which third hypothesis many an\nuneasy misgiving would vanish away, and Mr. Carlyle's broad aphorism\nmight be accepted by us with thankfulness.\n\nIt appeared, therefore, at any rate, to have to come to this--that if we\nwanted a solution for our sphinx enigma, no OEdipus was likely to rise\nand find it for us; and that if we wanted help, we must take it for\nourselves. This only we found, that if we sinned in our regard for the\nunworthy animal, we shared our sin with the largest number of our own\nsex; comforted with the sense of good fellowship, we went boldly to work\nupon our consciousness; and the imperfect analysis which we succeeded in\naccomplishing, we here lay before you, whoever you may be, who have\nfelt, as we have felt, a regard which was a moral disturbance to you,\nand which you will be pleased if we enable you to justify--\n\n            Si quid novisti rectius istis,\n    Candidus imperti; si non, his uttere mecum.\n\nFollowing the clue which was thrust into our hand by the marked\ndifference of the feelings of men upon the subject, from those of women,\nwe were at once satisfied that Reineke's goodness, if he had any, must\nlay rather in the active than the passive department of life. The\nnegative obedience to prohibitory precepts, under which women are bound\nas well as men, as was already too clear, we were obliged to surrender\nas hopeless. But it seemed as if, with respect to men whose business is\nto do, and to labour, and to accomplish, this negative test was a\nseriously imperfect one; and it was quite as possible that a man who\nunhappily had broken many prohibitions might yet exhibit positive\nexcellences, as that he might walk through life picking his way with the\nutmost assiduity, risking nothing and doing nothing, not committing a\nsingle sin, but keeping his talent carefully wrapt up in a napkin, and\nget sent, in the end, to outer darkness for his pains, as an\nunprofitable servant. And this appeared the more important to us, as it\nwas very little dwelt upon by religions or moral teachers: at the end of\nsix thousand years, the popular notion of virtue, as far as it could get\nitself expressed, had not risen beyond the mere abstinence from certain\nspecific bad actions.\n\nThe king of the beasts forgives Reineke on account of the substantial\nservices which at various times he has rendered. His counsel was always\nthe wisest, his hand the promptest in cases of difficulty; and all that\ndexterity, and politeness, and courtesy, and exquisite culture had not\nbeen learnt without an effort, or without conquering many undesirable\ntendencies in himself. Men are not born with any art in its perfection,\nand Reineke had made himself valuable by his own sagacity and exertion.\nNow, on the human stage, a man who has made himself valuable is certain\nto be valued. However we may pretend to estimate men according to the\nwrong things which they have done, or abstained from doing, we in fact\nfollow the example of Nobel, the king of the beasts: we give them their\nplaces among us according to the service-ableness and capability which\nthey display. We might mention not a few eminent public servants, whom\nthe world delights to honour--ministers, statesmen, lawyers, men of\nscience, artists, poets, soldiers, who, if they were tried by the\nnegative test, would show but a poor figure; yet their value is too real\nto be dispensed with; and we tolerate unquestionable wrong to secure the\nservices of eminent ability. The world really does this, and it always\nhas really done it from the beginning of the human history; and it is\nonly indolence or cowardice which has left our ethical teaching halting\nso far behind the universal and necessary practice. Even questionable\nprima donnas, in virtue of their sweet voices, have their praises hymned\nin drawing-room and newspaper, and applause rolls over them, and gold\nand bouquets shower on them from lips and hands which, except for those\nsaid voices, would treat them to a ruder reward. In real fact, we take\nour places in this world, not according to what we are not, but\naccording to what we are. His Holiness Pope Clement, when his\naudience-room rang with furious outcries for justice on Benvenuto\nCellini, who, as far as half-a-dozen murders could form a title, was as\nfair a candidate for the gallows as ever swung from that unlucky wood,\nreplied, 'All this is very well, gentlemen: these murders are bad\nthings, we know that. But where am I to get another Benvenuto if you\nhang this one for me?'\n\nOr, to take an acknowledged hero, one of the old Greek sort, the theme\nof the song of the greatest of human poets, whom it is less easy to\nrefuse to admire than even our friend Reineke. Take Ulysses. It cannot\nbe said that he kept his hands from taking what was not his, or his\ntongue from speaking what was not true; and if Frau Ermelyn had to\ncomplain (as indeed there was too much reason for her complaining) of\ncertain infirmities in her good husband Reineke, Penelope, too, might\nhave urged a thing or two, if she had known as much about the matter as\nwe know, which the modern moralist would find it hard to excuse.\n\nAfter all is said, the capable man is the man to be admired. The man who\ntries and fails, what is the use of him? We are in this world to do\nsomething--not to fail in doing it. Of your bunglers--helpless,\ninefficient persons, 'unfit alike for good or ill,' who try one thing,\nand fail because they are not strong enough, and another, because they\nhave not energy enough, and a third, because they have no\ntalent--inconsistent, unstable, and therefore never to excel, what shall\nwe say of them? what use is there in them? what hope is there of them?\nwhat can we wish for them? [Greek: to mepot' einai pant' ariston]. It\nwere better for them they had never been born. To be able to do what a\nman tries to do, that is the first requisite; and given that, we may\nhope all things for him. 'Hell is paved with good intentions,'the\nproverb says; and the enormous proportion of bad successes in this life\nlie between the desire and the execution. Give us a man who is able to\ndo what he settles that he desires to do, and we have the one thing\nindispensable. If he can succeed doing ill, much more he can succeed\ndoing well. Show him better, and, at any rate, there is a chance that he\nwill do better.\n\nWe are not concerned here with Benvenuto or with Ulysses further than to\nshow, through the position which we all consent to give them, that there\nis much unreality in our common moral talk, against which we must be on\nour guard. And if we fling off an old friend, and take to affecting a\nhatred of him which we do not feel, we have scarcely gained by the\nexchange, even though originally our friendship may have been misplaced.\n\nCapability no one will deny to Reineke. That is the very _differentia_\nof him. An 'animal capable' would be his sufficient definition. Here is\nanother very genuinely valuable feature about him--his wonderful\nsingleness of character. Lying, treacherous, cunning scoundrel as he is,\nthere is a wholesome absence of humbug about him. Cheating all the\nworld, he never cheats himself; and while he is a hypocrite, he is\nalways a conscious hypocrite--a form of character, however paradoxical\nit may seem, a great deal more accessible to good influences than the\nother of the unconscious sort. Ask Reineke for the principles of his\nlife, and if it suited his purpose to tell you, he could do so with the\ngreatest exactness. There would be no discrepancy between the profession\nand the practice. He is most truly single-minded, and therefore stable\nin his ways, and therefore, as the world goes, and in the world's sense,\nsuccessful. Whether really successful is a question we do not care here\nto enter on; but only to say this--that of all unsuccessful men in every\nsense, either divine, or human, or devilish, there is none equal to\nBunyan's Mr. Facing-both-ways--the fellow with one eye on heaven and one\non earth--who sincerely preaches one thing, and sincerely does another;\nand from the intensity of his unreality is unable either to see or feel\nthe contradiction. Serving God with his lips, and with the half of his\nmind which is not bound up in the world, and serving the devil with his\nactions, and with the other half, he is substantially trying to cheat\nboth God and the devil, and is, in fact, only cheating himself and his\nneighbours. This, of all characters upon the earth, appears to us to be\nthe one of whom there is no hope at all--a character becoming, in these\ndays, alarmingly abundant; and the abundance of which makes us find even\nin a Reineke an inexpressible relief.\n\nBut what we most thoroughly value in him is his capacity. He can do what\nhe sets to work to do. That blind instinct with which the world shouts\nand claps its hand for the successful man, is one of those latent\nimpulses in us which are truer than we know; it is the universal\nconfessional to which Nature leads us, and, in her intolerance of\ndisguise and hypocrisy, compels us to be our own accusers. Whoever can\nsucceed in a given condition of society, can succeed only in virtue of\nfulfilling the terms which society exacts of him; and if he can fulfil\nthem triumphantly, of course it rewards him and praises him. He is what\nthe rest of the world would be, if their powers were equal to their\ndesires. He has accomplished what they all are vaguely, and with\nimperfect consistency, struggling to accomplish; and the character of\nthe conqueror--the means and appliances by which he has climbed up that\ngreat pinnacle on which he stands victorious, the observed of all\nobservers, is no more than a very exact indicator of the amount of real\nvirtue in the age, out of which he stands prominent.\n\nWe are forced to acknowledge that it was not a very virtuous age in\nwhich Reineke made himself a great man; but that was the fault of the\nage as much as the fault of him. His nature is to succeed wherever he\nis. If the age had required something else of him, then he would have\nbeen something else. Whatever it had said to him, 'Do, and I will make\nyou my hero,' that Reineke would have done. No appetite makes a slave of\nhim--no faculty refuses obedience to his will. His entire nature is\nunder perfect organic control to the one supreme authority. And the one\nobject for which he lives, and for which, let his lot have been cast in\nwhatever century it might, he would always have lived, is to rise, to\nthrive, to prosper, and become great.\n\nThe world as he found it said to him--Prey upon us; we are your oyster,\nlet your wit open us. If you will only do it cleverly--if you will take\ncare that we shall not close upon your fingers in the process, you may\ndevour us at your pleasure, and we shall feel ourselves highly honoured.\nCan we wonder at a fox of Reineke's abilities taking such a world at its\nword?\n\nAnd let it not be supposed that society in this earth of ours is ever so\nviciously put together, is ever so totally without organic life, that a\nrogue, unredeemed by any merit, can prosper in it. There is no strength\nin rottenness; and when it comes to that, society dies and falls in\npieces. Success, as it is called, even worldly success, is impossible,\nwithout some exercise of what is called moral virtue, without some\nportion of it, infinitesimally small, perhaps, but still some. Courage,\nfor instance, steady self-confidence, self-trust, self-reliance--that\nonly basis and foundation stone on which a strong character can rear\nitself--do we not see this in Reineke? While he lives, he lives for\nhimself; but if he comes to dying, he can die like his betters; and his\nwit is not of that effervescent sort which will fly away at the sight of\ndeath and leave him panic-stricken. It is true there is a meaning to\nthat word courage, which was perhaps not to be found in the dictionary\nin which Reineke studied. 'I hope I am afraid of nothing, Trim,' said my\nuncle Toby, 'except doing a wrong thing.' With Reineke there was no\n'except.' His digestive powers shrank from no action, good or bad, which\nwould serve his turn. Yet it required no slight measure of courage to\ntreat his fellow-creatures with the steady disrespect with which Reineke\ntreats them. To walk along among them, regardless of any interest but\nhis own; out of mere wantonness to hook them up like so many\ncock-chafers, and spin them for his pleasure; not like Domitian, with an\nimperial army to hold them down during the operation, but with no other\nassistance but his own little body and large wit; it was something to\nventure upon. And a world which would submit to be so treated, what\ncould he do but despise?\n\nTo the animals utterly below ourselves, external to our own species, we\nhold ourselves bound by no law. We say to them, _vos non vobis_, without\nany uneasy misgivings. We rob the bees of their honey, the cattle of\ntheir lives, the horse and the ass of their liberty. We kill the wild\nanimals that they may not interfere with our pleasures; and acknowledge\nourselves bound to them by no terms except what are dictated by our own\nconvenience. And why should Reineke have acknowledged an obligation any\nmore than we, to creatures so utterly below himself? He was so clever,\nas our friend said, that he had a right. That he _could_ treat them so,\nMr. Carlyle would say, proves that he had a right.\n\nBut it is a mistake to say he is without a conscience. No bold creature\nis ever totally without one. Even Iago shows some sort of conscience.\nRespecting nothing else in heaven or earth, he respects and even\nreverences his own intellect. After one of those sweet interviews with\nRoderigo, his, what we must call conscience, takes him to account for\nhis company; and he pleads to it in his own justification--\n\n    For I mine own gained knowledge should _profane_\n    Were I to waste myself with such a snipe\n    But for my sport and profit.\n\nReineke, if we take the mass of his misdeeds, preyed chiefly, like our\nown Robin Hood, on rogues who were greater rogues than himself. If Bruin\nchose to steal Rusteviel's honey, if Hintze trespassed in the priest's\ngranary, they were but taken in their own evildoings. And what is\nIsegrim, the worst of Reineke's victims, but a great heavy, stupid,\nlawless brute?--fair type, we will suppose, of not a few Front-de-Boeufs\nand other so-called nobles of the poet's era, whose will to do mischief\nwas happily limited by their obtuseness. We remember that French\nbaron--Gilbert de Retz, we believe, was his name--who, like Isegrim, had\nstudied at the universities, and passed for learned, whose after-dinner\npastime for many years, as it proved at last, was to cut children's\nthroats for the pleasure of watching them die. We may well feel\ngratitude that a Reineke was provided to be the scourge of such monsters\nas these; and we have a thorough pure, exuberant satisfaction in seeing\nthe intellect in that little weak body triumph over them and trample\nthem down. This, indeed, this victory of intellect over brute force, is\none great secret of our pleasure in the poem, and goes far, in the\nCarlyle direction, to satisfy us that, at any rate, it is not given to\nmere base physical strength to win in the battle of life, even in times\nwhen physical strength is apparently the only recognised power.\n\nWe are insensibly falling from our self-assumed judicial office into\nthat of advocacy; and sliding into what may be plausibly urged, rather\nthan standing fast on what we can surely affirm. Yet there are cases\nwhen it is fitting for the judge to become the advocate of an undefended\nprisoner; and advocacy is only plausible when a few words of truth are\nmixed with what we say, like the few drops of wine which colour and\nfaintly flavour the large draught of water. Such few grains or drops,\nwhatever they may be, we must leave to the kindness of Reynard's friends\nto distil for him, while we continue a little longer in the same strain.\n\nAfter all, it may be said, what is it in man's nature which is really\nadmirable? It is idle for us to waste our labour in passing Reineke\nthrough the moral crucible unless we shall recognise the results when we\nobtain them; and in these moral sciences our analytical tests can only\nbe obtained by a study of our own internal experience. If we desire to\nknow what we admire in Reineke, we must look for what we admire in\nourselves. And what is that? Is it what on Sundays, and on set\noccasions, and when we are mounted on our moral stilts, we are pleased\nto call goodness, probity, obedience, humility? Is it? Is it really? Is\nit not rather the face and form which Nature made--the strength which is\nours, we know not how--our talents, our rank, our possessions? It\nappears to us that we most value in ourselves and most admire in our\nneighbour, not acquisitions, but _gifts_. A man does not praise himself\nfor being good. If he praise himself he is not good. The first condition\nof goodness is forgetfulness of self; and where self has entered, under\nhowever plausible a form, the health is but skin-deep, and underneath\nthere is corruption. And so through everything; we value, we are vain\nof, proud of, or whatever you please to call it, not what we have done\nfor ourselves, but what has been done for us--what has been given to us\nby the upper powers. We look up to high-born men, to wealthy men, to\nfortunate men, to clever men. Is it not so? Whom do we choose for the\ncounty member, the magistrate, the officer, the minister? The good man\nwe leave to the humble enjoyment of his goodness, and we look out for\nthe able or the wealthy. And again of the wealthy, as if on every side\nto witness to the same universal law, the man who with no labour of his\nown has inherited a fortune, ranks higher in the world's esteem than his\nfather who made it. We take rank by descent. Such of us as have the\nlongest pedigree, and are therefore the farthest removed from the first\nwho made the fortune and founded the family, we are the noblest. The\nnearer to the fountain, the fouler the stream; and that first ancestor,\nwho has soiled his fingers by labour, is no better than a parvenu.\n\nAnd as it is with what we value, so it is with what we blame. It is an\nold story, that there is no one who would not in his heart prefer being\na knave to being a fool; and when we fail in a piece of attempted\nroguery, as Coleridge has wisely observed, though reasoning unwisely\nfrom it, we lay the blame, not on our own moral nature, for which we are\nresponsible, but on our intellectual, for which we are not responsible.\nWe do not say what knaves, we say what fools, we have been; perplexing\nColeridge, who regards it as a phenomenon of some deep moral disorder;\nwhereas it is but one more evidence of the universal fact that _gifts_\nare the true and proper object of appreciation; and as we admire men for\npossessing gifts, so we blame them for their absence. The noble man is\nthe gifted man; the ignoble is the ungifted; and therefore we have only\nto state a simple law in simple language to have a full solution of the\nenigma of Reineke. He has gifts enough: of that, at least, there can be\nno doubt; and if he lacks the gift to use them in the way which we call\ngood, at least he uses them successfully. His victims are less gifted\nthan he, and therefore less noble; and therefore he has a right to use\nthem as he pleases.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd, after all, what are these victims? Among the heaviest charges\nwhich were urged against him was the killing and eating of that wretched\nScharfenebbe--Sharpbeak--the crow's wife. It is well that there are two\nsides to every story. A poor weary fox, it seemed, was not to be allowed\nto enjoy a quiet sleep in the sunshine but what an unclean carrion bird\nmust come down and take a peck at him. We can feel no sympathy with the\noutcries of the crow husband over the fate of the unfortunate Sharpbeak.\nWofully, he says, he flew over the place where, a few moments before, in\nthe glory of glossy plumage, a loving wife sate croaking out her passion\nfor him, and found nothing--nothing but a little blood and a few torn\nfeathers--all else clean gone and utterly abolished. Well, and if it was\nso, it was a blank prospect for him, but the earth was well rid of her;\nand for herself, it was a higher fate to be assimilated into the body of\nReineke than to remain in a miserable individuality to be a layer of\ncarrion crows' eggs.\n\nAnd then for Bellyn, and for Bruin, and for Hintze, and the rest, who\nwould needs be meddling with what was no concern of theirs--what is\nthere in them to challenge either regret or pity? They made love to\ntheir occupation.\n\n    'Tis dangerous when the baser nature falls\n    Between the pass and fell incensed points\n    Of mighty opposites:\n    They lie not near our conscience.\n\nAh! if they were all. But there is one misdeed, one which outweighs all\nothers whatsoever--a crime which it is useless to palliate, let our\nother friend say what he pleased; and Reineke himself felt it so. It\nsate heavy, _for him_, on his soul, and alone of all the actions of his\nlife we are certain that he wished it undone--the death and eating of\nthat poor foolish Lampe, the hare. It was a paltry revenge in Reineke.\nLampe had told tales of him; he had complained that Reineke, under\npretence of teaching him his Catechism, had seized him and tried to\nmurder him; and though he provoked his fate by thrusting himself, after\nsuch a warning, into the jaws of Malepartus, Reineke betrays an\nuneasiness about it in confession; and, unlike himself, feels it\nnecessary to make some sort of an excuse.\n\nGrimbart, the badger, Reineke's father confessor, had been obliged to\nspeak severely of the seriousness of the offence. 'You see,' Reineke\nanswers:--\n\n    To help oneself out through the world is a queer sort of business:\n        one can not\n    Keep, you know, quite altogether as pure as one can in the cloister.\n    When we are handling honey we now and then lick at our fingers.\n    Lampe sorely provoked me; he frisked about this way and that way,\n    Up and down, under my eyes, and he looked so fat and so jolly,\n    Really I could not resist it. I entirely forgot how I loved him.\n    And then he was so stupid.\n\nBut even this acknowledgment does not satisfy Reineke. His mind is\nevidently softened, and it was on that occasion that he poured out his\npathetic lamentation over the sad condition of the world--so fluent, so\nmusical, so touching, that Grimbart listened with wide eyes, unable,\ntill it had run to the length of a sermon, to collect himself. It is\ntrue that at last his office as ghostly father obliged him to put in a\nslight demurrer:--\n\n    Uncle, the badger replied, why these are the sins of your neighbours;\n    Yours, I should think, were sufficient, and rather more now\n        to the purpose.\n\nBut he sighs to think what a bishop Reineke would have made.\n\nAnd now, for the present, farewell to Reineke Fuchs, and to the song in\nwhich his glory is enshrined--the Welt Bibel, Bible of this world, as\nGoethe called it, the most exquisite moral satire, as we will call it,\nwhich has ever been composed. It is not addressed to a passing mode of\nfolly or of profligacy, but it touches the perennial nature of mankind,\nlaying bare our own sympathies, and tastes, and weaknesses, with as keen\nand true an edge as when the living world of the old Swabian poet winced\nunder its earliest utterance.\n\nHumorous in the high pure sense, every laugh which it gives may have its\necho in a sigh, or may glide into it as excitement subsides into\nthought; and yet, for those who do not care to find matter there either\nfor thought or sadness, may remain innocently as a laugh.\n\nToo strong for railing, too kindly and loving for the bitterness of\nirony, the poem is, as the world itself, a book where each man will find\nwhat his nature enables him to see, which gives us back each our own\nimage, and teaches us each the lesson which each of us desires to\nlearn.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[AB] _Fraser's Magazine_, 1852.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CAT'S PILGRIMAGE.\n\n1850.\n\n\nPART I.\n\n'It is all very fine,' said the Cat, yawning, and stretching herself\nagainst the fender, 'but it is rather a bore; I don't see the use of\nit.' She raised herself, and arranging her tail into a ring, and seating\nherself in the middle of it, with her fore paws in a straight line from\nher shoulders, at right angles to the hearth-rug, she looked pensively\nat the fire. 'It is very odd,' she went on, 'there is my poor Tom; he is\ngone. I saw him stretched out in the yard. I spoke to him, and he took\nno notice of me. He won't, I suppose, ever any more, for they put him\nunder the earth. Nice fellow he was. It is wonderful how little one\ncares about it. So many jolly evenings we spent together; and now I seem\nto get on quite as well without him. I wonder what has become of him;\nand my last children, too, what has become of them? What are we here\nfor? I would ask the men, only they are so conceited and stupid they\ncan't understand what we say. I hear them droning away, teaching their\nlittle ones every day; telling them to be good, and to do what they are\nbid, and all that. Nobody ever tells me to do anything; if they do I\ndon't do it, and I am very good. I wonder whether I should be any better\nif I minded more. I'll ask the Dog.'\n\n'Dog,' said she, to a little fat spaniel coiled up on a mat like a\nlady's muff with a head and tail stuck on to it, 'Dog, what do you make\nof it all?'\n\nThe Dog faintly opened his languid eyes, looked sleepily at the Cat for\na moment, and dropped them again.\n\n'Dog,' she said, 'I want to talk to you; don't go to sleep. Can't you\nanswer a civil question?'\n\n'Don't bother me,' said the Dog, 'I am tired. I stood on my hind legs\nten minutes this morning before I could get my breakfast, and it hasn't\nagreed with me.'\n\n'Who told you to do it?' said the Cat.\n\n'Why, the lady I have to take care of me,' replied the Dog.\n\n'Do you feel any better for it, Dog, after you have been standing on\nyour legs?' asked she.\n\n'Hav'n't I told you, you stupid Cat, that it hasn't agreed with me; let\nme go to sleep and don't plague me.'\n\n'But I mean,' persisted the Cat, 'do you feel improved, as the men call\nit? They tell their children that if they do what they are told they\nwill improve, and grow good and great. Do you feel good and great?'\n\n'What do I know?' said the Dog. 'I eat my breakfast and am happy. Let me\nalone.'\n\n'Do you never think, oh Dog without a soul! Do you never wonder what\ndogs are, and what this world is?'\n\nThe Dog stretched himself, and rolled his eyes lazily round the room. 'I\nconceive,' he said, 'that the world is for dogs, and men and women are\nput into it to take care of dogs; women to take care of little dogs like\nme, and men for the big dogs like those in the yard--and cats,' he\ncontinued, 'are to know their place, and not to be troublesome.'\n\n'They beat you sometimes,' said the Cat. 'Why do they do that? They\nnever beat me.'\n\n'If they forget their places, and beat me,' snarled the Dog, 'I bite\nthem, and they don't do it again. I should like to bite you, too, you\nnasty Cat; you have woke me up.'\n\n'There may be truth in what you say,' said the Cat, calmly; 'but I think\nyour view is limited. If you listened like me you would hear the men say\nit was all made for them, and you and I were made to amuse them.'\n\n'They don't dare to say so,' said the Dog.\n\n'They do, indeed,' said the Cat. 'I hear many things which you lose by\nsleeping so much. They think I am asleep, and so they are not afraid to\ntalk before me; but my ears are open when my eyes are shut.'\n\n'You surprise me,' said the Dog. 'I never listen to them, except when I\ntake notice of them, and then they never talk of anything except of me.'\n\n'I could tell you a thing or two about yourself which you don't know,'\nsaid the Cat. 'You have never heard, I dare say, that once upon a time\nyour fathers lived in a temple, and that people prayed to them.'\n\n'Prayed! what is that?'\n\n'Why, they went on their knees to you to ask you to give them good\nthings, just as you stand on your toes to them now to ask for your\nbreakfast. You don't know either that you have got one of those bright\nthings we see up in the air at night called after you.'\n\n'Well, it is just what I said,' answered the Dog. 'I told you it was all\nmade for us. They never did anything of that sort for you?'\n\n'Didn't they? Why, there was a whole city where the people did nothing\nelse, and as soon as we got stiff and couldn't move about any more,\ninstead of being put under the ground like poor Tom, we used to be\nstuffed full of all sorts of nice things, and kept better than we were\nwhen we were alive.'\n\n'You are a very wise Cat,' answered her companion; 'but what good is it\nknowing all this?'\n\n'Why, don't you see,' said she, 'they don't do it any more. We are going\ndown in the world, we are, and that is why living on in this way is such\nan unsatisfactory sort of thing. I don't mean to complain for myself,\nand you needn't, Dog; we have a quiet life of it; but a quiet life is\nnot the thing, and if there is nothing to be done except sleep and eat,\nand eat and sleep, why, as I said before, I don't see the use of it.\nThere is something more in it than that; there was once, and there will\nbe again, and I sha'n't be happy till I find it out. It is a shame, Dog,\nI say. The men have been here only a few thousand years, and we--why, we\nhave been here hundreds of thousands; if we are older, we ought to be\nwiser. I'll go and ask the creatures in the wood.'\n\n'You'll learn more from the men,' said the Dog.\n\n'They are stupid, and they don't know what I say to them; besides, they\nare so conceited they care for nothing except themselves. No, I shall\ntry what I can do in the woods. I'd as soon go after poor Tom as stay\nliving any longer like this.'\n\n'And where is poor Tom?' yawned the Dog.\n\n'That is just one of the things I want to know,' answered she. 'Poor Tom\nis lying under the yard, or the skin of him, but whether that is the\nwhole I don't feel so sure. They didn't think so in the city I told you\nabout. It is a beautiful day, Dog; you won't take a trot out with me?'\nshe added, wistfully.\n\n'Who? I' said the Dog. 'Not quite.'\n\n'You may get so wise,' said she.\n\n'Wisdom is good,' said the Dog; 'but so is the hearth-rug, thank you!'\n\n'But you may be free,' said she.\n\n'I shall have to hunt for my own dinner,' said he.\n\n'But, Dog, they may pray to you again,' said she.\n\n'But I sha'n't have a softer mat to sleep upon, Cat, and as I am rather\ndelicate, that is a consideration.'\n\n\nPART II.\n\nSo the Dog wouldn't go, and the Cat set off by herself to learn how to\nbe happy, and to be all that a Cat could be. It was a fine sunny\nmorning. She determined to try the meadow first, and, after an hour or\ntwo, if she had not succeeded, then to go off to the wood. A Blackbird\nwas piping away on a thornbush as if his heart was running over with\nhappiness. The Cat had breakfasted, and so was able to listen without\nany mixture of feeling. She didn't sneak. She walked boldly up under the\nbush, and the bird, seeing she had no bad purpose, sate still and sung\non.\n\n'Good morning, Blackbird; you seem to be enjoying yourself this fine\nday.'\n\n'Good morning, Cat.'\n\n'Blackbird, it is an odd question, perhaps. What ought one to do to be\nas happy as you?'\n\n'Do your duty, Cat.'\n\n'But what is my duty, Blackbird?'\n\n'Take care of your little ones, Cat.'\n\n'I hav'n't any,' said she.\n\n'Then sing to your mate,' said the bird.\n\n'Tom is dead,' said she.\n\n'Poor Cat!' said the bird. 'Then sing over his grave. If your song is\nsad, you will find your heart grow lighter for it.'\n\n'Mercy!' thought the Cat. 'I could do a little singing with a living\nlover, but I never heard of singing for a dead one. But you see, bird,\nit isn't Cats' nature. When I am cross, I mew. When I am pleased, I\npurr; but I must be pleased first. I can't purr myself into happiness.'\n\n'I am afraid there is something the matter with your heart, my Cat. It\nwants warming; good-bye.'\n\nThe Blackbird flew away. The Cat looked sadly after him. 'He thinks I am\nlike him; and he doesn't know that a Cat is a Cat,' said she. 'As it\nhappens now, I feel a great deal for a Cat. If I hadn't got a heart I\nshouldn't be unhappy. I won't be angry. I'll try that great fat fellow.'\n\nThe Ox lay placidly chewing, with content beaming out of his eyes and\nplaying on his mouth.\n\n'Ox,' she said, 'what is the way to be happy?'\n\n'Do your duty,' said the Ox.\n\n'Bother,' said the Cat, 'duty again! What is it, Ox?'\n\n'Get your dinner,' said the Ox.\n\n'But it is got for me, Ox; and I have nothing to do but to eat it.'\n\n'Well, eat it, then, like me.'\n\n'So I do; but I am not happy for all that.'\n\n'Then you are a very wicked, ungrateful Cat.'\n\nThe Ox munched away. A Bee buzzed into a buttercup under the Cat's nose.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said the Cat, 'it isn't curiosity--what are you\ndoing?'\n\n'Doing my duty; don't stop me, Cat.'\n\n'But, Bee, what is your duty?'\n\n'Making honey,' said the Bee.\n\n'I wish I could make honey,' sighed the Cat.\n\n'Do you mean to say you can't?' said the Bee. 'How stupid you must be.\nWhat do you do, then?'\n\n'I do nothing, Bee. I can't get anything to do.'\n\n'You won't get anything to do, you mean, you lazy Cat! You are a\ngood-for-nothing drone. Do you know what we do to our drones? We kill\nthem; and that is all they are fit for. Good morning to you.'\n\n'Well, I am sure,' said the Cat, 'they are treating me civilly; I had\nbetter have stopped at home at this rate. Stroke my whiskers! heartless!\nwicked! good-for-nothing! stupid! and only fit to be killed! This is a\npleasant beginning, anyhow. I must look for some wiser creatures than\nthese are. What shall I do? I know. I know where I will go.'\n\nIt was in the middle of the wood. The bush was very dark, but she found\nhim by his wonderful eye. Presently, as she got used to the light, she\ndistinguished a sloping roll of feathers, a rounded breast, surmounted\nby a round head, set close to the body, without an inch of a neck\nintervening. 'How wise he looks!' she said; 'What a brain! what a\nforehead! His head is not long, but what an expanse! and what a depth of\nearnestness!' The Owl sloped his head a little on one side; the Cat\nslanted hers upon the other. The Owl set it straight again, the Cat did\nthe same. They stood looking in this way for some minutes; at last, in a\nwhispering voice, the Owl said, 'What are you who presume to look into\nmy repose? Pass on upon your way, and carry elsewhere those prying\neyes.'\n\n'Oh, wonderful Owl,' said the Cat, 'you are wise, and I want to be wise;\nand I am come to you to teach me.'\n\nA film floated backwards and forwards over the Owl's eyes; it was his\nway of showing that he was pleased.\n\n'I have heard in our schoolroom,' went on the Cat, 'that you sate on the\nshoulder of Pallas, and she told you all about it.'\n\n'And what would you know, oh, my daughter?' said the Owl.\n\n'Everything,' said the Cat, 'everything. First of all, how to be happy.'\n\n'Mice content you not, my child, even as they content not me,' said the\nOwl. 'It is good.'\n\n'Mice, indeed!' said the Cat; 'no, Parlour Cats don't eat mice. I have\nbetter than mice, and no trouble to get it; but I want something more.'\n\n'The body's meat is provided. You would now fill your soul.'\n\n'I want to improve,' said the Cat. 'I want something to do. I want to\nfind out what the creatures call my duty.'\n\n'You would learn how to employ those happy hours of your leisure--rather\nhow to make them happy by a worthy use. Meditate, oh Cat! meditate!\nmeditate!'\n\n'That is the very thing,' said she. 'Meditate! that is what I like above\nall things. Only I want to know how: I want something to meditate about.\nTell me, Owl, and I will bless you every hour of the day as I sit by the\nparlour fire.'\n\n'I will tell you,' answered the Owl, 'what I have been thinking of ever\nsince the moon changed. You shall take it home with you and think about\nit too; and the next full moon you shall come again to me; we will\ncompare our conclusions.'\n\n'Delightful! delightful!' said the Cat. 'What is it? I will try this\nminute.'\n\n'From the beginning,' replied the Owl, 'our race have been considering\nwhich first existed, the Owl or the egg. The Owl comes from the egg, but\nlikewise the egg from the Owl.'\n\n'Mercy!' said the Cat.\n\n'From sunrise to sunset I ponder on it, oh Cat! When I reflect on the\nbeauty of the complete Owl, I think that must have been first, as the\ncause is greater than the effect. When I remember my own childhood, I\nincline the other way.'\n\n'Well, but how are we to find out?' said the Cat.\n\n'Find out!' said the Owl. 'We can never find out. The beauty of the\nquestion is, that its solution is impossible. What would become of all\nour delightful reasonings, oh, unwise Cat! if we were so unhappy as to\nknow?'\n\n'But what in the world is the good of thinking about it, if you can't,\noh Owl?'\n\n'My child, that is a foolish question. It is good, in order that the\nthoughts on these things may stimulate wonder. It is in wonder that the\nOwl is great.'\n\n'Then you don't know anything at all,' said the Cat. 'What did you sit\non Pallas's shoulder for? You must have gone to sleep.'\n\n'Your tone is over flippant, Cat, for philosophy. The highest of all\nknowledge is to know that we know nothing.'\n\nThe Cat made two great arches with her back and her tail.\n\n'Bless the mother that laid you,' said she. 'You were dropped by mistake\nin a goose nest. You won't do. I don't know much, but I am not such a\ncreature as you, anyhow. A great white thing!'\n\nShe straitened her body, stuck her tail up on end, and marched off with\nmuch dignity. But, though she respected herself rather more than before,\nshe was not on the way to the end of her difficulties. She tried all the\ncreatures she met without advancing a step. They had all the old story,\n'Do your duty.' But each had its own, and no one could tell her what\nhers was. Only one point they all agreed upon--the duty of getting their\ndinner when they were hungry. The day wore on, and she began to think\nshe would like hers. Her meals came so regularly at home that she\nscarcely knew what hunger was; but now the sensation came over her very\npalpably, and she experienced quite new emotions as the hares and\nrabbits skipped about her, or as she spied a bird upon a tree. For a\nmoment she thought she would go back and eat the Owl--he was the most\nuseless creature she had seen; but on second thought she didn't fancy he\nwould be nice: besides that, his claws were sharp and his beak too.\nPresently, however, as she sauntered down the path, she came on a little\nopen patch of green, in the middle of which a fine fat Rabbit was\nsitting. There was no escape. The path ended there, and the bushes were\nso thick on each side that he couldn't get away except through her paws.\n\n'Really,' said the Cat, 'I don't wish to be troublesome; I wouldn't do\nit if I could help it; but I am very hungry, I am afraid I must eat you.\nIt is very unpleasant, I assure you, to me as well as to you.'\n\nThe poor Rabbit begged for mercy.\n\n'Well,' said she, 'I think it is hard; I do really--and, if the law\ncould be altered, I should be the first to welcome it. But what can a\nCat do? You eat the grass; I eat you. But, Rabbit, I wish you would do\nme a favour.'\n\n'Anything to save my life,' said the Rabbit.\n\n'It is not exactly that,' said the Cat; 'but I haven't been used to\nkilling my own dinner, and it is disagreeable. Couldn't you die? I shall\nhurt you dreadfully if I kill you.'\n\n'Oh!' said the Rabbit, 'you are a kind Cat; I see it in your eyes, and\nyour whiskers don't curl like those of the cats in the woods. I am sure\nyou will spare me.'\n\n'But, Rabbit, it is a question of principle. I have to do my duty; and\nthe only duty I have, as far as I can make out, is to get my dinner.'\n\n'If you kill me, Cat, to do your duty, I sha'n't be able to do mine.'\n\nIt was a doubtful point, and the Cat was new to casuistry. 'What is your\nduty?' said she.\n\n'I have seven little ones at home--seven little ones, and they will all\ndie without me. Pray let me go.'\n\n'What! do you take care of your children?' said the Cat. 'How\ninteresting! I should like to see that; take me.'\n\n'Oh! you would eat them, you would,' said the Rabbit. 'No! better eat me\nthan them. No, no.'\n\n'Well, well,' said the Cat, 'I don't know; I suppose I couldn't answer\nfor myself. I don't think I am right, for duty is pleasant, and it is\nvery unpleasant to be so hungry; but I suppose you must go. You seem a\ngood Rabbit. Are you happy, Rabbit?'\n\n'Happy! oh, dear beautiful Cat! if you spare me to my poor babies!'\n\n'Pooh, pooh!' said the Cat, peevishly; 'I don't want fine speeches; I\nmeant whether you thought it worth while to be alive! Of course you do!\nIt don't matter. Go, and keep out of my way; for, if I don't get my\ndinner, you may not get off another time. Get along, Rabbit.'\n\n\nPART III.\n\nIt was a great day in the Fox's cave. The eldest cub had the night\nbefore brought home his first goose, and they were just sitting down to\nit as the Cat came by.\n\n'Ah, my young lady! what, you in the woods? Bad feeding at home, eh?\nCome out to hunt for yourself?'\n\nThe goose smelt excellent; the Cat couldn't help a wistful look. She was\nonly come, she said, to pay her respects to her wild friends.\n\n'Just in time,' said the Fox. 'Sit down and take a bit of dinner; I see\nyou want it. Make room, you cubs; place a seat for the lady.'\n\n'Why, thank you,' said the Cat, 'yes; I acknowledge it is not unwelcome.\nPray, don't disturb yourselves, young Foxes. I am hungry. I met a Rabbit\non my way here. I was going to eat him, but he talked so prettily I let\nhim go.'\n\nThe cubs looked up from their plates, and burst out laughing.\n\n'For shame, young rascals,' said their father. 'Where are your manners?\nMind your dinner, and don't be rude.'\n\n'Fox,' she said, when it was over, and the cubs were gone to play, 'you\nare very clever. The other creatures are all stupid.' The Fox bowed.\n'Your family were always clever,' she continued. 'I have heard about\nthem in the books they use in our schoolroom. It is many years since\nyour ancestor stole the crow's dinner.'\n\n'Don't say stole, Cat; it is not pretty. Obtained by superior ability.'\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said the Cat; 'it is all living with those men.\nThat is not the point. Well, but I want to know whether you are any\nwiser or any better than Foxes were then?'\n\n'Really,' said the Fox, 'I am what Nature made me. I don't know. I am\nproud of my ancestors, and do my best to keep up the credit of the\nfamily.'\n\n'Well, but Fox, I mean do you improve? do I? do any of you? The men are\nalways talking about doing their duty, and that, they say, is the way to\nimprove, and to be happy. And as I was not happy I thought that had,\nperhaps, something to do with it, so I came out to talk to the\ncreatures. They also had the old chant--duty, duty, duty; but none of\nthem could tell me what mine was, or whether I had any.'\n\nThe Fox smiled. 'Another leaf out of your schoolroom,' said he. 'Can't\nthey tell you there?'\n\n'Indeed,' she said, 'they are very absurd. They say a great deal about\nthemselves, but they only speak disrespectfully of us. If such creatures\nas they can do their duty, and improve, and be happy, why can't we?'\n\n'They say they do, do they?' said the Fox. 'What do they say of me?'\n\nThe Cat hesitated.\n\n'Don't be afraid of hurting my feelings, Cat. Out with it.'\n\n'They do all justice to your abilities, Fox,' said she; 'but your\nmorality, they say, is not high. They say you are a rogue.'\n\n'Morality!' said the Fox. 'Very moral and good they are. And you really\nbelieve all that? What do they mean by calling me a rogue?'\n\n'They mean you take whatever you can get, without caring whether it is\njust or not.'\n\n'My dear Cat, it is very well for a man, if he can't bear his own face,\nto paint a pretty one on a panel and call it a looking-glass; but you\ndon't mean that it takes _you_ in.'\n\n'Teach me,' said the Cat. 'I fear I am weak.'\n\n'Who get justice from the men unless they can force it? Ask the sheep\nthat are cut into mutton. Ask the horses that draw their ploughs. I\ndon't mean it is wrong of the men to do as they do; but they needn't lie\nabout it.'\n\n'You surprise me,' said the Cat.\n\n'My good Cat, there is but one law in the world. The weakest goes to the\nwall. The men are sharper-witted than the creatures, and so they get the\nbetter of them and use them. They may call it just if they like; but\nwhen a tiger eats a man I guess he has just as much justice on his side\nas the man when he eats a sheep.'\n\n'And that is the whole of it,' said the Cat. 'Well, it is very sad. What\ndo you do with yourself?'\n\n'My duty, to be sure,' said the Fox; 'use my wits and enjoy myself. My\ndear friend, you and I are on the lucky side. We eat and are not eaten.'\n\n'Except by the hounds now and then,' said the Cat.\n\n'Yes; by brutes that forget their nature, and sell their freedom to the\nmen,' said the Fox, bitterly. 'In the meantime my wits have kept my skin\nwhole hitherto, and I bless Nature for making me a Fox and not a goose.'\n\n'And are you happy, Fox?'\n\n'Happy! yes, of course. So would you be if you would do like me, and use\nyour wits. My good Cat, I should be as miserable as you if I found my\ngeese every day at the cave's mouth. I have to hunt for them, lie for\nthem, sneak for them, fight for them; cheat those old fat farmers, and\nbring out what there is inside me; and then I am happy--of course I am.\nAnd then, Cat, think of my feelings as a father last night, when my dear\nboy came home with the very young gosling which was marked for the\nMichaelmas dinner! Old Reineke himself wasn't more than a match for that\nyoung Fox at his years. You know our epic?'\n\n'A little of it, Fox. They don't read it in our schoolroom. They say it\nis not moral; but I have heard pieces of it. I hope it is not all quite\ntrue.'\n\n'Pack of stuff! it is the only true book that ever was written. If it is\nnot, it ought to be. Why, that book is the law of the world--_la\ncarriere aux talents_--and writing it was the honestest thing ever done\nby a man. That fellow knew a thing or two, and wasn't ashamed of himself\nwhen he did know. They are all like him, too, if they would only say so.\nThere never was one of them yet who wasn't more ashamed of being called\nugly than of being called a rogue, and of being called stupid than of\nbeing called naughty.'\n\n'It has a roughish end, this life of yours, if you keep clear of the\nhounds, Fox,' said the Cat.\n\n'What! a rope in the yard! Well, it must end some day; and when the\nfarmer catches me I shall be getting old, and my brains will be taking\nleave of me; so the sooner I go the better, that I may disgrace myself\nthe less. Better be jolly while it lasts, than sit mewing out your life\nand grumbling at it as a bore.'\n\n'Well,' said the Cat, 'I am very much obliged to you. I suppose I may\neven get home again. I shall not find a wiser friend than you, and\nperhaps I shall not find another good-natured enough to give me so good\na dinner. But it is very sad.'\n\n'Think of what I have said,' answered the Fox. 'I'll call at your house\nsome night; you will take me a walk round the yard, and then I'll show\nyou.'\n\n'Not quite,' thought the Cat, as she trotted off; 'one good turn\ndeserves another, that is true; and you have given me a dinner. But they\nhave given me many at home, and I mean to take a few more of them; so I\nthink you mustn't go round our yard.'\n\n\nPART IV.\n\nThe next morning, when the Dog came down to breakfast, he found his old\nfriend sitting in her usual place on the hearth-rug.\n\n'Oh! so you have come back,' said he. 'How d'ye do? You don't look as if\nyou had had a very pleasant journey.'\n\n'I have learnt something,' said the Cat. 'Knowledge is never pleasant.'\n\n'Then it is better to be without it,' said the Dog.\n\n'Especially, better to be without knowing how to stand on one's hind\nlegs, Dog,' said the Cat; 'still you see, you are proud of it; but I\nhave learnt a great deal, Dog. They won't worship you any more, and it\nis better for you; you wouldn't be any happier. What did you do\nyesterday?'\n\n'Indeed,' said the Dog, 'I hardly remember. I slept after you went away.\nIn the afternoon I took a drive in the carriage. Then I had my dinner.\nMy maid washed me and put me to bed. There is the difference between you\nand me; you have to wash yourself and put yourself to bed.'\n\n'And you really don't find it a bore, living like this? Wouldn't you\nlike something to do? Wouldn't you like some children to play with? The\nFox seemed to find it very pleasant.'\n\n'Children, indeed!' said the Dog, 'when I have got men and women.\nChildren are well enough for foxes and wild creatures; refined dogs know\nbetter; and, for doing--can't I stand on my toes? can't I dance? at\nleast, couldn't I before I was so fat?'\n\n'Ah! I see everybody likes what he was bred to,' sighed the Cat. 'I was\nbred to do nothing, and I must like that. Train the cat as the cat\nshould go, and the cat will be happy and ask no questions. Never seek\nfor impossibilities, Dog. That is the secret.'\n\n'And you have spent a day in the woods to learn that,' said he. 'I could\nhave taught you that. Why, Cat, one day when you were sitting scratching\nyour nose before the fire, I thought you looked so pretty that I should\nhave liked to marry you; but I knew I couldn't, so I didn't make myself\nmiserable.'\n\nThe Cat looked at him with her odd green eyes. 'I never wished to marry\nyou, Dog; I shouldn't have presumed. But it was wise of you not to fret\nabout it. But, listen to me, Dog--listen. I met many creatures in the\nwood, all sorts of creatures, beasts and birds. They were all happy;\nthey didn't find it a bore. They went about their work, and did it, and\nenjoyed it, and yet none of them had the same story to tell. Some did\none thing, some another; and, except the Fox, each had got a sort of\nnotion of doing its duty. The Fox was a rogue; he said he was; but yet\nhe was not unhappy. His conscience never troubled him. Your work is\nstanding on your toes, and you are happy. I have none, and that is why I\nam unhappy. When I came to think about it, I found every creature out in\nthe wood had to get its own living. I tried to get mine, but I didn't\nlike it, because I wasn't used to it; and as for knowing, the Fox, who\ndidn't care to know anything except how to cheat greater fools than\nhimself, was the cleverest fellow I came across. Oh! the Owl, Dog--you\nshould have heard the Owl. But I came to this, that it was no use trying\nto know, and the only way to be jolly was to go about one's own business\nlike a decent Cat. Cats' business seems to be killing rabbits and\nsuch-like; and it is not the pleasantest possible; so the sooner one is\nbred to it the better. As for me, that have been bred to do nothing,\nwhy, as I said before, I must try to like that; but I consider myself an\nunfortunate Cat.'\n\n'So don't I consider myself an unfortunate Dog,' said her companion.\n\n'Very likely you do not,' said the Cat.\n\nBy this time their breakfast was come in. The Cat ate hers, the Dog did\npenance for his; and if one might judge by the purring on the\nhearth-rug, the Cat, if not the happiest of the two, at least was not\nexceedingly miserable.\n\n\n\n\nFABLES.\n\nI.--THE LIONS AND THE OXEN.\n\n\nOnce upon a time a number of cattle came out of the desert to settle in\nthe broad meadows by a river. They were poor and wretched, and they\nfound it a pleasant exchange; except for a number of lions, who lived in\nthe mountains near, and who claimed a right, in consideration of\npermitting the cattle to remain, to eat as many as they wanted among\nthem. The cattle submitted, partly because they were too weak to help\nit, partly because the lions said it was the will of Jupiter; and the\ncattle believed them. And so they went on for many ages, till at last,\nfrom better feeding, the cattle grew larger and stronger, and multiplied\ninto great numbers; and at the same time, from other causes, the lions\nhad much diminished: they were fewer, smaller, and meaner-looking than\nthey had been; and except in their own opinion of themselves, and in\ntheir appetites, which were more enormous than ever, there was nothing\nof the old lion left in them.\n\nOne day a large ox was quietly grazing, when one of these lions came up,\nand desired the ox to lie down, for he wanted to eat him. The ox raised\nhis head, and gravely protested; the lion growled; the ox was mild, yet\nfirm. The lion insisted upon his legal right, and they agreed to refer\nthe matter to Minos.\n\nWhen they came into court, the lion accused the ox of having broken the\nlaws of the beasts. The lion was king, and the others were bound to\nobey. Prescriptive usage was clearly on the lion's side. Minos called on\nthe ox for his defence.\n\nThe Ox said that, without consent of his own being asked, he had been\nborn into the meadow. He did not consider himself much of a beast, but,\nsuch as he was, he was very happy, and gave Jupiter thanks. Now, if the\nlion could show that the existence of lions was of more importance than\nthat of oxen in the eyes of Jupiter, he had nothing more to say; he was\nready to sacrifice himself. But this lion had already eaten a thousand\noxen. Lions' appetites were so insatiable that he was forced to ask\nwhether they were really worth what was done for them,--whether the life\nof one lion was so noble that the lives of thousands of oxen were not\nequal to it? He was ready to own that lions had always eaten oxen, but\nlions when they first came to the meadow were a different sort of\ncreature, and they themselves, too (and the ox looked complacently at\nhimself), had improved since that time. Judging by appearances, though\nthey might be fallacious, he himself was quite as good a beast as the\nlion. If the lions would lead lives more noble than oxen could live,\nonce more he would not complain. As it was, he submitted that the cost\nwas too great.\n\nThen the Lion put on a grand face and tried to roar; but when he opened\nhis mouth he disclosed a jaw so drearily furnished that Minos laughed,\nand told the ox it was his own fault if he let himself be eaten by such\na beast as that. If he persisted in declining, he did not think the lion\nwould force him.\n\n\nII.--THE FARMER AND THE FOX.\n\nA farmer, whose poultry-yard had suffered severely from the foxes,\nsucceeded at last in catching one in a trap. 'Ah, you rascal!' said he,\nas he saw him struggling, 'I'll teach you to steal my fat geese!--you\nshall hang on the tree yonder, and your brothers shall see what comes of\nthieving!' The farmer was twisting a halter to do what he threatened,\nwhen the fox, whose tongue had helped him in hard pinches before,\nthought there could be no harm in trying whether it might not do him one\nmore good turn.\n\n'You will hang me,' he said, 'to frighten my brother foxes. On the word\nof a fox they won't care a rabbit-skin for it; they'll come and look at\nme; but you may depend upon it, they will dine at your expense before\nthey go home again!'\n\n'Then I shall hang you for yourself, as a rogue and a rascal,' said the\nfarmer.\n\n'I am only what Nature, or whatever you call the thing, chose to make\nme,' the Fox answered. 'I didn't make myself.'\n\n'You stole my geese,' said the man.\n\n'Why did Nature make me like geese, then?' said the Fox. 'Live and let\nlive; give me my share, and I won't touch yours; but you keep them all\nto yourself.'\n\n'I don't understand your fine talk,' answered the Farmer; 'but I know\nthat you are a thief, and that you deserve to be hanged.'\n\nHis head is too thick to let me catch him so, thought the Fox; I wonder\nif his heart is any softer! 'You are taking away the life of a\nfellow-creature,' he said; 'that's a responsibility--it is a curious\nthing that life, and who knows what comes after it? You say I am a\nrogue--I say I am not; but at any rate I ought not to be hanged--for if\nI am not, I don't deserve it; and if I am, you should give me time to\nrepent!' I have him now, thought the Fox; let him get out if he can.\n\n'Why, what would you have me do with you?' said the man.\n\n'My notion is that you should let me go, and give me a lamb, or goose or\ntwo, every month, and then I could live without stealing; but perhaps\nyou know better than me, and I am a rogue; my education may have been\nneglected; you should shut me up, and take care of me, and teach me. Who\nknows but in the end I may turn into a dog?'\n\n'Very pretty,' said the Farmer; 'we have dogs enough, and more, too,\nthan we can take care of, without you. No, no, Master Fox, I have caught\nyou, and you shall swing, whatever is the logic of it. There will be one\nrogue less in the world, anyhow.'\n\n'It is mere hate and unchristian vengeance,' said the Fox.\n\n'No, friend,' the Farmer answered, 'I don't hate you, and I don't want\nto revenge myself on you; but you and I can't get on together, and I\nthink I am of more importance than you. If nettles and thistles grow in\nmy cabbage-garden, I don't try to persuade them to grow into cabbages. I\njust dig them up. I don't hate them; but I feel somehow that they\nmustn't hinder me with my cabbages, and that I must put them away; and\nso, my poor friend, I am sorry for you, but I am afraid you must\nswing.'\n\n\n\n\nPARABLE OF THE BREAD-FRUIT TREE.\n\n\nIt was after one of those heavy convulsions which have divided era from\nera, and left mankind to start again from the beginning, that a number\nof brave men gathered together to raise anew from the ground a fresh\ngreen home for themselves. The rest of the surviving race were\nsheltering themselves amidst the old ruins, or in the caves on the\nmountains, feeding on husks and shells; but these men with clear heads\nand brave hearts ploughed and harrowed the earth, and planted seeds, and\nwatered them, and watched them; and the seeds grew and shot up with the\nspring, but one was larger and fairer than the rest, and the other\nplants seemed to know it, for they crawled along till they reached the\nlarge one; and they gathered round it, and clung to it, and grew into\nit; and soon they became one great stem, with branching roots feeding it\nas from many fountains. Then the men got great heart in them when they\nsaw that, and they laboured more bravely, digging about it in the hot\nsun, till at last it became great and mighty, and its roots went down\ninto the heart of the earth, and its branches stretched over all the\nplain.\n\nThen many others of mankind, when they saw the tree was beautiful, came\ndown and gathered under it, and those who had raised it received them\nwith open arms, and they all sat under its shade together, and gathered\nits fruits, and made their homes there, rejoicing in its loveliness. And\nages passed away, and all that generation passed away, and still the\ntree grew stronger and fairer, and their children's children watched it\nage after age, as it lived on and flowered and seeded. And they said in\ntheir hearts, the tree is immortal--it will never die. They took no care\nof the seed; the scent of the flowers and the taste of the sweet fruit\nwas all they thought of: and the winds of heaven, and the wild birds,\nand the beasts of the field caught the stray fruits and seed-dust, and\nbore the seed away, and scattered it in far-off soils.\n\nAnd by-and-by, at a great great age, the tree at last began to cease to\ngrow, and then to faint and droop: its leaves were not so thick, its\nflowers were not so fragrant; and from time to time the night winds,\nwhich before had passed away, and had been never heard, came moaning and\nsighing among the branches. And the men for a while doubted and\ndenied--they thought it was the accident of the seasons; and then a\nbranch fell, and they said it was a storm, and such a storm as came but\nonce in a thousand years. At last there could be no doubt that the\nleaves were thin and sere and scanty--that the sun shone through\nthem--that the fruit was tasteless. But the generation was gone away\nwhich had known the tree in its beauty, and so men said it was always\nso--its fruits were never better--its foliage never was thicker.\n\nSo things went on, and from time to time strangers would come among\nthem, and would say, Why are you sitting here under the old tree? there\nare young trees grown of the seed of this tree, far away, more beautiful\nthan it ever was; see, we have brought you leaves and flowers to show\nyou. But the men would not listen. They were angry, and some they drove\naway, and some they killed, and poured their blood round the roots of\nthe tree, saying, They have spoken evil of our tree; let them feed it\nnow with their blood. At last some of their own wiser ones brought out\nspecimens of the old fruits, which had been laid up to be preserved, and\ncompared them with the present bearing, and they saw that the tree was\nnot as it had been; and such of them as were good men reproached\nthemselves, and said it was their own fault. They had not watered it;\nthey had forgotten to manure it. So, like their first fathers, they\nlaboured with might and main, and for a while it seemed as if they might\nsucceed, and for a few years branches, which were almost dead when the\nspring came round, put out some young green shoots again. But it was\nonly for a few years; there was not enough of living energy in the tree.\nHalf the labour which was wasted on it would have raised another nobler\none far away. So the men grew soon weary, and looked for a shorter way:\nand some gathered up the leaves and shoots which the strangers had\nbrought, and grafted them on, if perhaps they might grow; but they could\nnot grow on a dying stock, and they, too, soon drooped and became as the\nrest. And others said, Come, let us tie the preserved fruits on again;\nperhaps they will join again to the stem, and give it back its life. But\nthere were not enough, for only a few had been preserved; so they took\npainted paper and wax and clay, and cut sham leaves and fruits of the\nold pattern, which for a time looked bright and gay, and the world, who\ndid not know what had been done, said--See, the tree is immortal: it is\ngreen again. Then some believed, but many saw that it was a sham, and\nliking better to bear the sky and sun, without any shade at all, than to\nlive in a lie, and call painted paper leaves and flowers, they passed\nout in search of other homes. But the larger number stayed behind; they\nhad lived so long in falsehood that they had forgotten there was any\nsuch thing as truth at all; the tree had done very well for them--it\nwould do very well for their children. And if their children, as they\ngrew up, did now and then happen to open their eyes and see how it\nreally was, they learned from their fathers to hold their tongues about\nit. If the little ones and the weak ones believed, it answered all\npurposes, and change was inconvenient. They might smile to themselves at\nthe folly which they countenanced, but they were discreet, and they\nwould not expose it. This is the state of the tree, and of the men who\nare under it at this present time:--they say it still does very well.\nPerhaps it does--but, stem and boughs and paper leaves, it is dry for\nthe burning, and if the lightning touches it, those who sit beneath will\nsuffer.\n\n\n\n\nCOMPENSATION.\n\n\nOne day an Antelope was lying with her fawn at the foot of the flowering\nMimosa. The weather was intensely sultry, and a Dove, who had sought\nshelter from the heat among the leaves, was cooing above her head.\n\n'Happy bird!' said the Antelope. 'Happy bird! to whom the air is given\nfor an inheritance, and whose flight is swifter than the wind. At your\nwill you alight upon the ground, at your will you sweep into the sky,\nand fly races with the driving clouds; while I, poor I, am bound a\nprisoner to this miserable earth, and wear out my pitiable life crawling\nto and fro upon its surface.'\n\nThen the Dove answered, 'It is sweet to sail along the sky, to fly from\nland to land, and coo among the valleys; but, Antelope, when I have sate\nabove amidst the branches and watched your little one close its tiny\nlips upon your breast, and feed its life on yours, I have felt that I\ncould strip off my wings, lay down my plumage, and remain all my life\nupon the ground only once to know such blessed enjoyment.'\n\nThe breeze sighed among the boughs of the Mimosa, and a voice came\ntrembling out of the rustling leaves: 'If the Antelope mourns her\ndestiny, what should the Mimosa do? The Antelope is the swiftest among\nthe animals. It rises in the morning; the ground flies under its\nfeet--in the evening it is a hundred miles away. The Mimosa is feeding\nits old age on the same soil which quickened its seed cell into\nactivity. The seasons roll by me and leave me in the old place. The\nwinds sway among my branches, as if they longed to bear me away with\nthem, but they pass on and leave me behind. The wild birds come and go.\nThe flocks move by me in the evening on their way to the pleasant\nwaters. I can never move. My cradle must be my grave.'\n\nThen from below, at the root of the tree, came a voice which neither\nbird, nor Antelope, nor tree had ever heard, as a Rock Crystal from its\nprison in the limestone followed on the words of the Mimosa.\n\n'Are ye all unhappy?' it said. 'If ye are, then what am I? Ye all have\nlife. You! O Mimosa, you! whose fair flowers year by year come again to\nyou, ever young, and fresh, and beautiful--you who can drink the rain\nwith your leaves, who can wanton with the summer breeze, and open your\nbreast to give a home to the wild birds, look at me and be ashamed. I\nonly am truly wretched.'\n\n'Alas!' said the Mimosa, 'we have life, which you have not, it is true.\nWe have also what you have not, its shadow--death. My beautiful\nchildren, which year by year I bring out into being, expand in their\nloveliness only to die. Where they are gone I too shall soon follow,\nwhile you will flash in the light of the last sun which rises upon the\nearth.'\n\n\nLONDON\n\nPRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO.\n\nNEW-STREET SQUARE\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\nPage 67: popositions: typo for propositions. Corrected.\n\nPage 118: seventeeth: typo for seventeenth. Corrected.\n\nPage 198: assults: typo for assaults. Corrected.\n\nPage 279: reely: typo for freely. Corrected.\n\nPage 300: appal: alternate spelling for appall.\n\nPage 301: doggrel: alternate spelling for doggerel.\n\nPage 316: throughly: alternate spelling for thoroughly.\n\nPage 322: ougly: alternate spelling for ugly.\n\nPage 329: rommaging: alternate spelling for rummaging.\n\nPage 330: carged: In 'a huge high-carged' [May mean high-charged as with\nmany weapons, or cargo, as heavy freight?]\n\nPage 330: enterchanged: alternate spelling for interchanged.\n\nPage 408: befal: alternate spelling for befall.\n\nPage 440: wanton: probably means to frolic or move freely in this\ncontext.\n\nPage various: sate: alternate, archaic spelling for sat.","title":"Short Studies on Great Subjects","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":181003}