CHAPTER VI.

IN BLUE-ANCHOR LANE.

Nine o'clock was striking, as I hurried along the footway of London

Bridge, hustled and jostled by the many passengers who seem to be

forever treading their weary road of business, care, or pleasure--for

even pleasure brings its toil; nine o'clock resounding loud and clear

in the night-air from the dome of St. Paul's, and echoed from the

neighboring church-steeples. It sounds romantic enough to please the

most enthusiastic devourers of pre-Radcliffe novels, or to capture the

imagination of the most ardent votaries of fiction. But it was far

otherwise to me on the night of that Thursday which had seen Hugh

Atherton branded with the name of murderer. It was far otherwise to

me--weighed down with the crushing knowledge that the companion of my

youth, the friend of my later years, although an innocent man, was

being gradually hurried on to a felon's death; and that I--_I_ who

loved him so well--had helped to his destruction, though Heaven could

witness how unwillingly and unconsciously. No; there was no romance

for me that night as I dragged my weary steps over the bridge, with

the sight of him before my eyes, and the sound of heart-bursting grief

from the lips of that poor stricken girl, his betrothed bride, ringing

in my ears; for I had been to tell her the results of this day's work.

Oh! why had I not yielded to his wish the evening I met Hugh Atherton

in that fatal street, and taken him home with me? Why had I not more

earnestly followed up the impulse--nay, dare I not call it

inspiration?--to return after him and bid him come back with me? Ah

me! my selfishness, my blindness--could any remorse ever atone for

them and the terrible evil they had brought about? My God, thou

knowest how my heart cried out to thee then in bitterness and sorrow:

"Smite me with thy righteous judgments; but spare him--spare her!"

And now what new scene in this drama of life was I going to see

unfolded? I could not tell; I knew nothing; I could only pray that if

Providence pointed out to me any track by which I might penetrate the

awful mystery that hung round us, I might pursue it with all fidelity,

with utter forgetfulness of self. I had gone with Merrivale after we

left Wimpole street to the House of Detention where Atherton was

lodged, and desired him to ask that I should see Hugh; but he had come

out looking puzzled and perplexed, and said: "I can't make it out;

Atherton refuses to see you, and gives no reason except that it is

'best not.'" No help was there, then, but to trust to time and

unwearied exertion to remove the cloud between us.

I found Jones waiting for me at the other end of the bridge, and

anxiously on the look-out.

"I am right glad to see you, sir; I was fearful you mightn't come,

seeing that I gave you no reason for doing so."

"I trusted you sufficiently, Jones, to belive you wouldn't have

brought me on a useless errand at such a time of awful anxiety."

"Bless you, sir, I wouldn't--not for a thousand pounds; and I've had

that offered to me in my day by parties as wished to get rid of me or

shut me up. No, indeed, sir; I'd not add to your trouble if so be I

could not lighten it. But we have no time to lose, and we have a

goodish bit before us. You asked me this morning whether I knew any

thing of a Mr. de Vos. I did not then, but I do now; and a strange

chance threw me across him. If, sir, you will trust yourself entirely

to me to-night, I think I can be of use to you. But you must confide

in me, and allow me to take the lead in everything. And first, will

you let me ask you one or two questions?"

I told him he might ask anything he pleased; if I could not answer, I

would tell him so; that I would trust him implicitly.

{612}

"Then, sir, will you condescend to honor me by coming home first for a

few minutes? My missus expects us. She's in a terrible way about Mr.

Atherton: she never forgets past kindness."

We turned off the bridge, straight down Wellington street, High street

Borough, and then into King street, where Jones stopped before a

respectable-looking private house, and knocked. The door was opened by

his wife--with whom, under other circumstances, I had been acquainted

before--and we entered their neat little front-parlor. Evidently we

were expected, for supper was laid--homely, but substantial, and

temptingly clean.

"You must excuse us, sir," said Jones; "but I fancied it was likely

you had taken little enough to-day, and I told Jane to have something

ready for us. Please to eat, Mr. Kavanagh; we have a short journey

before us, and I want you to have all your wits and energies about

you."

I was faint and sick, true enough; for I had touched nothing save a

biscuit and a glass of wine since the morning; but my stomach seemed

to loathe food; and though I drew to the table, not wishing to offend

the good people, I felt as if to swallow a morsel would choke me.

Jones cut up the cold ham and chicken in approved style, whilst his

wife busied herself with slicing off thin rounds of bread and butter;

but I toyed with my knife and fork, and could not eat. Not so Jones;

he took down incredible quantities of all that was before him with the

zest of a man who knows he is going to achieve luck's victory.

Presently he threw down his tools, and looked hard at me.

"This'll never do, sir; you _must_ eat."

I shook my head and smiled.

"Jane," said he to his wife, "bring out Black Peter; no one ever

needed him more than Mr. Kavanagh."

Mrs. Jones opened a cupboard and brought forth a tapery-necked bottle,

out of which her husband very carefully poured some liquid into a

wineglass, and then as carefully corked it up again.

"Drink this, sir; I've never known it to fail yet."

I lifted the glass to my lips. "Why, it's the primest Curaçoa!" I

cried.

"That it may be, sir, for all I know. A poor German, to whom I once

rendered a service, sent me two bottles, and I've found it the best

cordial I ever tasted. I call it Black Peter--his name was Peter, and

he was uncommonly black, to be sure--but I never heard its right name

before. Drink it off, sir, and you'll feel a world better presently."

I did, and the effects were as Jones prognosticated. The cold, sick

shivering left me, and I was able in a little while to take some food.

"Now, Jane," said the good man to his wife, when he saw I was getting

on all right, "shut up your ears; Mr. Kavanagh and I are going to talk

business."

Mrs. Jones laughed, picked up some needle-work, and sat down to a

small table by the fire.

"My wife's a true woman, sir, in every thing but her tongue; she

_don't_ talk: I'll back her against Sir Richard himself for keeping

dark on a secret case. Now, sir, will you please to tell me, if you

can, why you are anxious to find out about this Mr. de Vos?"

I related to him about my meeting De Vos at my sister's, what I had

heard and witnessed in Swain's Lane, the impressions made upon me

then, and how I had caught sight of the man outside the police-court

on the preceding day. Jones listened very attentively, and made notes

of it all.

"Exactly," said he, when I ended by saying that Mr. Wilmot had denied

all knowledge of De Vos and the rendezvous in Swain's Lane. "Just what

I expected. Of course he would."

"What! Do you think he did know, and that it was Wilmot's voice I

heard?"

{613}

"I think nothing, sir" said be, with a curious smile; "but I guess a

good deal. We have a terribly-tangled skein to unravel; but I think in

following up this man we have got the right end of it. I must now tell

you how I stumbled upon him to-day. I heard from inspector Keene that

he was engaged by Mr. Merrivale to see into this murder of old Mr.

Thorneley; and knowing how partial I was to Mr. Atherton--good reason

too--he asked me if I'd like to help him, and if so, he'd speak about

me to Sir Richard Mayne. I said I would, above all things, for I'd had

a hand in taking him, though I believed he was innocent; and now I'd

give much to help him back to his liberty again. To cut short with the

story, it was settled I should hang about the house to-day during the

inquest in disguise, to pick up any stray information that might be

let drop; for there's a deal more known, sir, about rich folks and

their households by such people as those who were crowded round the

house today than ever you'd think for; and we gather much of our most

valuable information by mixing in these crowds unknown, and listening

to the casual gossip that goes on in them. So I made myself up into a

decent old guy, and took my way to Wimpole street. Whilst waiting to

cross Oxford street two men came up behind me, and I heard a few words

drop which made me turn round to look at them. Sure enough, one

answered most perfectly your description of this Mr. De Vos. I thought

to myself, 'Here's game worth following;' and I did follow, and heard

them make an appointment for to-night on this side the water. Now,

sir, do you see why I asked you to meet me?'

"I do. We must be present at the meeting."

"Just so, sir; and we have no time to lose, for the hour mentioned was

soon after ten o'clock. If you'll take nothing else we will go. We

must go made up; and you'll trust entirely to me."

"You mean disguised?"

"I do, sir; if you'll come up-stairs, I'll give you what is

necessary."

Up-stairs we went, and Jones produced from a chest of drawers a rough

common seaman's jacket, a pair of duck trowsers, a woollen comforter,

a tarpaulin hat, and a false black beard, in which he rigged me out;

and then proceeded to make similar change in his own attire, with the

exception of a wig of shaggy red hair and a pair of whiskers to match.

"Leave your watch, sir, and any little articles of jewelry you may

have about you, in my wife's charge; keep your hat well slouched over

your face and your hands in your pockets, give a swing and swagger to

your walk, and you'll do."

"Why, where upon earth are we going, Jones?"

"To Blue-Anchor Lane, sir, if you know where that very fashionable

quarter lies."

I did not know exactly where it was, saying from police-reports, which

named it as one of the lowest parts of that low district lying between

Bermondsey and Rotherhithe. I had been somewhere near it once, having

occasion to call on one of the clergy belonging to the Catholic Church

in Parker's Row; but that was quite an aristocratic part, for a

wonder, compared with Blue-Anchor Lane. Yes, Parker's Row I had

visited; and, thanks to my having grown and "gentlefolked" to the

height of six feet odd, I had managed to pull the bell and get

admitted to the convent behind the church, where dwell the good

Sisters of Mercy, walled-in all tight and trim. But down Blue-Anchor

Lane I had never penetrated; and I asked Jones if it were not

considered a favorite haunt for characters of the worst description.

"It is so, sir; and we must be careful and cautious to-night in all we

do." I noticed that he put his staff and alarum in his pocket, and

furnished me with similar implements. "In case of necessity, sir," he

said, {614} laughing, "you must act as special constable with me. I

wouldn't take you into the smallest danger; but, you see, I don't know

but what your presence is of absolute necessity, and that you may be

able to gather a clue in this case quicker than I should. Not that I

yield in quickness at twigging most things to any man," said Detective

Jones, with a bit of professional pride quite pardonable; "but you

must identify the man for certain yourself, sir, before I can act in

the matter with anything like satisfaction."

It was just upon ten o'clock when we left King street, and proceeded

to London Bridge; whence we took the train to Spa Road. It takes, as

every one knows, but a few minutes in the transit; and leaving that

dark, dismal, break-neck hole of a station, we turned to the left up

Spa Road, down Jamaica Row, and so into Blue-Anchor Lane. It is

needless to describe what that place is at night; it is needless to

picture in words all the degrading vice that walks forth unmasked in

some of the streets of this capital, which ranks so high amidst the

great cities o the world. Is our exterior morality to be so far

behind, so infinitely below, that of tribes and nations on whom we

stoop to trample? Can such things be, and we not waken from our

lethargic sleep, remembering what our account will one day be? Can our

rulers so calmly eat and drink, take their pleasure, hunt their game,

pursue their gentlemanlike sports, knowing, as assuredly they do too

well, that thousands of their people are living lives more degraded,

more brutal, more shamelessly inhuman, more full of sin, ignorance,

and every kind of squalor and misery, than the wildest savages we have

set our soldiers to hunt out of the lands in which God placed them?

"What can the man be doing in such a place as this?" I whispered to

Jones, as he stopped before the door of a small low-looking house of

entertainment, half coffee-shop and half public-house, that rejoiced

in the name of "Noah's Ark."

"That's just what we've got to find out, sir. Somehow it strikes me

he's better acquainted with such haunts as these than you and I are

with Regent street or Piccadilly. If I haven't seen his face before,

and that not ten yards from the Old Bailey, I'm blest if I was ever

more mistaken in my life. But hush! here he is."

And swaggering along, with his hat stuck on one side, and murmuring a

verse of "Rory O'Moore," came Mr. de Vos, my sister Elinor's

"treasure-trove," evidently somewhat airy in the upper regions, and

elated by good cheer. Jones had taken out a short clay pipe, and

whilst seemingly intent on filling it I saw he was watching De Vos

with a keen observant glance. The latter gentleman was far from being

intoxicated; he was merely what is called "elevated," and quite wide

awake enough to be wary of anything going on around him. I saw him

start perceptibly as his eye fell upon me, though my slouched hat and

high collar must have gone a good way toward concealing my features.

"Fine night, mate," said Jones in a bluff, loud voice, lighting and

pulling vigorously at his pipe.

"Deed and it is so," answered De Vos, halting just opposite to us, and

once more turning his scrutiny upon me. "Are you game for a dhrop of

whiskey?" addressing himself especially to me.

I was about to answer in feigned tones, when Jones took the word out

of my mouth, and replied: "No use asking him--he's too love-sick just

now to care for drink; he's parted with his sweetheart, and is off for

the West-Indies by five in the morning from the Docks."

Something now seemed to attract De Vos's attention to Jones, for he

became suddenly very grave.

"I've not seen you here before," said he, peering into the detective's

face.

{615}

"May be you have, may be you haven't. I don't need to ask any man's

leave to drink a pint at 'Noah's Ark,' and watch a game of skittles."

This, as Jones told me afterward, was quite a random shot; however, it

took effect.

"I believe you," said De Vos with all the boastfulness of his nature.

"You'll not see a betther bowler through the country entirely than

meself. I'll back the odds against any man this side the Channel, and

bedad to it. I dare say now it's here on Monday last you were to see

me play?"

"Ay, ay, mate," sang out Jones; "right enough."

"Ah! thin it was small shiners I went in for then; but I'll lay a

couple of fivers now against a brad, and play you fair to-morrow

against any of them in there," with a back-handed wave to the house,

whence unmistakable sounds of noisy mirth were proceeding. "Is it

done?"

"I'll consider your offer--shiver my timbers but I will!" said Jones,

with a burst of Jack-tar-ism--"and let you know in the morning."

"Just as you please; you pays your money and you takes your choice;"

and nodding to Jones, who responded to the salute in approved style,

De Vos passed into the tap-room of the "Ark."

"Is it he?" hurriedly whispered Jones when he was out of hearing.

"Yes, without doubt," answered I, in the same tones.

"Then follow me, sir; and keep silent unless I speak to you;" and we

likewise entered through the swing-doors of the gayly-lighted bar.

A glance sufficed to show us that the man we sought was not there; but

Jones was far from being disconcerted; indeed he seemed most

thoroughly up to the mark in the task before him, and threw himself

into the part he had assigned himself with all the genius and facility

of a Billington or Toole. Three or four men with physiognomies that

would not have disgraced the hangman's rope were drinking, smoking,

and exchanging low _badinage_ with a flashy-looking young woman, who

stood behind the bar-counter. Woman, did I say? Angels pity her! There

was little of womanly nature left in the fierce glitter of her eyes,

in the hard lines of premature age which dissipation and sin and woe

had left carved upon her forehead and around her mouth. Little enough

of this though, no doubt, thought Detective Jones, intent upon his own

purposes, as he quickly made up to her, and asked with all the

swaggering audacity of a "jolly tar," for two stiff glasses of the

primest pine-apple rum-and-water.

Jones extracted a long clay pipe from the lot standing before us in a

broken glass, and passed it to me, and handed his pouch of tobacco,

with an expressive glance that told me I was to smoke. Whilst filling

the pipe and lighting it, the woman returned with the rum-and-water,

which she placed ungraciously before us with a bang and clatter that

caused the liquid to spill out of the glasses.

"Look here, miss," said Jones in his most insinuating tones; "I'll

forgive you for upsetting the grog, and give you five bob to buy a

blue ribbon for your pretty hair, if you'll manage to get me and my

mate a snug comer inside there," pointing to a door on the left,

whence issued voices; "for we've a bit of money business to settle

to-night, and he's off first thing in the morning for the Indies."

The woman seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then holding out her

hand for the promised tip, she beckoned us to pass inside the bar, and

led the way to the door. Before she opened it she said in a low voice:

"I am doing as much as my place is worth; but I want the money; take

the table in the corner at the top here; keep yourselves quiet, and

don't take no notice of nobody, least of all of him who'll be next

you."

{616}

She now opened the door, and I saw Jones slip some more money into her

hand, which she received with a short grunt and a nod, and then closed

the door upon us.

The room was divided like that of an ordinary coffee-shop into box

compartments; the one in the right-hand corner by the door was empty,

and we entered it, carrying our glasses and pipes with us. We seated

ourselves at the end of the two benches opposite each other, and then

glanced round. In the box _vis-à-vis_ were two rough-looking fellows,

whom I took to be real followers of our pretended calling--the sea.

They returned our gaze suspiciously enough, and we could hear one

whisper to the other, "Who's them coves?" and the answer "Dunno; none

of _us_." But the next moment my attention was diverted to the voices

in the box next to ours.

"Did you see _her_?" It was De Vos who spoke, I felt sure.

"Not I, my God! not I," answered a deep hoarse voice. "It's ten years

since she and I met, and I'd go to my grave sooner than we should meet

again. Mind you, the day when her cold cruel eyes rest on me will be a

fatal day for me. Faugh! I've passed through as much bloodshed as it's

ever given one man to encounter in his life, and never flinched; but I

tell you, Sullivan, the thought of meeting her face to face seems to

freeze the life-blood of my heart."

"Do you think she had a hand in this, O'Brian?"

"Who can tell? She did not pause once; what should stop her again?"

"The fear of you."

"She sees no reason to fear. She believes I'm still over _there_,

where she sent me."

"And the young fellow, _my_ man, does he know anything?"

"Again how can I tell? But I should say not. How could _she_ enlighten

_him_?"

"Then he is--"

"Their son."

A pause succeeded. Meanwhile Jones had engaged in a sort of dumb-show

with me to throw the men opposite off the scent, by passing papers and

money backwards and forwards, and apparently making calculations with

his pencil; in reality I saw he was taking notes. Presently De Vos

spoke again.

"Well, let's drink to the heir, old boy; and so long as I can make him

play the piper, why thin it's myself that will, and bedad to him."

His Irishisms, be it observed, were intermittent.

"Long life to the heir!" cried the two voices simultaneously; and

there was a clash of glasses.

"What's the time of day by your ticker?" asked De Vos a few moments

afterward.

"Just upon eleven. The lad was to be here by then, wasn't he?"

"Yes, by eleven. I'd like to know what he wants with me now."

Jones here took up his cap, buttoned his coat, quietly opened the

door, and went out; I following him, of course. He threw a

good-humored nod to the woman, who still stood behind the bar, and I

did the same; but he never spoke until we were some yards from "Noah's

ark."

"You may be thankful, sir," he then said in a low voice, "to have got

out safely and unmolested. That's the worst haunt of some of the worst

characters in London; and they're banded together so as to shut out

every one as don't belong to them. There's been a Providence, sir, in

it all," raising his cap, "depend upon it. Now we must see if we can

stop this lad whom they are expecting. We'll talk the matter over

afterward."

Just then a boy came up running at full speed.

"Halt!" cried Jones, laying his hand on the lad's shoulder. "What

makes you so late?"

"What's the odds to you? Let me go," replied the boy, with a mixture

of impudence and cunning in his face. "I'm not not bound for you."

"You're bound for 'Noah's Ark,' though."

{617}

"Are you Mr. Sullivan?"

"Of course I am."

"Oh! then here's the letter, and you're to see if it's all right."

"All right," said Detective Jones, opening the note and glancing at

its contents; "tell the gentleman I'll be there. Here's for you, young

Codlings," dropping a half-crown into the boy's hand.

"Five shillings, and not a stiver less, is my fare."

"Here you are then, you small imp of iniquity;" and another coin of

similar value found its way into the ragamuffin's pocket.

He cut a caper, turned head over heels, and was gone.

And now Jones tore on breathlessly till we were safe out of

Blue-Anchor Lane and had reached Paradise Row, where a policeman was

standing at the corner. Jones took him aside for a minute, and then

rejoined me.

"We'll hail the first cab, sir, in Spa Road, and drive to your home,

if you've no objection."

This we did; and as soon as we had started he took a small

candle-lantern from his pocket, lit it, and then handed me the note to

read which he had taken from the boy. It contained but few words; no

names used, no address, no signature, and simply desired the person

addressed to meet the writer the following day at the usual place and

hour. What clue was there in that to the dark mystery we were bent on

solving? Only this, and I put it into words:

"Great heavens! it is Lister Wilmot's handwriting!"

TO BE CONTINUED.

------

[ORIGINAL.]

THE MARTYR.

Serene above the world he stands,

Uplift to heaven on wings of prayer:

Across his breast his folded hands

Recall the cross he loved to bear.

Upon his upturned brow the light

Flows like the smile of God: he sees

A flash of wings that daze his sight,

He hears seraphic melodies.

In vain the cruel crowd may roar,

In vain the cruel flames may hiss:

Like seas that lash a distant shore,

They faintly pierce his sphering bliss.

He hears them, and he does not hear--

His fleshly bonds are loosened all--

No earthly sound can claim the ear

That listens for his Father's call.

It comes--and swift the spirit spurns,

His quivering lips and soars away;

The blind crowd roars, the blind fire burns,

While God receives their fancied prey.

D. A. C.

------

{618}

From The Month.

ECCE HOMO. [Footnote 131]

[Footnote 131: "Ecce homo." A Survey of the Life and Work of Jesus

Christ. Macmillan. 1866.]

[The London _Reader_ says the following article is from the pen of

the Very Rev. Dr. Newman.--Ed. C.W.]

The word "remarkable" has been so hacked of late in theological

criticism--nearly as much so as "earnest" and "thoughtful"--that we do

not like to make use of it on the present occasion without an apology.

In truth, it presents itself as a very convenient epithet, whenever we

do not like to commit ourselves to any definite judgment on a subject

before us, and prefer to spread over it a broad neutral tint to

painting it distinctly white, red, or black. A man, or his work, or

his deed, is "remarkable" when he produces an effect; be he effective

for good or for evil, for truth or for falsehood--a point which, as

far as that expression goes, we leave it for others or for the future

to determine. Accordingly it is just the word to use in the instance

of a volume in which what is trite and what is novel, what is striking

and what is startling, what is sound and what is untrustworthy, what

is deep and what is shallow, are so mixed up together, or at least so

vaguely suggested, or so perplexingly confessed, which has so much of

occasional force, of circumambient glitter, of pretence and of

seriousness, as to make it impossible either with a good conscience to

praise it, or without harshness and unfairness to condemn. Such a book

is at least likely to be effective, whatever else it is or is not; and

if it is effective, it may be safely called remarkable, and therefore

we apply the epithet "remarkable" to this "Ecce Homo."

It is remarkable, then, on account of the sensation which it has made

in religious circles. In the course of a few months it has reached a

third edition, though it is a fair-sized octavo and not an over-cheap

one. And it has received the praise of critics and reviewers of very

distinct shades of opinion. Such a reception must be owing either to

the book itself or to the circumstances of the day in which it has

appeared, or to both of these causes together. Or, as seems to be the

case, the needs of the day have become a call for some such work; and

the work, on its appearance, has been thankfully welcomed, on account

of its professed object, by those whose needs called for it. The

author includes himself in the number of these; and, while providing

for his own wants, he has ministered to theirs. This is what we

especially mean by calling his book "remarkable."

Disputants may maintain, if they please, that religious doubt is our

natural, our normal state; that to cherish doubts is our duty that to

complain of them is impatience; that to dread them is cowardice; that

to overcome them is inveracity; that it is even a happy state, a state

of calm philosophic enjoyment, to be conscious of them--but after all,

necessary or not, such a state is not natural, and not happy, if the

voice of mankind is to decide the question. English minds, in

particular, have too much of a religious temper in them, as a natural

gift, to acquiesce for any long time in positive, active doubt. For

doubt and devotion are incompatible with each other; every doubt, be

it greater or less, stronger or weaker, involuntary as well as

voluntary, acts upon {619} devotion, so far forth, as water sprinkled,

or dashed, or poured out upon a flame, Real and proper doubt kills

faith, and devotion with it; and even involuntary or half-deliberate

doubt, though it does not actually kill faith, goes far to kill

devotion; and religion without devotion is little better than a

burden, and soon becomes a superstition. Since, then, this is a day of

objection and of doubt about the intellectual basis of revealed truth,

it follows that there is a great deal of secret discomfort and

distress in the religions portion of the community, the result of that

general curiosity in speculation and inquiry which has been the growth

among us of the last twenty or thirty years.

The people of this country, being Protestants, appeal to Scripture,

when a religious question arises, as their ultimate informant and

decisive authority in all such matters; but who is to decide for them

the previous question, that Scripture is really such an authority?

When, then, as at this time, its divine authority is the very point to

be determined, that is, the character and extent of its inspiration

and its component parts, then they find themselves at sea, without

possessing any power over the direction of their course. Doubting

about the authority of Scripture, they doubt about its substantial

truth; doubting about its truth, they have doubts concerning the

objects which it sets before their faith, about the historical

accuracy and objective reality of the picture which it presents to us

of our Lord. We are not speaking of wilful doubting but of those

painful misgivings, greater or less, to which we have already alluded.

Religious Protestants, when they think calmly on the subject, can

hardly conceal from themselves that they have a house without logical

foundations, which contrives indeed for the present to stand, but

which may go any day--and where are they then?

Of course Catholics will tell them to receive the canon of Scripture

on the authority of the church, in the spirit of St. Augustine's

well-known words: "I should not believe the gospel, were I not moved

by the authority of the Catholic Church." But who, they ask, is to be

voucher in turn for the church and St. Augustine? is it not as

difficult to prove the authority of the church and her doctors as the

authority of the Scriptures? We Catholics answer, and with reason, in

the negative; but, since they cannot be brought to agree with us here,

what argumentative ground is open to them? Thus they seem drifting,

slowly perhaps, but surely, in the direction of scepticism.

It is under these circumstances that they are invited, in the volume

before us, to betake themselves to the contemplation of our Lord's

character, as it is recorded by the evangelists, as carrying with it

its own evidence, dispensing with extrinsic proof, and claiming

authoritatively by itself the faith and devotion of all to whom it is

presented. Such an argument, of course, is as old as Christianity

itself; the young man in the Gospel calls our Lord "Good Master," and

St. Peter introduces him to the first Gentile converts as one who

"went about doing good;" and in these last times we can refer to the

testimony even of unbelievers in behalf of an argument as simple as it

is constraining. "Si la vie et la mort de Socrate sont d'un sage,"

says Rousseau, "la vie et la mort de Jésus sont d'un Dieu." And he

clenches the argument by observing, that, were the picture a mere

conception of the sacred writers, "l'inventeur en serait plus étonnant

que le héros." Its especial force lies in its directness; it comes to

the point at once, and concentrates in itself evidence, doctrine, and

devotion. In theological language, it is the _motivum credibilitatis_,

the _objectum materiale_ and the _formale_, all in one; it unites

human reason and supernatural faith in one complex act; and it comes

home to all men, educated and ignorant, young and old. And it is the

point to which, after all {620} and in fact, all religious minds tend,

and in which they ultimately rest, even if they do not start from it.

Without an intimate apprehension of the personal character of our

Saviour, what professes to be faith is little more than an act of

ratiocination. If faith is to live, it must love; it must lovingly

live in the author of faith as a true and living being, _in Deo vivo

et vero_; according to the saying of the Samaritans to their

towns-woman: "We now believe, not for thy saying, for we ourselves

have heard him." Many doctrines may be held implicitly; but to see him

as if intuitively is the very promise and gift of him who is the

object of the intuition. We are constrained to believe when it is he

that speaks to us about himself.

Such undeniably is the characteristic of divine faith viewed in

itself; but here we are concerned, not simply with faith, but with its

logical antecedents; and the question returns on which we have already

touched, as a difficulty with Protestants--how can our Lord's life, as

recorded in the Gospels, be a logical ground of faith, unless we set

out with assuming the truth of those Gospels; that is, without

assuming as proved the original matter of doubt? And Protestant

apologists, it may be urged--Paley for instance--show their sense of

this difficulty when they place the argument drawn from our Lord's

character only among the auxiliary evidences of Christianity. Now the

following answer may fairly be made to this objection; nor need we

grudge Protestants the use of it, for, as will appear in the sequel,

it proves too much for their purpose, as being an argument for the

divinity not only of Christ's mission, but of that of his church also.

However, we say this by the way.

It may be maintained then, that, making as large an allowance as the

most sceptical mind, when pressed to state its demands in full, would

desire, we are at least safe in asserting that the books of the New

Testament, taken as a whole, existed about the middle of the second

century, and were then received by Christians, or were in the way of

being received, and nothing else but them was received, as the

authoritative record of the origin and rise of their religion. In that

first age they were the only account of the mode in which Christianity

was introduced to the world. Internal as well as external evidence

sanctions us in so speaking. Four Gospels, the book of the acts of the

Apostles, various Apostolic writings, made up then, as now, our sacred

books. Whether there was a book more or less, say even an important

book, does not affect the general character of the religion as those

books set it forth. Omit one or other of the Gospels, and three or

four Epistles, and the outline and nature of its objects and its

teaching remain what they were before the omission. The moral

peculiarities, if particular, of its Founder are, on the whole,

identical, whether we learn them from St. Matthew, St. John, St.

Peter, or St. Paul. He is not in one book a Socrates, in another a

Zeno, and in a third an Epicurus. Much less is the religion changed or

obscured by the loss of particular chapters or verses, or even by

inaccuracy in fact, or by error in opinion, (supposing _per

impossible_ such a charge could be made good,) in particular portions

of a book. For argument's sake, suppose that the three first Gospels

are an accidental collection of traditions or legends, for which no

one is responsible, and in which Christians put faith because there

was nothing else to put faith in. This is the limit to which extreme

scepticism can proceed, and we are willing to commence our argument by

granting it. Still, starting at this disadvantage, we should be

prepared to argue, that if, in spite of this, and after all, there be

shadowed out in these anonymous and fortuitous documents a teacher

_sui generis_, distinct, consistent, and original, then does that

picture, thus accidentally resulting, for the very reason {621} of its

accidental composition, only become more marvellous; then he is an

historical fact and again a supernatural or divine fact--historical

from the consistency of the representation, and because the time

cannot be assigned when it was not received as a reality; and

supernatural, in proportion as the qualities, with which he is

invested in those writings, are incompatible with what it is

reasonable or possible to ascribe to human nature viewed simply in

itself. Let these writings be as open to criticism, whether as to

their origin or their text, as sceptics can maintain; nevertheless the

representation in question is there, and forces upon the mind a

conviction that it records a fact, and a superhuman fact, just as the

reflection of an object in a stream remains in its definite form,

however rapid the current, and however many the ripples, and is a sure

warrant to us of the presence of the object on the bank, though that

object be out of sight.

Such, we conceive, though stated in our own words, is the argument

drawn out in the pages before us, or rather such is the ground on

which the argument is raised; and the interest which it has excited

lies, not in its novelty, but in the particular mode in which it is

brought before the reader, in the originality and preciseness of

certain strokes by which is traced out for us the outline of the

divine teacher. These strokes are not always correct; they are

sometimes gratuitous, sometimes derogatory to their object; but they

are always determinate; and, being such, they present an old argument

before us with a certain freshness, which, because it is old, is

necessary for its being effective.

We do not wonder at all, then, at the sensation which the volume is

said to have caused at Oxford, and among the Anglicans of the Oxford

school, after the wearisome doubt and disquiet of the last ten years;

for it has opened the prospect of a successful issue of inquiries in

an all-important province of thought, where there seemed to be no

thoroughfare. Distinct as are the liberal and catholicising parties in

the Anglican Church, both in their principles and their policy, it

must not be supposed that they are as distinct in the members that

compose them. No line of demarcation can be drawn between the one

collection of men and the other, in fact; for no two minds are

altogether alike, and, individually, Anglicans have each his own shade

of opinion, and belong partly to this school, partly to that. Or,

rather, there is a large body of men who are neither the one nor the

other; they cannot be called an intermediate party, for they have no

discriminating watch-words; they range from those who are almost

Catholic to those who are almost liberals. They are not liberals,

because they do not glory in a state of doubt; they cannot profess to

be "Anglo-Catholics," because they are not prepared to give an eternal

assent to all that is put forth by the church as truth of revelation.

These are the men who, if they could, would unite old ideas with new;

who cannot give up tradition, yet are loth to shut the door to

progress; who look for a more exact adjustment of faith with reason

than has hitherto been attained; who love the conclusions of Catholic

theology better than the proofs, and the methods of modern thought

better than its results; and who, in the present wide unsettlement of

religious opinion, believe indeed, or wish to believe, scripture and

orthodox doctrine, taken as a whole, and cannot get themselves to avow

any deliberate dissent from any part of either, but still, not knowing

how to defend their belief with logical exactness, or at least feeling

that there are large unsatisfied objections lying against parts of it,

or having misgivings lest there should be such, acquiesce in what is

called a practical belief, that is, believe in revealed truths, only

because belief in them is the safest course, because they are

probable, and because belief in {622} consequence is a duty, not as if

they felt absolutely certain, though they will not allow themselves to

be actually in doubt. Such is about the description to be given of

them as a class, though, as we have said, they so materially differ

from each other, that no general account of them can be applied

strictly to any individual in their body.

Now, it is to this large class which we have been describing that such

a work as that before us, in spite of the serious errors which they

will not be slow to recognize in it, comes as a friend in need. They

do not stumble at the author's inconsistencies or shortcomings; they

are arrested by his professed purpose, and are profoundly moved by his

successful hits (as they may be called) toward fulfilling it. Remarks

on the gospel history, such as Paley's they feel to be casual and

superficial; such as Rousseau's, to be vague and declamatory: they

wish to justify with their intellect all that they believe with their

heart; they cannot separate their ideas of religion from its revealed

object; but they have an aching dissatisfaction within them, that they

apprehend him so dimly, when they would fain (as it were) see and

touch him as well as hear. When, then, they have logical grounds

presented to them for holding that the recorded picture of our Lord is

its own evidence, that it carries with it its own reality and

authority, that his "revelatio" is "revelata" in the very act of being

a "revelatio," it is as if he himself said to them, as he once said to

his disciples, "It is I, be not afraid;" and the clouds at once clear

off, and the waters subside, and the land is gained for which they are

looking out.

The author before us, then, has the merit of promising what, if he

could fulfil it, would entitle him to the gratitude of thousands. We

do not say, we are very far from thinking, that he has actually

accomplished so high an enterprise, though he seems to be ambitious

enough to hope that he has not come far short of it. He somewhere

calls his book a treatise; he would have done better to call it an

essay; nor need he have been ashamed of a word which Locke has used in

his work on the Human Understanding. Before concluding, we shall take

occasion to express our serious sense, how very much his execution

falls below his purpose; but certainly it is a great purpose which he

sets before him, and for that he is to be praised. And there is at

least this singular merit in his performance, as he has given it to

the public, that he is clear-sighted and fair enough to view our

Lord's work in its true light, as including in it the establishment of

a visible kingdom or church. In proportion, then, as we shall

presently find it our duty to pass some severe remarks upon his

volume, as it comes before us, so do we feel bound, before doing so,

to give some specimens of it in that point of view in which we

consider it really to subserve the cause of revealed truth. And in the

sketch which we are now about to give of the first steps of his

investigation, we must not be understood to make him responsible for

the language in which we shall exhibit them to our readers, and which

will unavoidably involve our own corrections of his ailment, and our

own coloring.

Among a people, then, accustomed by the most sacred traditions of

their religion to a belief in the appearance, from time to time, of

divine messengers for their instruction and reformation, and to the

expectation of one such messenger to come, the last and greatest of

all, who should also be their king and deliverer as well as their

teacher, suddenly is found, after a long break in the succession and a

period of national degradation, a prophet of the old stamp, in one of

the deserts of the country---John, the son of Zachary. He announces

the promised kingdom as close at hand, calls his countrymen to

repentance, and institutes a rite symbolical of it. The people seem

disposed to take him for the destined Saviour; but he points out to

them a {623} private person in the crowd which is flocking about him;

and henceforth the interest which his own preaching has excited

centres in that other. Thus our Lord is introduced to the notice of

his countrymen.

Thus brought before the world, he opens his mission. What is the first

impression it makes upon us? Admiration of its singular simplicity

both as to object and work. Such of course ought to be its character,

if it was to be the fulfilment of the ancient, long-expected promise;

and such it was, as our Lord proclaimed it. Other men, who do a work,

do not set about it as their object; they make several failures; they

are led on to it by circumstances; they miscalculate their powers; or

they are drifted from the first in a direction different from that

which they had chosen; they do most where they are expected to do

least. But our Lord said and did. "He formed one plan and executed

it," (p. 18). Next, what was that plan? Let us consider the force of

the words in which, as the Baptist before him, he introduced his

ministry; "The kingdom of God is at hand." What was meant by the

kingdom of God? "The conception was no new one, but familiar to every

Jew," (p. 19.) At the first formation of the nation and state of the

Israelites the Almighty had been their king; when a line of earthly

kings was introduced, then God spoke by the prophets. The existence of

the theocracy was the very constitution and boast of Israel, as

limited monarchy, liberty, and equality are the boast respectively of

certain modern nations. Moreover, the gospel proclamation ran,

"Poenitentiam agite; for the kingdom of heaven is at hand;" here again

was another and recognized token of a theophany; for the mission of a

prophet, as we have said above, was commonly a call to reformation and

expiation of sin. A divine mission, then, such as our Lord's, was a

falling back upon the original covenant between God and his people;

but next, while it was an event of old and familiar occurrence, it

ever had carried with it in its past instances something new, in

connection with the circumstances under which it took place. The

prophets were accustomed to give interpretations, or to introduce

modifications of the letter of the law, to add to its conditions and

to enlarge its application. It was to be expected, then, that now,

when the new prophet, to whom the Baptist pointed, opened his

commission, he too, in like manner, would be found to be engaged in a

restoration, but in a restoration which should also be a religious

advance; and that the more if he really was the special, final prophet

of the theocracy, to whom all former prophets had looked forward, and

in whom their long and august line was to be summed up and perfected.

In proportion as his work was to be more signal, so would his new

revelations be wider and more wonderful.

Did our Lord fulfil these expectations? Yes, there was this

peculiarity in his mission, that he came not only as one of the

prophets in the kingdom of God, but as the king himself of that

kingdom. Thus his mission involves the most exact return to the

original polity of Israel, which the appointment of Saul had

disarranged, while it recognizes also the line of prophets, and

infuses a new spirit into the law. Throughout his ministry our Lord

claimed and received the title of king, which no prophet ever had done

before. On his birth, the wise men came to worship "the king of the

Jews;" "thou art the Son of God, thou art the king of Israel," cried

Nathanael after his baptism; and on his cross the charge recorded

against him was that he professed to be "king of the Jews." "During

his whole public life," says the author, "he is distinguished from the

other prominent characters of Jewish history by his unbounded personal

pretensions. He calls himself habitually king and master. He claims

expressly the character of that divine Messiah for which the ancient

prophets had directed the nation to look," (page 25.)

{624}

He is, then, a King, as well as a Prophet; but is he as one of the old

heroic kings, David or Solomon? Had such been his pretension, he had

not, in his own words, "discerned the signs of the times." It would

have been a false step in him, into which other would-be champions of

Israel, before and after him, actually fell, and in consequence

failed. But here this young Prophet is from the first distinct,

decided, and original. His contemporaries, indeed, the wisest, the

most experienced, were wedded to the notion of a revival of the

barbaric kingdom. "Their heads were full of the languid dreams of

commentators, the impracticable pedantries of men who live in the

past," (p. 27.) But he gave to the old prophetic promises an

interpretation which they could undeniably bear, but which they did

not immediately suggest; which we can maintain to be true, while we

can deny them to be imperative. He had his own prompt, definite

conception of the restored theocracy; it was his own, and not

another's; it was suited to the new age; it was triumphantly carried

out in the event.

In what, then, did he consider his royalty to consist? First, what was

it not? It did not consist in the ordinary functions of royalty; it

did not prevent his payment of tribute to Caesar; it did not make him

a judge in questions of criminal or of civil law, in a question of

adultery, or in the adjudication of an inheritance; nor did it give

him the command of armies. Then perhaps, after all, it was but a

figurative royalty, as when the Eridanus is called "fluviorum rex," or

Aristotle "the prince of philosophers." No; it was not a figurative

royalty either. To call one's self a king, without being one, is

playing with edged tools--as in the story of the innkeeper's son, who

was put to death for calling himself "heir to the crown." Christ

certainly knew what he was saying. "He had provoked the accusation of

rebellion against the Roman government: he must have known that the

language he used would be interpreted so. Was there then nothing

substantial in the royalty he claimed? Did he die for a metaphor?" (p.

28.) He meant what he said, and therefore his kingdom was literal and

real; it was visible; but what were its visible prerogatives, if they

were not those in which earthly royalty commonly consists? In truth he

passed by the lesser powers of royalty, to claim the higher. He

claimed certain divine and transcendent functions of the original

theocracy, which had been in abeyance since that theocracy had been

infringed, which even to David had not been delegated, which had never

been exercised except by the Almighty. God had created, first the

people, next the state, which he deigned to govern. "The origin of

other nations is lost in antiquity," (p. 33;) but "this people," runs

the sacred word, "have I formed for myself." And "He who first called

the nation did for it the second work of a king: he gave it a law,"

(p. 34) Now it is very striking to observe that these two

incommunicable attributes of divine royalty, as exemplified in the

history of the Israelites, are the very two which our Lord assumed. He

was the maker and the lawgiver of his subjects. He said in the

commencement of his ministry, "_Follow_ me;" and he added, "and I will

make you"--you in turn--"fishers of men." And the next we read of him

is, that his disciples came to him on the Mount, and he opened his

mouth and _taught_ them. And so again, at the end of it, "Go ye, make

_disciples_ of all nations, _teaching_ them." "Thus the very words for

which the [Jewish] nation chiefly hymned their Jehovah, he undertook

in his name to do. He undertook to be the father of an everlasting

state, and the legislator of a world-wide society," (p. 36;) that is,

showing himself, according to the prophetic announcement, to be

"_Admirabilis, consiliarius, pater futuri saeculi, princeps pacis_."

{625}

To these two claims he adds a third: first, he chooses the subjects of

his kingdom; next, he gives them a law; but thirdly, he judges

them--judges them in a far truer and fuller sense than in the old

kingdom even the Almighty judged his people. The God of Israel

ordained national rewards and punishments for national obedience or

transgression; he did not judge his subjects one by one; but our Lord

takes upon himself the supreme and final judgment of every one of his

subjects, not to speak of the whole human race (though, from the

nature of the case, this function cannot belong to his visible

kingdom.) "He considered, in short, heaven and hell to be in his

hand," (p, 40.)

We shall mention one further function of the new King and his new

kingdom: its benefits are even bound up with the maintenance of this

law of political unity. "To organize a society, and to bind the

members of it together by the closest ties, were the business of his

life. For this reason it was that he called men away from their home,

imposed upon some a wandering life, upon others the sacrifice of their

property, and endeavored by all means to divorce them from their

former connections, in order that they might find a new home in the

church. For this reason he instituted a solemn initiation, and for

this reason he refused absolutely to any one a dispensation from it.

For this reason, too . . . he established a common feast, which was

through all ages to remind Christians of their indissoluble union,"

(p. 92.) But _cui bono_ is a visible kingdom, when the great end of

our Lord's ministry is moral advancement and preparation for a future

state? It is easy to understand, for instance, how a sermon may

benefit, or personal example, or religious friends, or household

piety. We can learn to imitate a saint or a martyr, we can cherish a

lesson, we can study a treatise, we can obey a rule; but what is the

definite advantage to a preacher or a moralist of an external

organization, of a visible kingdom? Yet Christ says, "Seek ye _first_

the kingdom of God," as well as "his justice." Socrates wished to

improve men, but he laid no stress on their acting in concert in order

to secure that improvement; on the contrary, the Christian law is

political, as certainly as it is moral. Why is this? It arises out of

the intimate relation between him and his subjects, which, in bringing

them all to him as their common Father, necessarily brings them to

each other. Our Lord says, "Where two or three are gathered together

in my name, I am in the midst of them." Fellowship between his

followers is made a distinct object and duty, because it is a means,

according to the provisions of his system, by which in some special

way they are brought near to him. This is declared, still more

strikingly than in the text we have just quoted, in the parable of the

vine and its branches, and in that (if it is to be called a parable)

of the Bread of Life. The Almighty King of Israel was ever, indeed,

invisibly present in the glory above the Ark, but he did not manifest

himself there or anywhere else as a present cause of spiritual

strength to his people; but the new king is not only ever present, but

to every one of his subjects individually is he a first element and

perennial source of life. He is not only the head of his kingdom, but

also its animating principle and its centre of power. The author whom

we are reviewing does not quite reach the great doctrine here

suggested, but he goes near it in the following passage: "Some men

have appeared who have been as 'levers to uplift the earth and roll it

in another course." Homer by creating literature, Socrates by creating

science, Caesar by carrying civilization inland from the shores of the

Mediterranean, Newton by starting science upon a career of steady

progress, may be said to have attained this eminence. {626} But these

men gave a single impact like that which is conceived to have first

set the planets in motion. Christ claims to be a perpetual attractive

power, like the sun, which determines their orbit. They contributed to

men some discovery, and passed away; Christ's discovery is himself. To

humanity struggling with its passions and its destiny he says, cling

to me--cling ever closer to me. If we believe St. John, he

represented himself as the light of the world, as the shepherd of the

souls of men, as the way to immortality, as the vine or life-tree of

humanity,' (p. 177.) He ends this beautiful passage, of which we have

already quoted as much as our limits allow, by saying that "He

instructed his followers to hope for life from feeding on his body and

blood."

_O si sic omnia!_ Is it not hard, that, after following with pleasure

a train of thought so calculated to warm all Christian hearts, and to

create in them both admiration and sympathy for the writer, we must

end our notice of him in a different tone, and express as much dissent

from him and as serious blame of him as we have hitherto been showing

satisfaction with his object, his intention, and the general outline

of his argument? But so it is. In what remains to be said we are

obliged to speak of his work in terms so sharp that they may seem to

be out of keeping with what has gone before. With whatever abruptness

in our composition, we must suddenly shift the scene, and manifest our

disapprobation of portions of his book as plainly as we have shown an

interest in it. We have praised it in various points of view. It has

stirred the hearts of many; it has recognized a need, and gone in the

right direction for supplying it. It serves as a token and a hopeful

token, of what is going on in the minds of numbers of men external to

the church. It is substantially a good book, and, we trust, will work

for good. Especially, as we have seen, is it interesting to the

Catholic as acknowledging the visible church as our Lord's own

creation, as the direct fruit of his teaching, and the destined

instrument of his purposes. We do not know how to speak in an

unfriendly tone of an author who has done so much as this; but at the

same time, when we come to examine his argument in its details, and

study his chapters one by one, we find, in spite of, and mixed up with

what is true and original, and even putting aside his patent

theological errors, so much bad logic, so much of rash and gratuitous

assumption, so much of half-digested thought, that we are obliged to

conclude that it would have been much wiser in him if, instead of

publishing what he seems to confess, or rather to proclaim, to be the

jottings of his first researches upon sacred territory, he had waited

till he had carefully traversed and surveyed and mapped the whole of

it. We now proceed to give a few instances of the faults of which we

complain.

His opening remarks will serve in illustration. In p. 41 he says, "We

have not rested upon _single_ passages, nor drawn from the _fourth

gospel_." This, we suppose, must be his reason for ignoring the

passage in Luke ii. 49, "Did you not know that I must be about my

father's business?" for he directly contradicts it, by gratuitously

imagining that our Lord came for St. John's baptism with the same

intention as the penitents around him; and that, in spite of his own

words, which we suppose are to be taken as another "single passage,"

"So it becometh us to fulfil all justice," (Matt. iii. 15.) It must be

on this principle of ignoring single passages such as these, even

though they admit of combination, that he goes on to say of our Lord,

that "in the agitation of mind caused by his baptism, and by the

Baptist's designation of him as the future prophet, he retired into

the wilderness," and there "he matured the plan of action which we see

him executing from the moment of his return into society," (p. 9;) and

that not till then was he "conscious of miraculous power," {627} (p.

12.) This neglect of the sacred text, we repeat must be allowed him,

we suppose, under color of his acting out his rule of abstaining from

single passages and from the fourth gospel. Let us allow it; but at

least he ought to adduce passages, single or many, for what he

actually does assert. He must not be allowed arbitrarily to add to the

history, as well as cautiously to take from it. Where, then, we ask,

did he learn that our Lord's baptism caused him "agitation of mind,"

that he "matured his plan of action in the wilderness," and that he

then first was "conscious of miraculous power"? But again: it seems he

is not to refer to "single passages or the fourth gospel;" yet,

wonderful to say, he actually does open his formal discussion of the

sacred history by referring to a passage from that very gospel--nay,

to a particular text, which is only not a "single" text, because it is

half a text, and half a text, such that, had he taken the whole of it,

he would have been obliged to admit that the part which he puts aside

just runs counter to his interpretation of the part, which he insists

on. The words are these, as they stand in the Protestant version:

"Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world." Now,

it is impossible to deny that "which taketh away," etc., fixes and

limits the sense of "the Lamb of God;" but our author notices the

latter half of the sentence, only in order to put aside the light it

throws upon the former half; and instead of the Baptist's own

interpretation of the title which he gives to our Lord, he substitutes

another, radically different, which he selects for himself out of one

of the psalms. He explains "the lamb" by the well-known image, which

represents the Almighty as a shepherd and his earthly servants as

sheep--innocent, safe, and happy under his protection. "The Baptist's

opinion of Christ's character, then," he says, "is summed up for us in

the title he gives him--the Lamb of God, taking away the sins of the

world. There _seems_ to be, in the last part of this description, an

allusion to the usages of the Jewish sacrificial system; and, in order

to explain it fully, it would be necessary to anticipate much which

will come more conveniently later in this treatise. _But_ when we

remember that the Baptist's mind was _doubtless_ full of imagery drawn

from the Old Testament, and that the conception of a lamb of God makes

the subject of one of the most striking of the psalms, _we shall

perceive what he meant to convey, by this phrase,_" (pp. 5, 6.) This

is like saying, "Isaiah declares, 'mine eyes have seen the king, the

lord of hosts;' _but_, considering that doubtless the prophet was well

acquainted with the first and second books of Samuel, and that Saul,

David, and Solomon are the three great kings there represented, we

shall easily perceive that by 'seeing the king,' he meant to say that

he saw Uzziah, king of Judah, in the last year of whose reign he had

the vision. As to the phrase 'the lord of hosts,' which seems to refer

to the Almighty, we will consider its meaning by and by:"--but, in

truth, it is difficult to invent a paralogism, in its gratuitous

inconsecutiveness parallel to his own.

We must own, that, with every wish to be fair to this author, we never

recovered from the perplexity of mind which this passage, in the very

threshold of his book, inflicted on us. It needed not the various

passages which follow it in the work, constructed on the same

argumentative model, to prove to us that he was not only an

_incognito_, but an enigma. "Ergo" is the symbol of the logician--what

science does a writer profess, whose symbols, profusely scattered

through his pages, are "probably," "it must be," "doubtless," "on the

hypothesis," "we may suppose," and "it is natural to think," and that

at the very time that he pointedly discards the comments of school

theologians? Is it possible that he can mean us to set aside the

glosses of all who went {628} before in his own favor, and to exchange

our old lamps for his new ones? Men have been at fault, when trying to

determine whether he was an orthodox believer on his road to

liberalism, or a liberal on his road to orthodoxy: this doubtless may

be to some a perplexity; but our own difficulty is, whether he comes

to us as an investigator or a prophet, as one unequal or superior to

the art of reasoning. Undoubtedly, he is an able man; but what can he

possibly mean by startling us with such eccentricities of

argumentation as are familiar with him? Addison somewhere bids his

readers bear in mind, that if he is ever especially dull, he always

has a special reason for being so; and it is difficult to reconcile

one's imagination to the supposition that this anonymous writer, with

so much deep thought as he certainly evidences, has not some recondite

reason for seeming so inconsequent, and does not move by some deep

subterraneous processes of argument, which, if once brought to light,

would clear him of the imputation of castle-building.

There is always a danger of misconceiving an author who has no

antecedents by which we may measure him. Taking his work as it lies,

we can but wish that he had kept his imagination under control; and

that he had more of the hard head of a lawyer and the patience of a

philosopher. He writes like a man who cannot keep from telling the

world his first thoughts, especially if they are clever or graceful;

he has come for the first time upon a strange world, and his remarks

upon it are too obvious to be called original, and too crude to

deserve the name of freshness. What can be more paradoxical than to

interpret our Lord's words to Nicodemus, "Unless a man be born again,"

and of the necessity of external religion, as a lesson to him to

profess his faith openly and not to visit him in secret? (p. 86.) What

can be more pretentious, not to say gaudy and even tawdry, than his

paraphrase of St. John's passage about the woman taken in adultery?

"In his burning embarrassment and confusion," he says, "he stooped

down so as to hide his face. . . . They had a glimpse perhaps of the

glowing blush upon his face, etc." (p. 104.)

We should be very sorry to use a severe word concerning an honest

inquirer after truth, as we believe this anonymous writer to be; and

we will confess that Catholics, kindly as they may wish to feel toward

him, are scarcely even able, from their very position, to give his

work the enthusiastic reception which it has received from some other

critics. The reason is plain; those alone can speak of it from a full

heart, who feel a need, and recognize in it a supply of that need. We

are not in the number of such; for they who have found have no need to

seek. Far be it from us to use language savoring of the leaven of the

Pharisees. We are not assuming a high place, because we thus speak, or

boasting of our security. Catholics are both deeper and shallower than

Protestants; but in neither case have they any call for a treatise

such as this "Ecce Homo." If they live to the world and the flesh,

then the faith which they profess, though it is true and distinct, is

dead; and their certainty about religious truth, however firm and

unclouded, is but shallow in its character, and flippant in its

manifestations. And in proportion, as they are worldly and sensual

will they be flippant and shallow. But their faith is as indelible as

the pigment which colors the skin, even though it is skin-deep. This

class of Catholics is not likely to take interest in a pictorial "Ecce

Homo." On the other hand, where the heart is alive with divine love,

faith is as deep as it is vigorous and joyous; and, as far as

Catholics are in this condition, they will feel no drawing toward a

work which is after all but an arbitrary and unsatisfactory dissection

of the object of their devotion. That individuals in their body maybe

{629} harassed with doubts, particularly in a day like this, we are

not denying; but, viewed as a body, Catholics from their religious

condition, are either too deep or too shallow to suffer from those

elementary difficulties, or that distress of mind, in which serious

Protestants are so often involved.

We confess, then, as Catholics, to some unavoidable absence of cordial

feeling in following the remarks of this author, though not to any

want of real sympathy; and we seem to be justified in our

indisposition by his manifest want of sympathy with us. If we feel

distant toward him, his own language about Catholicity, and (what may

be called) old Christianity, seems to show that that distance is one

of fact, one of mental position, not any fault in ourselves. Is it not

undeniable, that the very life of personal religion among Catholics

lies in a knowledge of the Gospels? It is the character and conduct of

our Lord, his words, his deeds, his sufferings, his work, which are

the very food of our devotion and rule of our life. "Behold the Man,"

which this author feels to be an object novel enough to write a book

about, has been the contemplation of Catholics from that first age

when St. Paul said, "The life that I now live in the flesh, I live in

the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and delivered himself for

me." As the Psalms have ever been the manual of our prayer, so have

the Gospels been the subject-matter of our meditation. In these latter

times especially, since St. Ignatius, they have been divided into

portions, and arranged in a scientific order, not unlike that which

the Psalms have received in the Breviary. To contemplate our Lord in

his person and his history is with us the exercise of every retreat,

and the devotion of every morning. All this is certainly simple matter

of fact; but the writer we are reviewing lives and thinks at so great

distance from us as not to be cognizant of what is so patent and so

notorious a truth. He seems to imagine that the faith of a Catholic is

the mere profession of a formula. He deems it important to disclaim in

the outset of his work all reference to the theology of the church. He

eschews with much preciseness, as something almost profane, the

dogmatism of former ages. He wishes "to trace" our Lord's "biography

from point to point, and accept those conclusions--not which church

doctors or even Apostles have sealed with their authority--but which

the facts themselves, critically weighed, appear to warrant."

(Preface.) Now, what Catholics, what church doctors, as well as

Apostles, have ever lived on, is not any number of theological canons

or decrees, but we repeat, the Christ himself, as he is represented in

concrete existence in the Gospels. Theological determinations about

our Lord are far more of the nature of landmarks or buoys to guide a

discursive mind in its reasonings, than to assist a devotional mind in

its worship. Common-sense, for instance, tell us what is meant by the

words, "My Lord and my God;" and a religious man, upon his knees,

requires no commentator; but against irreligious speculators, Arius or

Nestorius, a denunciation has been passed in ecumenical council, when

"science falsely so-called" encroached upon devotion. Has not this

been insisted on by all dogmatic Christians over and over again? Is it

not a representation as absolutely true as it is trite? We had fancied

that Protestants generally allowed the touching beauty of Catholic

hymns and meditations; and after all is there not that in all Catholic

churches which goes beyond any written devotion, whatever its force or

its pathos? Do we not believe in a presence in the sacred tabernacle,

not as a form of words, or as a notion, but as an object as real as we

are real? And if in that presence we need neither profession of faith

nor even manual of devotion, what appetite can we have for the

teaching of a writer who not only exalts his first thoughts about our

{630} Lord into professional lectures, but implies that the Catholic

Church has never known how to point him out to her children?

It may be objected, that we are making too much of so chance a slight

as his allusion in his preface to "church doctors" involves,

especially as he mentions apostles in connection with them; but it

would be affectation not to recognize in other places of his book an

undercurrent of antagonism to us, of which the passage already quoted

is but a first indication. Of course he has quite as much right as

another to take up an anti-catholic position, if he will; but we

understand him to be putting forth an investigation, not a polemical

argument and if, instead of keeping his eyes directed to his own

proper subject, he looks to the right or left to hit at those who view

it differently from himself, he is damaging the ethical force of a

composition which claims to be, and mainly is, a serious and manly

search after religious truth. Why cannot he let us alone? Of course he

cannot avoid seeing that the lines of his own investigation diverge

from those drawn by others, but he will have enough to do in defending

himself, without making others the object of his attack. He is

virtually opposing Voltaire, Strauss, Renan, Calvin, Wesley, Chalmers,

Erskine, and a host of other writers, but he does not denounce them;

why then does he single out, misrepresent, and anathematize a main

principle of orthodoxy? It is as if he could not keep his hand off us,

when we crossed his path. We are alluding to the following magisterial

passage:

"If he (our Lord) meant anything by his constant denunciation of

hypocrites, there is nothing which he would have visited with

sterner censure than that _short cut to belief_ which many persons

take, when, overwhelmed with the difficulties which beset their

minds, and afraid of damnation, they _suddenly_ resolve to strive no

longer, but, giving their minds a holiday, to rest content with

_saying_ that they believe, and acting as if they did. A melancholy

end of Christianity indeed! Can there be such a disfranchised pauper

class among the citizens of the New Jerusalem?" (p. 79.)

He adds shortly afterward:

"Assuredly, those who represent Christ as presenting to man an

abstruse theology, and saying to them peremptorily, 'believe or be

damned,' have the coarsest conception of the Saviour of the world,"

(p. 80.)

Thus he delivers himself; "Believe or be damned is so detestable a

doctrine, that if any man denies it is detestable, I pronounce him to

be a hypocrite; to be without any true knowledge of the Saviour of the

world; to be the object of his sternest censure; and to have no part

or place in the holy city, the New Jerusalem, the eternal heaven

above." Pretty well for a virtuous hater of dogmatism! We hope we

shall show less dictatorial arrogance than his, in the answer which we

intend to make to him.

Whether there are persons such as he describes, Catholic or

Protestants, converts to Catholicism or not--men who profess a faith

which they do not believe, under the notion that they shall be

eternally damned if they do not profess it without believing--we

really do not know--we never met with such; but since facts do not

concern us here so much as principles, let us, for argument's sake,

grant that there are. Our author believes they are not only "many,"

but enough to form a "class;" and he considers that they act in this

preposterous manner under the sanction, and in accordance with the

teaching, of the religious bodies to which they belong. Especially

there is a marked allusion in his words to the Athanasian creed and

the Catholic Church. Now we answer him thus:

Part of his charge against the teachers of dogma is, that they impose

on men as a duty, instead of believing, to "act as if they did"

believe; now in fact this is the very {631} kind of profession which,

if it is all that a candidate has to offer, absolutely shuts him out

from admission into Catholic communion. We suppose, that by belief of

a thing, this writer understands an inward conviction of its truth;

this being supposed, we plainly say that no priest is at liberty to

receive a man into the church, who has not a real internal belief, and

cannot say from his heart, that the things taught by the church are

true. On the other hand, as we have said above, it is the very

characteristic of the profession of faith made by numbers of educated

Protestants, and it is the utmost extent to which they are able to go

in believing, to hold, not that Christian doctrine is certainly true,

but that it has such a semblance of truth, it has such considerable

marks of probability upon it, that it is their duty to accept and to

act upon it as if it were true beyond all question or doubt: and they

justify themselves, and with much reason, by the authority of Bishop

Butler. Undoubtedly, a religious man will be led to go as far as this,

if he cannot go further; but unless he can go farther, he is no

catechumen of the Catholic Church. We wish all men to believe that her

creed is true; but till they do so believe, we do not wish, we have no

permission, to make them her members. Such a faith as this author

speaks of to condemn--(our books call it "_practical_ certainty")--

does not rise to the level of the _sine quâ non_, which is the

condition prescribed for becoming a Catholic. Unless a convert so

believes that he can sincerely say, "after all, in spite of all

difficulties, objections, obscurities, mysteries, the creed of the

Church undoubtedly comes from God, and is true, because he is the

truth," such a man, though he be outwardly received into her fold,

will receive no grace from the sacraments, no sanctification in

baptism, no pardon in penance, no life in communion. We are more

consistently dogmatic than this author imagines; we do not enforce a

principle by halves; if our doctrine is true, it must be received as

such; if a man cannot so receive it, he must wait till he can. It

would be better, indeed, if he now believed; but, since he does not as

yet, to wait is the best he can do under the circumstances. If we said

anything else than this, certainly we should be, as the author thinks

we are, encouraging hypocrisy. Nor let him turn round on us and say

that by thus proceeding we are laying a burden on souls, and blocking

up the entrance into that fold which was intended for all men, by

imposing hard conditions on candidates for admission; for we have

already implied a great principle, which is an answer to this

objection, which the gospels exhibit and sanction, but which he

absolutely ignores.

Let us avail ourselves of his quotation. The Baptist said, "Behold the

Lamb of God." Again he says, "This is the Son of God." "Two of his

disciples heard him speak, and they followed Jesus." They believed

John to be "a man sent from God" to teach them, and therefore they

believed his word to be true. We suppose it was not hypocrisy in them

to believe in his word; rather they would have been guilty of gross

inconsistency or hypocrisy, had they professed to believe that he was

a divine messenger and yet had refused to take his word concerning the

Stranger whom he pointed out to their veneration. It would have been

"saying that they believed," and _not_ "acting as if they did;" which

at least is not better than saying and acting. Now, was not the

announcement which John made to them "a short cut to belief"? and what

the harm of it? They believed that our Lord was the promised prophet,

without making direct inquiry about him, without a new inquiry, on the

ground of a previous inquiry into the claims of John himself to be

accounted a messenger from God. They had already accepted it as truth

that John was a prophet; but again, what a prophet said must be true;

{632} else he would not be a prophet; now, John said that our Lord was

the Lamb of God; this, then, certainly was a sacred truth.

Now it might happen, that they knew exactly and for certain what the

Baptist meant in calling our Lord "a Iamb;" in that case they would

believe him to be that which they knew the figurative word meant, as

used by the Baptist. But, as our author reminds us, the word has

different senses; and, though the Baptist explained his own sense of

it on the first occasion of using it, by adding, "that taketh away the

sin of the world," yet when he spoke to the two disciples he did not

thus explain it. Now let us suppose that they went off, taking the

word each in his own sense, the one understanding by it a sacrificial

lamb, the other a lamb of the fold; and let us suppose that, as they

were on the way to our Lord's home, they discovered this difference in

their several interpretations, and disputed with each other which was

the right interpretation. It is clear that they would agree so far as

this, namely, that, in saying that the proposition was true, they

meant that it was true in that sense in which the Baptist spoke it;

moreover, if it be worth noticing, they did after all even agree, in

some vague way, about the meaning of the word, understanding that it

denoted some high character, or office, or ministry. Any how, it was

absolutely true, they would say, that our Lord was a lamb, whatever it

meant; the word conveyed a great and momentous fact, and if they did

not know what that fact was, the Baptist did, and they would accept it

in its one right sense, as soon as he or our Lord told them what it

was.

Again, as to that other title which the Baptist gave our Lord, "the

Son of God," it admitted of half a dozen senses. Wisdom was "the only

begotten;" the angels were the sons of God; Adam was a son of God; the

descendants of Seth were sons of God; Solomon was a son of God; and so

is "the just man." In which of these senses, or in what sense, was our

Lord the Son of God? St. Peter knew, but there were those who did not

know--the centurion who attended the crucifixion did not know, and

yet he confessed that our Lord was the Son of God. He knew that our

Lord had been condemned by the Jews for calling himself the Son of

God, and therefore he cried out, on seeing the miracles which attended

his death, "indeed this _was_ the Son of God." His words evidently

imply: "I do not know precisely what he meant by so calling himself;

but what he said he was, that he is; whatever he meant, I believe him;

I believe that his word about himself is true, though I cannot prove

it to be so, though I do not even understand it; I believe his word,

for I believe _him_."

Now to return to the passage which has led to these remarks. Our

author says that certain persons are hypocrites, because they "take a

short cut to belief, suddenly resolving to strive no longer, but to

rest content with saying they believe." Does he mean by "a short cut,"

believing on the word of another? As far as our experience goes of

religious changes in individuals, he can mean nothing else; yet how

_can_ he mean this with the gospels before him? He cannot mean it,

because the very staple of the sacred narrative is a call on all men

to believe what is not proved to them, merely on the warrant of divine

messengers; because the very form of our Lord's teaching is to

substitute authority for inquiry; because the very principle of his

grave earnestness, the very key to his regenerative mission, is the

intimate connection of faith with salvation. Faith is not simply trust

in his legislation, as this writer says; it is definitely trust in his

word, whether that word be about heavenly things or earthly; whether

it is spoken by his own mouth, or through his ministers. The angel who

announced the Baptist's birth said, "Thou shalt be dumb because thou

believest not my words." The {633} Baptist's mother said of Mary,

"Blessed is she that believed." The Baptist himself said, "He that

believeth on the Son hath everlasting life; and he that believeth not

the Son shall not see life, but the wrath of God abideth on him." Our

Lord, in turn, said to Nicodemus, "We speak that we do know, and ye

receive not our witness; he that believeth not is condemned already,

because he hath not believed in the name of the only-begotten Son of

God." To the Jews, "He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that

sent me, shall not come into condemnation." To the Capharnaites, "he

that believeth on me hath everlasting life." To St Thomas, "Blessed

are they that have not seen and yet have believed." And to the

apostles, "Preach the gospel to every creature; he that believeth not

shall be damned." How is it possible to deny that our Lord, both in

the text and in the context of these and other passages, made faith in

a message, on the warrant of the messenger, to be a condition of

salvation; and enforced it by the great grant of power which he

emphatically conferred on his representatives? "Whosoever shall not

receive you," he says, "nor hear your words, when ye depart, shake off

the dust of your feet." "It is not ye that speak, but the spirit of

your Father." "He that heareth you, heareth me; he that despiseth you,

despiseth me; and he that despiseth me, despiseth him that sent me."

"I pray for them that shall believe on me through their word." "Whose

sins ye remit they are remitted unto them; and whose sins ye retain,

they are retained." "Whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound

in heaven." "I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven;

and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and

whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven." These

characteristic and critical announcements have no place in this

author's gospel; and let it be understood, that we are not asking why

he does not determine the exact doctrines contained in them--for that

is a question which he has reserved (if we understand him) for a

future volume--but why he does not recognize the principle they

involve--for that is a matter which falls within his present subject.

It is not well to exhibit some sides of Christianity, and not others;

this we think is the main fault of the author we have been reviewing.

It does not pay to be ecclectic in so serious a matter of fact. He

does not overlook, he boldly confesses that a visible organized church

was a main part of our Lord's plan for the regeneration of mankind.

"As with Socrates," he says, "argument is every thing, and personal

authority nothing; so with Christ personal authority is all in all and

argument altogether unemployed," (p. 94.) Our Lord rested his

teaching, not on the concurrence and testimony of his hearers, but on

his own authority. He imposed upon them the declarations of a divine

voice. Why does this author stop short in the delineation of

principles which he has so admirably begun? Why does he denounce

"short cuts," as a mental disfranchisement, when no cut can be shorter

than to "believe and be saved"? Why does he denounce religious fear as

hypocritical, when it is written, "He that believeth not shall be

damned"? Why does he call it dishonest in a man to sacrifice his own

judgment to the word of God, when, unless he did so, he would be

avowing that the Creator knew less than the creature? Let him

recollect that no two thinkers, philosophers, writers, ever did, ever

will, agree in all things with each other. No system of opinions, ever

given to the world, approved itself in all its parts to the reason of

any one individual by whom it was mastered. No revelation is

conceivable, but involves, almost in its very idea, as being something

new, a collision with the human intellect, and demands, accordingly,

if it is to be accepted, a sacrifice of private judgment. {634} If a

revelation be necessary, then also in consequence is that sacrifice

necessary. One man will have to make a sacrifice in one respect,

another in another, all men in some. We say, then, to men of the day,

take Christianity, or leave it; do not practise upon it; to do so is

as unphilosophical as it is dangerous. Do not attempt to halve a

spiritual unit. You are apt to call it a dishonesty in us to refuse to

follow out our reasonings, when faith stands in the way; is there no

intellectual dishonesty in your own conduct? First, your very

accusation of us is dishonest; for you keep in the back-ground the

circumstance, of which you are well aware, that such a refusal on our

part is the necessary consequence of our accepting an authoritative

revelation; and next you profess to accept that revelation yourselves,

while you dishonestly pick and choose, and take as much or as little

of it as you please. You either accept Christianity or you do not: if

you do, do not garble and patch it; if you do not, suffer others to

submit to it as a whole.

------

[ORIGINAL.]

HOLY SATURDAY.

Through that Jewish Sabbath day,

Through our Holy Saturday,

Thus he lay:

In his linen winding-sheet,

Wrapped in myrrh and spices sweet,

Angels at his head and feet;

Angels, duteous alway,

Watched the wondrous beauteous clay

As he lay.

Through that Jewish Sabbath day,

Through our Holy Saturday.

Thus he lay

And our mother Church this day

Doth with solemn Office keep

That strange day's mysterious sleep;

Her "Exultet" breaks the sadness

With triumphant strains of gladness;

Paschal hope presaging morn,

As in east just streaks the dawn;

Darkest night ere brightest day;

Such is Holy Saturday.

------

{635}

Translated from the Études Religieuses,

Historiques et Littéraires.

EAST-INDIAN WEDDINGS.

LETTER FROM FATHER GUCHEN OF THE MADURA MISSION.

A very days ago I blessed a marriage in which great pomp was

displayed, and I will describe the festival to you, that you may have

an idea of what takes place on such occasions, for the same ceremonial

is always scrupulously observed. Indeed, every action of an Indian's

life from the cradle to the grave is irrevocably ordered by custom.

The solemnity I am speaking of now is called here, "a grand marriage."

My Christians are generally too poor to have to do with any but

"little marriages," which are performed very quietly, though with some

attendant circumstances that perhaps deserve a slight notice.