صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

Christ began. To deliver to them, under such circumstances, another Sermon on the Mount, would have been a proceeding entirely false to that human nature which was ever surpassed but never contradicted by Jesus of Nazareth; and what is unquestionably true of the discussions which begin, and of the wonderful and affecting intercourse which closes this Gospel, has also, so far as we are able to judge, every appearance of being applicable to the intervening portions. It is not the outdoor crowd which can do nothing but listen, but the groups in the porches of the synagogues, on the steps of the Temple, curious and hostile, laying traps for the speaker, whom we perceive dimly through John's narrative; and the distinction is natural enough, and easy to understand. But the question is one which demands larger space and fuller treatment. It is to John we owe the narrative, unequalled in human literature, of these last communings with His chosen friends, which are to most Christian souls the most profoundly affecting part of the history of Christ. His is the story of that last mortal meal, where, as yet unassailed and uncondemned, the Redeemer sat among His followers with the prescience of death in His eyes, addressing to them those counsels and those promises of which it was hard for them to see the occasion; while they, alarmed and dismayed and awe-stricken, asked bewildered questions, and knew not what they said. The other day we went with reverence to see the remains of the great picture in which this subject has been represented by one of the greatest of painters, and which, to our eyes, looked more impressive under its film of decay and partial destruction than had it been as fresh and perfect as at first. But John is unspeakably a greater artist than Leonardo. With him there is no conventional grouping-no arbitrary attitudes. The awe and perplexity of the sad group, the expla

nations they seek in each other's eyes, the baffling veil of incapacity which bewilders their human comprehension of the Divine Sufferer, and makes even sympathy and love fall short in the effort, are such as no imagination ever gave form to. The difference between the painter and the evangelist, reminds us of a still greater difference in the comparison of Christ with Socrates, which is so much in favour with critics. Nothing could be more striking than the contrast between the last act of our Lord's life and the scene in the Athenian prison, where the philosopher accepts his doom while discussing general principles with his friends, and receives death with a certain indifference which is not even destitute of humour, treating his judges and executioners with a sober and tolerant contempt which is altogether human, and has not a spark of divinity in it. They have done their worst, poor creatures as they are; and now let us talk of more interesting matters. Such is the sentiment of the scene in which one of the very greatest of merely human personages is the chief actor, and which is told by lips no less skilful than those of Plato. So far as literary power goes, the evangelist had little chance with the philosopher; and it would be hard to explain, even by M. Rénan's learned commission of mission of "physiologists, physicians, chemists, and persons trained in historical criticism," how the simple apostle has so infinitely transcended the great Italian and the greater Greek. Such a miracle is harder to account for than even restoration from the dead.

This is not a place to enter into any discussion of that which we, in common with all Christians, regard as the most awful event ever consummated in this world; but we cannot refrain from making one final extract from Dr Tulloch's valuable little book, in which he sets forth, with what seems to us a fine originality as well as unquestionable

force and eloquence, one remarkable point of difference between the death of Christ and those of all the human martyrs and victims of popular ignorance or rage, with which the sceptical critic would fain confound it:

[ocr errors]

"The modern theory of Christ's character by those who deny His divinity, is that of a great religious hero and martyr; one who died to vindicate human liberty and the right of spiritual intelligence against the oppression of priesteraft, and the servilities of a god. less material power. This is so far the view of our author. In the closing period of His career Christ is to him something of such a hero and martyr. But he is conscious also how imperfectly such a character fits Christ, and especially the Christ of the Passion. And what a story is that! What a picture of infinite mysterious sorrow-of shadow deeper than all other shadow that has ever lain on our earth! as Jesus with drew from His disciples about a stone's cast, and fell on His face and prayed, saying, 'Father, if it be possible let this cup pass from me.' But is this the characteristic spirit of the hero and martyr? Do we feel, as we read the story of the Passion, that we are contemplating merely the struggles of a great human soul? Is that agony and bloody sweat, that cry of impassioned mystery, that weakness and shrinking as from death, and, finally, that horror of great darkness as He hung upon the cross, and felt that God had forsaken Him-is all this of the nature of heroic martyrdom? Is it not something entirely different from the steadfast rejoicing willingness of a Paul-'I am ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand;' from the blind headlong rapture of an Ignatius, 'Suffer me to be the food of wild beasts-do not intercede for me. Fire and the cross, the assaults of wild beasts, the tearing of my limbs, the breaking of my bones, the grinding of my whole body--I welcome them all? Assuredly it is. As we stand in spirit by the side of the sleeping disciples and watch their suffering Lord; as we hear Him cry from the cross, My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?' we feel we are entering into the communion of a deeper and more mysterious sorrow than the world has ever known-a sorrow which is not weakness--a sorrow in which no notes of mere martyr

triumph mingle, which no gleam of rejoicing heroism illumines, but which becomes bright with an awful meaning, then, and only then, when we recognise for the sins of the world, the offering in it the reality of a Divine Sacrifice of Him who, though He knew no sin, was made sin for us, that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him.'"

It is difficult to go on after a conclusion so solemn; but we may permit ourselves to say, by way of winding up, that the alarm which is created in the Church by the appearance and sudden popularity of such a work as that of M. Rénan, is, though perhaps natural enough, an unreasonable panic. It is not only its ephemeral character which makes the impression produced unimportant; it is a much deeper and more radical incapacity. The school of thinkers to which M. Rénan belongs, and to which also belong some very eminent minds among ourselves, is entirely destructive in a religious point of view. It has nothing whatever to substitute for the hopes and consolations it takes from us. But there are a few, and only a very few, minds in this world which are so self-contained and selfsufficing as to be able to do without these consolations and hopes. To many of us life is so hard that it is the most we can do "to use," as says the special poet of our generation, "a little patience ere we die" -to most, some little light upon the darkness of the hereafter, some possibility of a life more worth living than this, is a primitive necessity of existence. The multitude have never been affected by the winds of doctrine which blow about the higher altitudes of intellect; and by the multitude we mean, not the poor, but the broad, general mass of common people-people of natural sympaties, warm affections, and active lives, who can no more spend their time in discussion than in any other unprofitable pastime. Let the savants take care of themselves. We cannot tell what may be the case in France among the

poor, to whom M. Rénan, with an adroit adaptation which agrees but poorly with the dignity of his philosophy, has sent his book wrapped in a flattering preface; but notwithstanding chance infections, which may ruffle the composure of here and there a parish priest, any general effect in England is impossible. Christianity itself does not undertake to satisfy all the questions of the wistful spirit, but there is nothing else which makes any response at all out of the awful darkness in which, one time or other, every living soul loses some precious thing. The intellectual classes are, as we have said, limited in number, and presumably able to take care of themselves; and to persons consciously self-sufficing our argument may not seem a lofty one. But we are persuaded it is true. Mere scepticism attempting only to deprive us of our hopes will never reach the popular heart. "Consider the horizon," says M. Rénan, addressing the poor; "there rise the tints of the dawn, deliverance by means of resignation, labour, liberality, reciprocal support deliverance by means of science, which, penetrating the laws of humanity, and more

and more subduing matter, will found the dignity and the true liberty of all men. Let us prepare, each by doing his duty, this paradise of the future." Such a paradise does not accord with English imaginations; but even were it attained-had science done her best, sanitary and otherwise, and "reciprocal support" been realised in its highest ideal, the most intimate and profound of human miseries would still remain to be somehow provided for. People would still die, and hearts still break, and even the much-contemned priest would convey more consolation than M. Rénan. In England we are rather fond of taking fright upon this subject, and conceiving danger to the religion of the people where no danger exists. That is founded upon more imperative necessities, and wants that go deeper down. It is good that the Church should meet frankly and boldly all her assailants; but she may at the same time take comfort in reflecting that the vast mass of her members are human creatures, and that no amount of eloquence is likely to convince them, instead of bread, to accept a stone.

TONY BUTLER.

PART XIII.

CHAPTER XLV.-A SHOCK FOR TONY.

IF Tony Butler took no note of time as he sat at breakfast with Sir Joseph, he was only sharing the fortune of every man who ever found himself in that companionship. From one end of Europe to the other his equal could not be found. It was not alone that he had stores of conversation for the highest capacities and the most cultivated minds, but he possessed that thorough knowledge of life so interesting to men of the world, and with it that insight into character which is so of ten the key to the mystery of statecraft; and with all these he had a geniality and a winning grace of look, voice, and demeanour that sent one from his presence with the thought that, if the world could but compass a few more like him, one would not change the planet for the brightest in the firmament. Breakfast over, they smoked; then they had a game at billiards; after that they strolled into the garden, and had some pistol-firing. Here Tony acquitted himself creditably, and rose in his host's esteem; for the Minister liked a man who could do anything-no matter what-very well. Tony, too, gained on him. His own fine joyous nature understood at once the high-hearted spirit of a young fellow who had no affectations about him, thoroughly at his ease without presumption; and yet, through that gentleman element so strong in him, never transgressing the limits of a free dom so handsomely accorded him.

While the hours rolled over thus delightfully, a messenger returned to say that he had been at each of the great hotels, but could find no trace of Colonel Chamberlayne, nor of the missing bags.

"Send Moorcap," said the minister.

Moorcap was away two hours, and came back with the same story.

"I suspect how it is," said Tony. "Chamberlayne has been obliged to start suddenly, and has carried off my bags with his own; but when he discovers his mistake, he'll drop them at Naples."

Sir Joseph smiled-perhaps he did not think the explanation very satisfactory; and perhaps - who knows?-but he thought that the loss of a despatch-bag was not amongst the heaviest of human calamities. "At all events," he said, "we'll give you an early dinner, Butler, and you can start by the late train for Genoa, and catch the morning steamer to Naples."

Tony asked no better; and I am afraid to have to confess that he engaged at a game of "pool" with all the zest of one who carried no weighty care on his breast.

When the time for leave-taking came, Sir Joseph shook his hand with cordial warmth, telling him to be sure to dine with him as he came through Turin. "Hang up your hat here, Butler; and if I should be from home, tell them that you are coming to dinner."

Very simple words these. They cost little to him who spoke them, but what a joy and happiness to poor Tony! Oh, ye gentlemen of high place and station, if you but knew how your slightest words of kindness-your two or three syllables of encouragement - give warmth and glow and vigour to many a poor wayfarer on life's highroad, imparting a sense not alone of hope, but of self-esteem, to a nature too distrustful of itself, mayhap you might be less chary of that which, costing you so little, is wealth unspeakable to him it is be

stowed upon. Tony went on his way rejoicing; he left that thresh old, as many others had left it, thinking far better of the world and its people, and, without knowing it, very proud of the notice of one whose favour he felt to be fame. Ah, thought he, if Alice had but heard how that great man spoke to me-if Alice only saw how familiarly he treated me,-it might show her, perhaps, that others at least can see in me some qualities not altogether hopeless.

If now and then some thought of that "unlucky bag"-so he called it to himself-would invade, he dismissed it speedily, with the assurance that it had already safely reached its destination, and that the Colonel and Skeffy had doubtless indulged in many a hearty laugh over his embarrassment at its loss. "If they knew but all," muttered he, "I take it very coolly. I'm not breaking my heart over the disaster." And so far he was right-not, however, from the philosophical indifference that he imagined, but simply because he never believed in the calamity, nor had realised it to himself.

When he landed at Naples he drove off at once to the lodgings of his friend Damer, which, though at a considerable height from the ground, in a house of the St Lucca Quarter, he found were dignified with the title of British Legation, a written notice on the door informing all readers that "H. B. M.'s Chargé d'Affaires transacted business from twelve to four every day." It was two o'clock when Tony arrived, and, notwithstanding the aforesaid announcement, he had to ring three times before the door was opened. At length a sleepylooking valet appeared to say that "His Excellency"-he styled him so-was in his bath, and could not be seen in less than an hour. Tony sent in his name, and speedily received for answer that he would find a letter addressed to him in the rack over the chimney, and Mr

VOL. XCVI.-NO. DLXXXVIII.

Damer would be dressed and with him by the time he had read it.

Poor Tony's eyes swam with tears as he saw his mother's handwriting, and he tore open the sheet with hot impatience. It was very short, as were all her letters, and so we give it entire :—

"MY OWN DARLING TONY,-Your beautiful present reached me yesterday, and what shall I say to my poor reckless boy for such an act of extravagance? Surely, Tony, it was made for a queen, and not for a poor widow that sits the day long mending her stockings at the window. But ain't I proud of it, and of him that sent it! Heaven knows what it has cost you, my dear boy, for even the carriage here from London, by the Royal Parcel Company, Limited, came to thirtytwo and fourpence. Why they call themselves Limited after that, is clean beyond my comprehension." If Tony smiled here, it was with a hot and flushed cheek, for he had forgotten to prepay the whole carriage, and he was vexed at his thoughtlessness.

"As to my wearing it going to meeting, as you say, it's quite impossible. The thought of its getting wet would be a snare to take my mind off the blessed words of the minister; and I'm not sure, my dear Tony, that any congregation could sit profitably within sight of what

not knowing the love that sent― would seem like a temptation and a vanity before men. Sables, indeed, real Russian sables, appear a strange covering for these old shoulders.

"It was about two hours after it came that Mrs Trafford called in to see me, and Jeanie would have it that I'd go into the room with my grand new cloak on me; and sure enough I did, Tony, trying all the while not to seem as if it was anything strange or uncommon, but just the sort of wrapper I'd throw round me of a cold morning. But it wouldn't do, my dear Tony. I was half-afraid to sit

2 G

« السابقةمتابعة »