Chapter VIII: An Arrival (5)

When we were informed that Professor Huxley, during his visit to America, was to give a few scientific lectures, we could easily anticipate that from a man of his character nothing was to be expected so likely as a bold effort to exalt science at the expense of religion. The three lectures on the _Evidences of Evolution_, which he delivered in New York on the 18th, 20th, and 22d of September last, are an evident proof that we had guessed right. These lectures, though free from open and formal denunciations of religious faith, are deeply imbued with that spirit of dogmatic unbelief which pervades other works of the same professor, and especially his _Lay Sermons_. His aim is always the same: he uniformly strives to establish what Mr. Draper and other modern thinkers have vainly attempted to prove, that _science conflicts with revelation_; and he labors to impress upon us the notion that _none but the ignorant can believe in revealed truth_. Such is the main object which the professor has had constantly in view since he preached the first of his _Lay Sermons_. A friend of ours, who happened to be in England when this first lay sermon was delivered, disgusted at the arrogance and levity displayed by the lay preacher, hastened to write a short popular refutation of that sermon. This refutation, owing to some unforeseen accident, was brought over to America without being published, and it is now in our hands. Believing, as we do, that, although written some years ago, it is by no means stale, and that its perusal will effectually contribute to expose the gross fallacies of the scientific lecturer, we offer it to our readers as an appropriate introduction to the direct criticism of the lectures themselves, which we intend to give in an early number. The manuscript in question reads as follows:

The _Fortnightly Review_ (Jan. 15, 1866) has published “A Lay Sermon delivered at St. Martin’s Hall on Sunday, January 7, 1866, ON THE ADVISABLENESS OF IMPROVING NATURAL KNOWLEDGE, _by Prof. T. H. Huxley_.” The lay preacher thinks that the improvement of natural knowledge, besides giving us the means of avoiding pestilences, extinguishing fires, and providing modern society with material comfort, has produced two other wonderful effects: “I say that natural knowledge, seeking to satisfy natural wants, has found the ideas that can alone still spiritual cravings”――this is the first. “I say that natural knowledge, in desiring to ascertain the laws of comfort, has been driven to discover those of conduct, and to lay the foundation of a new morality”――this is the second. Though Mr. Huxley is a great professor, or rather because he is a great professor, we make bold to offer him a few remarks on the subject which he has chosen, and especially on the manner in which he has treated it. The reader, of course, will understand that when we speak of Mr. Huxley we mean to speak, not of the man, but of the preacher.

That natural knowledge is a good thing, and its improvement an advisable thing, is universally admitted and requires no proof. Hence we might ask: What is the good of a _lay sermon on the advisableness of improving natural knowledge_? Does any man in his senses make sermons on the advisableness of improving one’s purse, or health, or condition? A student of rhetoric would of course take up any unprofitable subject as a suitable ground for amplification or declamation; but a professor cannot, in our opinion, have had this aim in view in a lay sermon delivered at St. Martin’s Hall. Had Mr. Huxley been under the impression that natural knowledge is nowadays, for some reason or other, in a deplorable state, every one would have seen the advisableness of remedying the evil, if shown to be real. Had he proved in his sermon that natural knowledge nowadays is superficial, sophistical, or incoherent with other known truths, the opportunity of talking about the advisableness of improving it would have struck every eye and stirred every soul. But this was not the case. Natural knowledge is assumed by the lay preacher to be in a splendid and glorious state; our scientific men are accounted great men, our conquests in science admirable, and our uninterrupted progress unquestionable.

“Our ‘mathematick,’” says he, “is one which Newton would have
to go to school to learn; our ’staticks, mechanicks,
magneticks, chymicks, and natural experiments, constitute a
mass of physical and chemical knowledge, a glimpse at which
would compensate Galileo for the doings of a score of
inquisitorial cardinals; our ‘physick’ and ‘anatomy’ have
embraced such infinite varieties of being, have laid open
such new worlds in time and space, have grappled, not
unsuccessfully, with such complex problems, that the eyes of
Vesalius and of Harvey might be dazzled by the sight of the
tree that has grown out of their grain of mustard-seed” (pp.
628, 629).

Such being the state of things, we might have expected a sermon _on the means of diffusing and promoting natural knowledge_; but a sermon laying stress on such a triviality as _the advisableness of improving natural knowledge_, when natural knowledge is quite flourishing and dazzling, seems to us to have no object at all. Unfortunately, the lay preacher did not see that it was a triviality, or, if he saw that it was, thought that his own way of dealing with it was so new and untrivial that the merit of his novel conceptions would redeem the triviality of the subject. Let us see, then, what such novel conceptions are.

That natural knowledge may help us to keep back pestilences and to extinguish fires is not a discovery of the lay preacher; we all knew it. His first discovery is that pestilences are not punishments of God, and that fires have little to do with human malice.

“Our forefathers had their own ways of accounting for each
of these calamities. They submitted to the plague in
humility and in penitence, for they believed it to be the
judgment of God. But towards the fire they were furiously
indignant, interpreting it as the effect of the malice of
man, as the work of the republicans or of the Papists,
according as their prepossessions ran in favor of loyalty or
of Puritanism. It would, I fancy, have fared but ill with
one who, standing where I now stand, in what was then a
thickly-peopled and fashionable part of London, should have
broached to our ancestors the doctrine which I now propound
to you――that all their hypotheses were alike wrong; that the
plague was no more, in their sense, a divine judgment than
the fire was the work of any political or of any religious
sect; but that they were themselves the authors of both
plague and fire, and that they must look to themselves to
prevent the recurrence of calamities to all appearance so
peculiarly beyond the reach of human control――so evidently
the result of the wrath of God or of the craft and subtlety
of an enemy” (pp. 626, 627).

We think that natural knowledge will not be much improved by this Huxleyan discovery. God’s existence and providence are notoriously a most substantial part of natural knowledge; so the relegation of Deity out of the world, and the suppression of his providence over it, is no less a crime against science than against God himself, and shows no less ignorance than impiety. We cannot admit that pestilences “will _only_ take up their abode among those who have prepared unswept and ungarnished residences for them,” nor that “their cities _must_ have narrow, unwatered streets, foul with accumulated garbage,” nor that “their houses _must_ be ill-drained, ill-lighted, ill-ventilated,” nor that “their subjects _must_ be ill-washed, ill-fed, ill-clothed” (p. 630). Our reasons for denying such conclusions are many. To cite one only――of which we think that Mr. Huxley will not fail to appreciate the value――we read in one of the most authentic historical books the following:

“The word of the Lord came to Gad the prophet and the seer
of David, saying: Go, and say to David: Thus saith the Lord:
I give thee the choice of three things: choose one of them
which thou wilt, that I may do it to thee. And when Gad was
come to David, he told him, saying: Either seven years of
famine shall come to thee in thy land: or thou shalt flee
three months before thy adversaries: or for three days there
shall be a pestilence in thy land. Now therefore deliberate,
and see what answer I shall return to him that sent me. And
David said to Gad: I am in a great strait: but it is better
that I should fall into the hands of the Lord (for his
mercies are many) than into the hands of men. _And the Lord
sent a pestilence upon Israel_, from the morning unto the
time appointed, and there died of the people from Dan to
Bersabee seventy thousand men. And when the angel of the
Lord had stretched out his hand over Jerusalem to destroy
it, the Lord had pity on the affliction, and said to the
angel that slew the people: _It is enough: now hold thy
hand_” (2 Kings xxiv.)

This fact is as historical as the London plague; nor is it the only one that could be adduced. Hence we are at a loss to understand how natural knowledge can be _improved_ by a theory which is annihilated by the most positive facts.

The next discovery of the lay preacher is no less remarkable: “I say that natural knowledge, seeking to satisfy natural wants, has found the ideas which can alone still spiritual cravings” (p. 632). What great ideas has natural knowledge introduced into men’s minds? 1st. That the earth is but an atom among atoms, whirling no man knows whither, through illimitable space (p. 634); 2d, that what we call the peaceful heaven above us is but that space, filled by an infinitely subtle matter, whose particles are seething and surging like the waves of an angry sea (_ibid._); 3d, that there are infinite regions where nothing is known, or ever seems to have been known, but matter and force (_ibid._); 4th, that phenomena must have had a beginning, and must have an end; but their beginning is, to our conception of time, infinitely remote, and their end is as immeasurably distant (_ibid._); 5th, that all matter has weight, and that the force which produces weight is co-extensive with the universe (_ibid._); 6th, that matter is indestructible (p. 635); 7th, that force is indestructible (_ibid._); 8th, that everywhere we find definite order and succession of events, which seem never to be infringed (_ibid._); 9th, that man is not the centre of the living world, but one amidst endless modifications of life (_ibid._); 10th, that the ancient forms of existence peopling the world for ages, in relation to human experience, are infinite (_ibid._); 11th, that life depends for its manifestation on particular molecular arrangements or any physical or chemical phenomenon (_ibid._); 12th, that “the theology of the present has become more scientific than that of the past; because it has not only renounced idols of wood and idols of stone, but begins to see the necessity of breaking into pieces the idols built up of books and traditions and fine-spun ecclesiastical cobwebs, and of cherishing the noblest and most human of man’s emotions by worship, ‘for the most part of the silent sort,’ at the altar of the Unknown and Unknowable” (p. 636).

It appears that Mr. Huxley assumes that these ideas have been of late “implanted in our minds by the improvement of natural knowledge,” that they suffice to “still spiritual cravings,” and that they alone suffice, as “they alone _can_ still spiritual cravings.” Now, the indestructibility of matter is not a new idea implanted in men’s minds by modern science. The ancient and the mediæval philosophers knew it as well as Mr. Huxley, and, if we may be allowed to state a simple truth, even better, as they could give a very good reason of the fact――a thing which would probably puzzle those great men who despise “the products of mediæval thought,” and dedicate themselves exclusively to the acquirement of the so-called “new philosophy.” That life depends for its manifestation on particular molecular arrangements is, in substance, an old story, as physicists and philosophers of all times taught that not only the manifestation, but also the very existence, of life in the body required a particular organization of matter; so that, to judge by this test, the improvement of knowledge would here consist in the suppression of the soul――that is, in a mutilation of knowledge. That phenomena must have had a beginning is an axiom as old as the world, though some pagan philosophers denied it; and that phenomena must have an end is but an assumption which modern men have hitherto failed to prove. But let this pass.

What a refreshing thought for “stilling spiritual cravings” to know that phenomena must have had a beginning and must have an end! What a consoling idea to think that the earth is but an atom among atoms, whirling no man knows whither! What a subject of delicious contemplation――the infinite regions, where nothing is known but matter and force! And then what a happiness to know that what we call “heaven” is but space filled by an infinitely subtle matter; to know that all matter has weight; to be certain that all matter is indestructible! At such thoughts, surely, the heart of man must wax warm, and spiritual cravings be stilled! Is not this a very strange discovery?

With regard to the idea that “man is not the centre of the living world, but one amid endless modifications of life,” we must confess our ignorance. We thought that such a view had been ere now peremptorily condemned as absurd by all competent men. But if Mr. Huxley, in a future lay sermon, is able to show that natural knowledge obliges him to reckon crabs, monkeys, and gorillas among his own ancestors, we do not see how much “our spiritual cravings” will be gratified at the thought of such a noble origin. In any case, we shall leave to Mr. Huxley the privilege of enjoying personally all the glory of a bestial genealogy.

And now we must say a word on “the theology of the present, which has become more scientific than that of the past.” The improvement of knowledge, according to our lay preacher, led theology first to renounce the idols of wood and the idols of stone. Very good; yet we may observe that such an improvement of knowledge had its origin in divine revelation, not in experimental science, and that the sect which now preaches the progress of natural knowledge has had no part in breaking the idols either of wood or stone. Then the improvement of knowledge must lead theology to break into pieces――What? “Books, traditions, fine-spun ecclesiastical cobwebs”! And men――that is, Mr. Huxley’s friends――“begin to see the necessity” of breaking all such things. This is but natural. As the outlaw detests the police and the army, and “begins to see the necessity” of breaking both into pieces, so these lovers of matter detest books and traditions on higher subjects, and their “spiritual (!) cravings” cannot be stilled unless they break traditions and books into pieces. At this we do not wonder; but as for “ecclesiastical cobwebs,” what are they? Does Mr. Huxley know any cobwebs but his own――and those, too, not very “fine-spun?”

Next comes “the worship, ‘for the most part of the silent sort,’ at the altar of the Unknown and Unknowable.” This is the last degree of the climax; and this gives us the measure both of the “new philosophy,” and of the acute mind of the lay preacher. Our “spiritual cravings” cannot be stilled until we have done away with that portion of knowledge which concerns our Lord and Creator. Our scientific Titans do not want a Master and a Judge. The improvement of knowledge must lead us back to the time when a few fools worshipped at the altar of an unknown God; and, since the absurdity of this pretension had not the merit of being modern, it became necessary to show the high degree of ignorance which may be united with the _improved_ natural knowledge by proclaiming that the noblest and most human of man’s emotions is cherished by a worship which is a moral, not to say physical, impossibility.

We have now reached the bottom of the “new philosophy”; we are edified about the _improvement_ of natural knowledge; we know what is aimed at in the lay sermons on the _advisableness_ of improving natural knowledge; and we thank Mr. Huxley, not without a deep sense of melancholy, for his open profession of infidelity, which will very likely make harmless all lay sermons which he may venture to preach henceforward. At one thing only we are astonished; that is, that the champion of such a cause――a professor――has not been able to deal with his subject except by a strain of whimsical assertions. Is it necessary for us to teach a professor that mere assertions are good for nothing in science? A professor like Mr. Huxley should have understood that, in the case of new theories, the absence of proof makes men suspect the intellectual poverty of the orator. Still, the fact remains: the lay-preacher asserted much, and proved nothing. The only excuse which we think he can offer may be that a layman has no special vocation and no special grace for preaching; or, perhaps, that _nemo dat quod non habet_; or, lastly, that the _improvement_ of natural knowledge is in no need of proof, the assertion of any professor being considered as a sufficient demonstration. And this leads us to the third of Mr. Huxley’s discoveries.

Let us hear him. He asks: “What are among the moral convictions most fondly held by barbarous and semi-barbarous people?” And he answers:

“They are the convictions that authority is the soundest
basis of belief; that merit attaches to a readiness to
believe; that the doubting disposition is a bad one, and
scepticism a sin; that when good authority has pronounced
what is to be believed, and faith has accepted it, reason
has no further duty. There are many excellent persons who
yet hold by these principles, and it is not my present
business or intention to discuss their views. All I wish to
bring clearly before your minds is the unquestionable fact
that the improvement of natural knowledge is effected by
methods which directly give the lie to all these
convictions, and assume the exact reverse of each to be
true.”

Then he adds:

“The improver of natural knowledge absolutely refuses to
acknowledge authority as such. For him, scepticism is the
highest of duties, blind faith the one unpardonable sin. And
it cannot be otherwise; for every great advance in natural
knowledge has involved the absolute rejection of authority,
the cherishing of the keenest scepticism, the annihilation
of the spirit of blind faith; and the most ardent votary of
science holds his firmest convictions, not because the men
he most venerates hold them, not because their verity is
testified by portents and wonders, but because his
experience teaches him that, whenever he chooses to bring
these convictions into contact with their primary source,
nature――whenever he thinks fit to test them by appealing to
experiment and observation――nature will confirm them. The
man of science has learned to believe in justification, not
by faith, but by verification” (pp. 636, 637).

This language is undoubtedly clear, and its meaning unmistakable. All Englishmen who have any disposition to believe on good authority, from Queen Victoria down to the meanest of her subjects, are to be ranked among barbarians or semi-barbarians. And as Mr. John Stuart Mill has already decided, in his high wisdom, that barbarians can be justly compelled (for their own good, of course) to bear the yoke of a tyrant, we can, by a genial union of the views of these two great men, substantiate the result of their combined teaching. “Barbarians, for their own good, can be subjected to tyranny”――this is the major proposition drawn from Mr. Mill. “But Englishmen who respect authority and believe are but barbarians”――this is the minor of Mr. Huxley. The consequence is brutal but evident, and gives us the measure of the liberality of a certain class of liberals. Fortunately, Prof. Huxley is a very amiable man, and perhaps he does not hold without limitation the aforesaid principle of his philosophical friend. He even condescends to declare that “there are many excellent persons who yet hold those convictions of barbarous people,” and says that “it is not his present business or intention to discuss their views.” Still, we are sorry that these “excellent persons” are condemned without a hearing; and as for discussion, our impression is that Mr. Huxley is much afraid of it, at least “for the present.” We should prefer that our views were discussed before we are insulted on account of them. Who knows whether the issue of such a discussion would not show that the true barbarians, after all, are those very worshippers of “scepticism” or of the “Unknown” and of the “Unknowable”?

But let us abstain from retaliation; we are barbarians, and our word is worth nothing as long as we continue to hold that “authority is the soundest basis of belief.” And yet we fancy that the London plague could only be believed because the authority of a great number of eye-witnesses was the soundest basis of belief. Mr. Huxley will say that we are mistaken, as “the improver of natural knowledge _absolutely refuses_ to acknowledge authority as such”; but he has forgotten to tell us on what grounds he himself believes the London plague. Is it perchance because “his experience teaches him that, whenever he chooses to bring his convictions into contact with their primary source, nature――whenever he thinks fit to test them by appealing to experiment and observation――nature will confirm them”? We are exceedingly anxious to know the truth. Will the lay preacher, who is so kind, enlighten us by a clear answer?

We have just said that a little discussion would very likely show that Mr. Huxley’s remarks apply to his equals rather than to those whom he endeavors to stigmatize. And as we do not belong to the school or sect of which Mr. Huxley is the representative, and accordingly do not enjoy the privilege of boldly asserting what cannot be proved, so we are obliged to show what are the reasons of our conviction.

Mr. Huxley believes that “man is not the centre of the living world, but _one amid endless modifications of life_.” Whence does this conviction come? The learned professor cannot be ranked among _civilized_ people unless he be able to show that his conviction is _not_ grounded on authority, but on scepticism, which is “the highest duty” of an improver of knowledge. He must be prepared to show that “he holds it, not because the men he most venerates hold it, not because its verity is testified by portents and wonders, but because _his experience teaches him_ that, whenever he thinks fit to test it by appealing to experiment and observation, nature will confirm it.” Unfortunately for him, and in spite of his uncommon power of making broad assertions, he cannot have recourse to such an answer, inasmuch as it would be received with loud peals of laughter even by his devout flock of St. Martin’s Hall. In conclusion, he has caught himself in his own trap, and we are afraid he must declare himself to be (horrible to say!) a _barbarian_, and an awful barbarian too; for it is with open eyes, and with other aggravating circumstances, that he has done what, according to him, only “barbarous people” do.

This being the case, no one needs to ask why Mr. Huxley informs us that it is not his present business or intention to discuss the views of those “excellent persons” who still believe. He believes himself more than they believe. They believe “when _good_ authority has pronounced”; the lay preacher believes even without good authority. Those “excellent persons” smile with the “keenest scepticism” at his theory of the Unknown and of the Unknowable; but the lay preacher believes in his theory without proof and against proof, and thinks that “reason has no further duty.” And it is remarkable that he does not content himself with believing what may appear to be a view of the present or a fact of the past. This would be too little for him; he believes a great deal more: he believes in what may be called a dream of the future. Yes:

“If these ideas be destined, _as I believe they are_, to be
more and more firmly established as the world grows older;
if that spirit be fated, _as I believe it is_, to extend
itself into all departments of human thought, and to become
co-extensive with the range of knowledge; if, as our race
approaches its maturity, it discovers, _as I believe it
will_, that there is but one kind of knowledge, and but one
method of acquiring it――then we, who are still children, may
justly feel it our highest duty to recognize the
advisableness of improving natural knowledge” (p. 637).

Who would have thought or imagined that a man could be so ill-advised as to condense three professions of blind faith in the very lines in which he intends to conclude in favor of scepticism?

The consequence of all this is appalling. For how now can Mr. Huxley again present himself to his devout congregation of St. Martin’s Hall? What can he say in his defence? The best would be to dissemble, if possible, and to ignore with a lofty unconcern his numerous blunders; but men are shrewd, and the expedient might seem an implicit confession of failure. As for “discussing the views of those excellent persons” who still hold the principles of faith, there can be no question. This would be too much and too little: too much for the man, too little for the purpose. And, in fact, since Mr. Huxley is himself guilty of that of which he accuses others, he cannot strike others without wounding himself. The only practical thing would be, in our opinion, an explicit, generous, and humble confession of guilt. Why not? The lay preacher is not the first professor who has spoken nonsense, nor will he be the last. We are all liable to error and sin; and recantation and repentance are a right of humanity. On the other hand, he is not the only man who is guilty of believing――he is in very good company; for “there are many excellent persons who still believe,” though undoubtedly he goes further than they do. Still, we apprehend that a lay preacher may find himself a little embarrassed in a subject of this sort; and as we have already shown what a deep and sincere interest we feel in lay sermons, and have gained, perhaps, a title to a special hearing on the part of the lay preacher, so, to relieve him, at least partially, from the heavy burden, we venture to offer him the following plan of a new _Lay Sermon to be delivered at St. Martins Hall on a day not yet appointed_.

The exordium might contain the following thoughts: “My friends, a sorrowful duty calls me to speak unto you. On January 7, 1866, a professor from this very place preached a sermon on the improvement of natural knowledge by unbelief, and maintained that to believe on good authority was a principle of barbarous or semi-barbarous people.… That professor, alas! was myself.… Well, it is my painful duty to tell you to-day that you have been humbugged.… (Cheers from the audience.) Do not cheer; have pity on me, my dear brethren. I have sinned against myself, against you, and against mankind. This is the distressing truth of which I am now ready to make the demonstration.”

The confirmation would have three parts. In the first he might say: “I have sinned _against myself_ in two ways: First, because I uttered assertions calculated to show that I am more credulous than those whom I reprehend. Now, if men are condemned by me on the ground that they believe ‘on _good_ authority,’ what will be the sentence reserved for me, who believe on bad authority and on no authority? Secondly, because I put myself in an awkward position as a scientific man. The distance of the earth from the sun I hitherto admitted on authority; the specific weight of most bodies on authority; the discovery of certain geologic curiosities on authority; the ratio of the circumference to the diameter on authority, etc., etc. Verification would have taken too many years of work; and this seemed to me a good excuse for assuming that there was no harm in believing. But now, as I have declared ‘scepticism to be the highest of duties,’ to be consistent, I shall be obliged to appeal without intermission to experiment and observation, and even to calculation; ‘for the man of science has learned to believe in justification not by faith, but by verification.’ And so good-by to my lay sermons! It will be quite impossible for me, while calculating anew the basis of the Napierian logarithms or the circumference of the circle, or while testing Faraday’s discoveries by actual experiments, or travelling to verify the assertions of geological writers, to dream of popular eloquence.”

After developing these or similar thoughts, he would pass to the second part and say: “I have sinned _against you_; for the principal aim of my sermon was _to make you believe_ what I was then saying. How is it possible, dear friends, that I should have taken pleasure in thus treating you as barbarians or semi-barbarians? Civilized men, according to the theory which I then advanced, ‘refuse to acknowledge authority as such.’ ‘Scepticism,’ according to the same theory, ‘is the highest of duties,’ and ‘blind faith an unpardonable sin.’ Such was my doctrine on January 7. Yet this very sin, this unpardonable sin, I suggested to you on that same day, and you committed it! In fact, you have _believed_ me.… Now, for this no one is more responsible than myself. I have been your tempter; I did my best to extort your belief; I caused you to believe on my authority, to believe as barbarians believe! I plead guilty. Still, as you are so kind, I hope that you will excuse me. I admitted, after all, that ‘there are many excellent persons who yet hold the principle that merit attaches to a readiness to believe,’ and therefore both you and myself, in spite of all that you have believed, may be excellent persons. Another very good reason in my favor is that the subject of that sermon was ‘the advisableness of improving natural knowledge’; now, our common fault is a very good demonstration of such an advisableness. I might add a third reason. I told you, and I trust that you have not forgotten it, that ‘we are still children.’ Now, children, when they err, deserve indulgence, etc., etc.”

In the third part he would say something like the following: “I have sinned _against mankind_; for my sermon was calculated to create the impression that those who believe ‘when _good_ authority has pronounced what is to be believed’ are all barbarians or semi-barbarians. This, I must be allowed to say, was a very great mistake, and perhaps an ‘unpardonable sin.’ The London plague is believed ‘on _good_ authority,’ by all Englishmen at least, and yet――let me frankly say it――Englishmen are not all barbarians. All civilized nations believe that there has been a king called Alexander the Great, a mathematician called Archimedes, a woman called Cleopatra, an emperor called Caligula, and they believe it only ‘on _good_ authority’; and how could this be, if belief were the lot of barbarous or semi-barbarous people? What I say of profane history must be said of the Biblical also, and even of the ecclesiastical. No doubt, dear brethren, there has been a man called Moses, who was a great legislator and prophet; there has been a man called Solomon, who was wiser than you and myself; there has been a man called JESUS, who wrought miracles in the very eyes of obstinate unbelievers, and rose from death (a thing which we, men of progress, have not yet learned to do), thereby showing that he was no mere man, but man and God. To say that this God is ‘unknown’ or ‘unknowable’ is therefore one of the greatest historical blunders. Men have known him, have loved him, and have obeyed him. Those who have believed in him became models of sanctity, of charity, and of generosity; millions among them were ready to die, and really died, for his honor, and many of them were the greatest and most cultivated minds that have enlightened the world. We scientific infidels, as compared with them, ‘are still children.’ Our Newton believed, Galileo believed, Leibnitz believed, Volta believed, Galvani believed, Ampère believed, Cauchy believed, Faraday believed. These were men; these have created modern science. But what are we unbelievers? What have we done? Where are our creations?――creations, I say, not merely of modern time, but of unbelievers? ‘We are children’――I am glad to repeat it. We have invented nothing. We, in our capacity of unbelievers, are only parasitic plants which suck the sap of a gigantic tree――Christianity――and live upon it, and yet we have been so ill-advised as to call ourselves ‘improvers of natural knowledge,’ and, worse still, we have attached the name of barbarians to ‘excellent persons,’ even though we are no better than they, etc., etc.”

In the _peroration_ he might say: “And now we come to our conclusion. The conclusion evidently is that true barbarians are not those who believe ‘on _good_ authority,’ but those who endeavor to ‘still spiritual cravings’ with purely material objects. No, dear brethren, spiritual cravings cannot be stilled by knowledge of material things alone. Spiritual cravings imply the existence of a spiritual soul: and a spiritual being cannot be satisfied with the knowledge of matter alone, etc. etc. As for the idea of drawing ‘a new morality’ from the improved natural knowledge, I need scarcely tell you that it was only a joke. You know too well that morality transcends the physical laws, and cannot come out of matter; and you know also that a ‘new’ morality is as impossible as a new God, etc.” And here the orator might give way to the fulness of his feelings, according to the penitent disposition of the moment.

Hitherto we have addressed ourselves to the lay preacher exclusively; we will now address a word to the man. We trust that Professor Huxley will not feel offended at our remarks and suggestions. It is true that unbelievers, whilst ready, and even accustomed, to attack all mankind, are often very sensitive when they themselves are either unmasked or criticised. But we feel persuaded that Professor Huxley will not be angry with us. Our reason is, first, that we might have smiled in secret at the lay sermon on the advisableness of _improving_ natural knowledge by unbelief; and if we did it the honor of a lengthy refutation, we have given the orator a greater importance than he himself would have expected. On the other hand, we have been attacked; and, accordingly, we would have been cowards had we been afraid of answering. Moreover, we have treated him not only fairly, but with great indulgence. What we have said is only a small part of what we might have said. We made no remark on his proposition that “whether these ideas (which alone can still spiritual cravings) are well or ill founded, is not the question” (p. 636); and yet this assertion on account of its neutrality between truth and error, would have supplied abundant matter for criticism; but we abstained. We could have animadverted on the very phrase “natural knowledge,” which he takes as meaning the knowledge of physical laws, and yet it is presented by him as comprehensive of all possible knowledge; whereas it is evident that natural knowledge extends far beyond physical things. We might have objected to the captious expression “_blind_ faith,” on account of the latent assumption that faith is not prompted by reasonable motives and has no reasonable grounds. We might have pointed out the recklessness of the proposition: “There is but one kind of knowledge and but one method of acquiring it”――a proposition which, considering the general spirit of the sermon, would mean that philosophy, theology, and religion are a heap of impostures. We might have dwelt on the assertion that “verities testified by portents and wonders” are not to be admitted on this ground by the votary of science; as if portents and wonders were not facts, or as if the votary of science were obliged by his profession to blind himself to the natural evidence of supernatural facts.

It appears, then, that we had copious materials for further criticism; but we have not found it necessary to dwell upon them. What we have said is, in our opinion, sufficient for the defence of those principles which every enlightened man most cherishes as the very foundations of human society. We have remained, therefore, within the limits of a fair and equitable reply; and if we have laughed at the ignorance of the unbeliever, we have respected as far as possible the person of the professor.

A CHRISTMAS LEGEND.

’Twas midnight, and the Christmas bells were chiming loud and clear:
Peal after peal glad tidings bore to Christians far and near.
Those throats of metal seemed to chant in solemn tones and slow:
_En puer nobis natus est: laus Jesu Domino_.
The night winds heard, and thereupon took up the holy song
First learned by them when angel hosts surprised the shepherd throng.
The very river caught the strain, and whispered as it ran:
“Glory to God in heaven above; on earth be peace to man.”
The ocean from the river took the tidings glad and good;
Like monks white-cowled its crested waves in mighty chorus stood;
Then, hastening on with joyous shout, cried loud from shore to shore:
The Christ is born: let all the world its King and God adore.
Floating flakes of fleecy snow fell fast o’er frozen earth,
Just as they fell that winter night that saw the Saviour’s birth;
Through painted casements all ablaze with saintly forms and fair
Streamed light that tinged the drifted snow with color here and
there;
The mighty organ loudly pealed and mingled in accord
With holy voices chanting high the anthems of their Lord:
“_Venite Adoremus_” sang the choristers that night
Within the old cathedral church, which shone with many a light;
“_Et Verbum Caro factum est_,” thus sung the chant again,
While clouds of fragrant incense rose and floated through the fane.
Many a frocked and cowléd monk and many a hooded friar,
Many a knight of high degree and many a faithful squire,
Many a youth and many a maid and many a lady fair,
Knelt side by side, and, kneeling, prayed upon the pavement bare.
But, lo! beside a pillar’s base where scarce the taper’s ray
Could light the gloom that hung around or pierce the shadows gray;
There knelt a son of Israel’s creed, whose dark and swarthy face,
Black raven hair, and liquid eyes bespoke his Jewish race.
What did he there, that Hebrew boy, that scion of the East?
Why knelt he there ’mid Christian souls to keep a Christian feast?
Why were his eyes devoutly fixed upon an image fair?
Why prayed that unbaptizéd child, why sang, why knelt he there?

* * * * *

Of wealthy Jewish parents born, young David oft had heard
The boys of that old city tell of Jesus Christ the Word,
Who, of a Jewish Virgin born, came down on earth to dwell,
To save mankind from sin and death; and oft had heard as well
How Mary, God’s dear Mother, loved all Christians great and small,
And how she never failed to hear a contrite sinner’s call.
So he, too, learned to love her well, and each and every day
That Jewish lad would clasp his hands and most devoutly say
“O Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel’s race!
Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face.”
Thus day by day and month by month young David ever cried,
And more to learn of Christian truth with fondest ardor sighed.
On Christmas Eve he heard the bells ring sweetly from the spire,
And of one Mark, a chorister, did earnestly inquire:
“Dear Mark, why chime thy church’s bells so joyously to-night,
While all the painted windows shine with such unwonted light?”
“O David!” quick his friend rejoined, “the bells are ringing clear.
In greeting to the holiest feast throughout the Christian year;
For on this night, long years agone, was born our Blessed Lord,
By Mary in a manger laid, by angel hosts adored.
But see, dear friend, I cannot now to speak with you delay;
For swiftly to the sacristy I needs must haste away.
I am a chorister, you know,” he said with honest pride;
Then added, as he turned to leave his young companion’s side:
“My voice to-night in holy song to faithful souls shall tell
How Jesus Christ, the Son of God, came down on earth to dwell.
Good-night, good-night,” at last he said, and then away he ran.
Poor David’s eyes were filled with tears, his cheeks were pale and
wan;
But as he listened to the chimes that quivered on the air,
From out his inmost heart the boy sent up his simple prayer:
“O Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel’s race!
Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face.”
While thus he prayed he turned his steps towards the sacred fane,
Nor paused until he gained the porch, where such a wondrous strain
Of holy music greeted him that, trembling, half with fear
And half with joy, he hid himself, and there saw passing near
A noble rank of men and boys in wonderful array,
With flambeaux in their hands which made the church as light as day.
First came a fair-haired Christian boy, of figure tall and slight,
A smoking censer in his hand, and clad in robe of white.
Then came two acolytes, who bore two candlesticks of gold,
With tapers tall of perfumed wax of costliness untold.
A young subdeacon slowly marched these acolytes between;
A massive silver cross he bore aloft with reverent mien.
Then, two and two, came choristers in linen fair and white;
The younger first, in order due, each holding to the light
His psalter, silver-clasped, and all in vellum richly bound.
Here David gazed intently, and, so gazing, quickly found
His little friend, the chorister, who walked with steady pace,
Whose silvery voice in ringing tones filled all the holy place.
The bishop then with lordly train walked last of all the band,
A golden mitre on his head, a crosier in his hand.
His vestments ’broidered were with pearls, and rays of green and red
From emeralds fair and rubies bright on every side were shed.
When all had passed, poor David crept from out his hiding-place,
And slowly followed up the throng with soft and stealthy pace.
Then, fearing lest his Jewish dress might some attention draw,
He sank down at the pillar’s base where first his form we saw.
Then, as the holy service rose to God, and voice of prayer,
And hymns and canticles of praise filled all the listening air,
The Hebrew lad fell prone upon his face, and there adored,
Whilst once again to Mary he the oft-said prayer outpoured:
“O Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel’s race!
Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face.”
“Thou seest it!” cried at David’s side a clear and heavenly voice,
Whose very tones, though soft and low, made David’s heart rejoice.
He raised his face, and forthwith saw a vision standing nigh,
Around whose head there brightly shone the glory of the sky.
’Twas Mary’s self, and thus she spoke in accents sweet and mild:
“Fear not. Arise and come with me, my well-belovéd child.”
The lad arose; Our Lady dear then grasped his trembling hand,
And led him to the chancel gates unseen by all the band.
Just as they stood beneath the Rood loud rang the sacring-bell,
Which did to all the holy time of Consecration tell.
This when she heard, our Mother knelt upon the marble floor;
For Mary’s Son is Mary’s God and Lord for evermore.
She then arose and stood unseen till Holy Mass was o’er,
Then forward stepped, and, with the lad, the prelate stood before.
“Behold,” she said, and as she spoke the church was filled with light,
And all fell down upon their knees in wonder at the sight.
“Behold. I bring you here a soul who, though he knew me not,
Has ever called upon my name, and aye bewailed his lot
Because he knew not as he wished the true, the Christian creed:
I bring him that he may become an Israelite indeed.”
She spoke, and bright the radiance gleamed around her saintly head,
And odors most celestial were throughout the building shed.
Then, as the whole assembly gazed on all with mute surprise,
She vanished in a silver cloud from ’fore their wondering eyes.
The holy bishop first found voice, and thus devoutly said:
“Mother of God, thy blest command shall be at once obeyed.
Divine behests brook no delay; so here, before the night
Doth older grow, let me bestow the laver’s saving rite.”
The water brought, redemption’s stream o’er David flowed that hour,
And sparkled on his forehead white like dewdrops on a flower.
“_Te Deum laudamus_” chanted then the choristers with joy,
And rushed to give a kiss of peace unto the happy boy.
But what is this? He does not stir nor lift his bended head!
David, his white robe yet unstained, was kneeling calm and dead.
On that _Te Deum’s_ outstretched wings his soul had upward soared
To keep in heaven its Christmas morn with Mary and his Lord.

SIR THOMAS MORE.

_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE_

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

XVII.

When the great city lay buried in that obscurity which the mantle of night had thrown over all, and while she seemed to sleep, resting on her bed of earth, by the banks of the river that flowed for ever with a measured sound――when she seemed to sleep at last, although neither the scholar, nor the afflicted, nor the criminal whom she enclosed in her bosom could have extinguished in the depths of their being the fire of intelligence which consumed them――there was to be seen a silent and fugitive figure gliding along by the walls of the Tower, upon which a noble and slender form was reflected. The light footfall made no sound, the sighs of her heart were stifled, and the folds of her veil hung motionless. She seated herself on the stone threshold of the awful gate, and for a long time wept in silence.

“Naught!” she said. “Not a sound to be heard. These walls are like the hearts of the judges. Children weep,” she said again. “What are tears but weakness and water? Not a gleam! It seems they have here neither fire nor life. What is this that consumes my heart? Weep, women! weep in your silken robes, under your downy coverings! As for me, it is the night wind dries my tears, and the damp earth drinks them up! When wilt thou cease to weep, and when will the heart of Margaret feel revived?… But why be astonished to feel it tremble? Has it not been broken like a precious vase which can never more be mended?

“‘Come, Margaret, white Margaret!’ they used to say when you trod on the grass of the fields, Come, death, or yet a moment of life.”

And the young girl, standing on tiptoe, with strong arm and powerful effort, raised the heavy bronze griffin, which fell resounding upon the brass of the doors, and then she started, for at times she was a woman.

But there was no response; and when the sound of the iron had ceased to vibrate, and, it seemed to her, had exhausted itself in the air, nothing was heard but the monotonous dashing of the waves which came to die at the foot of the wall; and nothing more disturbed the silence of the night.

“Deaf as the pity in their souls!” she said after some moments.

And this time she knocked without flinching; for already Margaret had recovered from her fears. But a long and mournful silence continued to reign.

Whilst she was trying so ineffectually to reach her father, Sir Thomas re-entered the Tower, exhausted by fatigue. He had been confined in a still more gloomy and narrow cell. A miserable lamp, high placed, dimly lighted the obscurity. He was seated in a corner, and, alone at least, he went over in his mind the agonies he had endured in that fatal journey. “Where is my daughter now?” he said to himself. “Alas! I saw her but an instant going out from before the judges. She will have seen that axe turned toward me. She will have said to herself there is no more hope; that I was branded with the seal of the condemned; that what she had heard was indeed true. If only she had returned to Chelsea! For they will not permit me to linger: Cromwell’s eyes gleamed with a ferocious light. Yet what have I done to this man to make him hate me so intensely? My God, permit me not to be betrayed into an emotion of hatred against” (Sir Thomas hesitated)――“against my brother,” he continued with courage; “for, after all, he is a man like myself, formed in the same mould, animated by the same intelligence; and it is better to be persecuted than to be the persecutor. Pardon him, then, O my God! Let your mercy be extended toward him, surround him on all sides, and never remember against him the evil he has wrought on me.”

While reflecting thus Sir Thomas suddenly heard a slight noise. He paused, and, seized with inexpressible anxiety, listened almost without breathing.

“It was in such manner he walked! It is he! It is Rochester!” he cried. “But no, I am mistaken; that cannot be,” he said, casting his eyes around him. “They have changed my cell; alas! I could not hear him even should he be there. It is an error of my troubled imagination.”

But the noise increased, and Sir Thomas soon heard them opening the doors which led to his cell. Some one was approaching.

“Again!” he said. “They will not, then, allow me a moment of repose.” And he saw Sir Thomas Pope coming in, bearing a roll of paper in his right hand.

Pope approached More and presented the paper.

Sir Thomas calmly took it from his hands, and, looking at Pope, said: “What! Master Pope, the king has already signed the death-warrant?” Glancing over the paper, he saw that his execution was set down for the next morning at nine o’clock.

“The king, in his ineffable clemency,” said Pope with an air of constraint, “commutes your punishment to that of decapitation.”

“I am much beholden to his majesty,” said Sir Thomas. “Still, good Master Pope, I hope that my children and my friends may never have need of any such favor.”

More smiled at first; then he regarded Pope with an expression of indefinable melancholy, and was silent.

“It is true――it is too true,” stammered Pope, “that this is not a great favor. But permit me, Sir Thomas, to avow to you that your conduct appears to me so strangely obstinate that I cannot explain it, and that you yourself seem to have had the wish to irritate the king against you to the last degree. Thus, you abandon your family, you leave your home, you lose your head, and all rather than take an oath to which our bishops have readily consented.”