Chapter XI: Part 11

Pope went so far as to make a collection of all the libels passed upon him, and had them preserved and bound with singular care, though I believe no one now knows where to find these scandalous splutterings of Grub Street. Swift is reported to have said to the irate author of the “Dunciad”: “Give me a shilling and I will ensure you that posterity shall never know one single enemy against you excepting those whose memory you _yourself_ have preserved.” Herein is a profound truth. The malicious enemies of a great author only become known to the public through the mistaken condescension of the great author’s notice.

Milton’s life was embittered by the contemptible spite of one Salmasius. Who was Salmasius? we ask nowadays. We do not task who was Milton. Salmasius was the author of the “Defensio Regi” or Defence of Kings, a poor piece of work long ago forgotten, and he was the procurer of foul libel against the author of “Paradise Lost,” one of England’s greatest and noblest men. What small claim he has to the world’s memory arises merely from his viciousness, for not only did he make use of the lowest tools to aid him in conspiring against Milton’s reputation, but he spread the grossest lies broadcast, even accusing the poet of having a hideous personal appearance--“a puny piece of man; a homunculus; a dwarf deprived of the human figure; a contemptible pedagogue.” When the despicable slanderer learned the fact that Milton, so far from answering to this description, was of a pleasing and attractive appearance, he immediately changed his tactics and began to attack his moral character--which, as even Milton’s bitterest political enemies knew, was austerely above the very shadow of suspicion. It was said that the poet’s over-zealousness in answering the calumnies of Salmasius cost him his eye-sight, which, if true, was surely regrettable. Salmasius died dishonoured and disgraced, as such a cowardly brute deserved to die; Milton still holds his glorious place in England’s literary history. So it was, so it is, so it ever will be.

Greatness is always envied--it is only mediocrity that can boast of a host of friends. “When you have resolved to be great,” says Emerson, “abide by yourself, and do not weakly try to reconcile yourself with the world.” It is impossible to quote one single instance of a truly great man existing without calumniators. And the Life Literary without any enemies would be a shabby go-cart; or, as our American cousins put it, a “one-horse concern.” Some lines that were taught to me when I was a child seem apposite to this subject, and I quote them here for the benefit of any struggling units of the Life Literary who may haply be in need:--

You have no enemies, you say?
Alas! my friend, the boast is poor--
He who has mingled in the fray
Of duty, that the brave endure,
_Must_ have made foes! If you have none,
Small is the work that you have done;
You’ve hit no traitor on the hip,
You’ve dashed no cup from perjured lip,
You’ve never turned the wrong to right--
You’ve been a coward in the fight![5]

But it is perhaps time that I should drop the masculine personal pronoun for the feminine, and, being a woman, treat of the Life Literary from the woman’s point of view. In olden days the profession of literature was looked upon as a terrible thing for a woman to engage in, and the observations of some very kindly and chivalrous writers on this subject are not without pathos. To quote one example only, can anything be more quaintly droll at this time of day than the following:--

“Of all the sorrows in which the female character may participate there are few more affecting than those of an Authoress--often insulated and unprotected in society--with all the sensibility of the sex, encountering miseries which break the spirits of men!”

This delicate expression of sympathy for a woman’s literary struggles was written by the elder Disraeli as late as 1840. Truly we have raced along the rails of progress since then at express speed--and the “affecting” sorrows of an “Authoress” (with a capital A) now affect nobody except in so far as they make “copy” for the callow journalist to hang a string of cheap sneers upon. The Authoress must take part with the Author in the general rough-and-tumble of life--and she cannot too quickly learn the truth that when once she enters the literary arena, where men are already fisticuffing and elbowing each other remorselessly, she will be met chiefly with “kicks and no ha’pence.” She must fight like the rest, unless she prefers to lie down and be walked over. If she elects to try for a first place, it will take her all her time to win it, and, when won, to hold it; and, in the event of her securing success, she must not expect any chivalrous consideration from the opposite sex, or any special kindness and sympathy from her own. For the men will consider her “out of her sphere” if she writes books instead of producing babies, and the women will, in nine cases out of ten, begrudge her the freedom and independence she enjoys, particularly if such freedom and independence be allied to fortune and fame. This all goes without saying. It has to be understood and accepted uncomplainingly. The “old-fashioned” grace of chivalry to women, once so proudly lauded by poets and essayists as the distinguishing trait of all manly men, is not to be relied on in the Life Literary--for there it is as dead as door-nails. Men can be found in the literary profession who will do anything to “down” a woman in the same calling, and, if they cannot for shame’s sake do it openly, they will do it behind her back. “’Tis pitiful, ’tis wondrous pitiful”--for the men! But if the woman concerned has studied her art to any purpose she will accept calumny as a compliment, slander as a votive wreath, and “envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness” (from which, with pious hypocrisy, the most envious and uncharitable persons pray “Good Lord deliver us” every Sunday) as so many tokens and proofs of her admitted power. And none of these things need disturb the equanimity of the Life Literary. “Can any man cast me out of the Universe? He cannot; but whithersoever I may go there will be the sun and the moon, and the stars and visions, and communion with the gods!”[6]

Speaking as a woman, I can quite understand and appreciate all the little difficulties, irritations, and trials incident to a woman’s career in literature; and though I myself welcome such difficulties as so many incentives to fresh effort, I know that there are many of my sex who, growing weary and discouraged, are not able to adopt this attitude. And looking back into the past, one is bound to see a host of brilliant women done to death by cruel injustice and misrepresentation, a state of things which is quite likely to be continued as long as humanity endures.

But no useful object is served by brooding over this apparently incurable evil. “The noble army of martyrs” who praise the Lord in the “Te Deum” are likely to be of the sex feminine. But what does that matter? It is more glorious to be martyred than to die of over-eating and general plethora. Moreover mental or intellectual martyrdom is a necessary ingredient for the “happy” life--a touch of it is like the toothache, helping one to be duly thankful when the pain ceases. For, if we never understood trouble, we should never taste the full measure of joy.

One thing can be very well dispensed with by both men and women who look for happiness in the Life Literary, and that is the uneasy hankering after what is called “Fame.” Fame has a habit of setting its halo on the elected brows without any outside advice or assistance. Those authors who are destined for it will assuredly win it, though all the world should intervene; those for whom it is not intended must content themselves with the temporary notoriety of pretty newspaper puffs and “stock” compliments, such as “the renowned” or “well-known” or “admired” author or authoress, and be glad and grateful for these meaningless terms, inasmuch as the higher Fame itself at its utmost is only a brief and very often inaccurate “line in history.”

The rewards and emoluments of the happy life, such as I have always found the Life Literary to be, are manifold and frequently incongruous. They may be considered in two sections--the outward or apparent and the interior or invisible. Concerning these I can only, of course, speak from my own experience. The outward or apparent occur (so far as I myself am concerned) as follows:--

1. Certain payments, small or large, made by publishers who undertake to present one’s brain work to the world in print, and who do the best they can for their authors, as well as for themselves.

2. Public appreciation and condemnation, about equally divided.

3. Critical praise and censure, six of one and half-a-dozen of the other.

4. Endless requests for autographs.

5. Innumerable begging letters.

6. Imperative, sometimes threatening, demands for “interviews.”

7. Hundreds of love-letters.

8. Continual offers of marriage.

9. Shoals of MSS. sent by literary aspirants to be “placed” or “recommended.”

10. Free circulation of lies, caricatures, and slanders concerning oneself, one’s personality, friends, ways of work, and general surroundings.

11. The grudging and bitter animosity of rival contemporaries.

12. Persistent public and private mis-representation of one’s character, aims, and intentions.

But all these things taken together weigh very little when compared with the other side of the medal--the interior and invisible delight and charm of the Life Literary--the unpurchasable and never-failing happiness which no external advantage can give, no inimical influence take away. It is well-nigh impossible to enumerate the pleasures that attend the lover and servant of Literature; they are multitudinous, and, like all things spiritual, outweigh all things temporal. Here are just a few among the kindly and constant favours of the gods:--

1. The power and affluence of creative thought.

2. A perpetual sense of intimate participation in the wonders of Nature and Art.

3. A keen perception of the beautiful.

4. Intense delight in the genius of all great men and women.

5. A cheerful and contented spirit.

6. Constant variety of occupation.

7. Joy in simple things.

8. The love of friends that are tried and true.

9. The never-wearying interest of working to try and give pleasure to one’s reading public.

10. The gifts and glories of Imagination.

11. Tranquillity of mind.

12. Firm faith in noble ideals.

And, to quote from Walt Whitman what the inward sense of the “happiness” of the Life Literary really is, the disciple of Literature may say:--

“I will show that there is no imperfection in the present and can be none in the future. And I will show that, whatever happens to anybody, it may be turned to beautiful results.”

Were all the lives in the world offered to me for my choice, from the estate of queens to that of commoners, I would choose the Life Literary in preference to any other, as ensuring the greatest happiness. It is full of the most lasting pleasure, it offers the most varied entertainment, all the arts and sciences group themselves naturally around it as with it and of it--for the literary student is, or should be, as devout a lover of music as of poetry, as ardent an admirer of painting and sculpture as of history and philosophy--that is, if complete enjoyment of the literary gift is to be possessed completely.

I take it, of course, for granted, in this matter of the “happy” life, that the individual concerned, whether male or female, is neither dyspeptic nor bilious, nor afflicted with the incurable _ennui_ of utter selfishness, nor addicted to dram or drug drinking. Because under unnatural conditions the mind itself becomes unnatural, and the Life Literary is no more productive of happiness than any other life that is self-poisoned at its source. But, given a sane mind in a sound body, a clear brain, a quick perception, a keen imagination, a warm heart, and a never-to-be-parted-with ideal of humanity at its best, noblest and purest, then the Life Literary, with all the advantages it bestows, the continuous education it fosters, the refinement of taste it engenders, the love and sympathy of unknown thousands of one’s fellow-creatures which it brings, is the sweetest, most satisfying, most healthful and happy life in the world. Moreover it is a life of power and responsibility--a life that forms character and tests courage. We soon learn to know the force of a Thinker in our midst, whether man or woman. We soon realize who it is that sends the lightning of truth across our murky sky, when we see a sudden swarm of cowards scurrying away from the storm and trying to shelter themselves under a haystack of lies; and we invariably respect whosoever has the valour of his or her opinions, and the strength to enunciate them boldly and convincingly with a supreme indifference to conventional conveniences. For “To know the truth,” says an Arabian sage, “is a great thing for thyself; but to tell the truth to others is a greater thing for the world!”

FOOTNOTES:

[5] The late Charles Mackay, LL.D.

[6] Epictetus.

THE SOUL OF THE NATION

At the present time, and during the present time’s singularly loose notions of manners, morals, and dignity of behaviour, it was perhaps to be expected that some one or other of the daily newspapers would, in sagacious appreciation of free “copy,” start a public discussion on the religious faith of this Christian Empire. It was perhaps as equally probable that considering the remarkable laxity of certain bishops and ordained ministers of the gospel generally, a “press” question should be put to the House of Tom, Dick and Harry--“Do We Believe?” Granting the premises, it was hardly to be wondered at that Tom, Dick and Harry should straightway arise in their strength and reply to the question,--and not only Tom, Dick and Harry of the laity, but Tom, Dick and Harry of the clergy likewise. Great was the discussion,--fast and furious waged the war of words, and the Penny Daily which provoked the combat was thus conveniently supplied with material for which the proprietors,--most of them Sons of Israel,--had nothing to pay. And now, the arguments being heard and ended, nobody is a whit the wiser, though some few may be several whits the sadder. For to speak honestly, nothing more reprehensible has ever smirched the career of an English journal than the fact that it should have lent itself to the advertized questioning of the nation’s religious faith. It was an open flaunting of infidelity in the face of the civilized world. To talk of the “conversion” of India, China or Japan, while a leading British newspaper openly invites the notoriety-hunting section of the British public to air their opinions of the Christian Faith in its columns, just as if the Faith itself were on public trial in a Christian country, is only one example of the many forms of utter Humbug in which we are nowadays so unfortunately prone to indulge. Our sometimes-called “heathen” ally, Japan, has lately taught us many lessons which perhaps we knew once and have forgotten, and which perhaps we need to learn again,--such as valour without conceit, strength without roughness, and endurance without complaint,--but one of the greatest lessons of all she has given us is that of her people’s pious reverence for the Unseen and Eternal, and their belief in the ever-present “Spirits of the Dead” whom they honour and will not shame. What a deplorable contrast we make in our pandering to the lowest tastes of the mob when, without a word of protest, we permit _our_ “Spirits of the Dead,”--the spirits of our gallant forefathers who fought for the pure Faith of England and sealed it with their blood,--to be degraded and insulted by a cheap newspaper discussion on the most private and sacred emotions of the soul, as though such a discussion were of a character suited to take its place among police-cases and quack medical advertisements! True, we are constantly being made aware that the British Press is no longer the clean, sane, strong and reliable institution it once was, when “personalities” were deemed vulgar, and lies dishonourable,--and therefore we perhaps ought not to feel very greatly surprised when the name and possible attributes of the Almighty Creator Himself are dragged through the purlieus of “up-to-date” journalism,--but surely there is something very deplorable and disgraceful in the fact that any one professing to be a follower of the Christian Faith should have replied to what can only be termed, considering the quarter from whence it came, an ironical demand, “Do We Believe?” The best and wisest answer would have been complete silence on the part of the public. No more effectual “snubbing” to the non-Christian faction could have been given. But unfortunately there are a certain class of persons whose prime passion is to see themselves in print, and to this end they will commit any folly and write any letter to the newspapers, even if it be only to state that primroses were seen somewhat early in bloom in their back yards. And such, chiefly, were the kind of men and women who poured themselves into the channels of the “Do We Believe?” discussion, like water running down the streets into gutters and mains,--never seeming to realize that to the thinking and intellectual world, their foolish letters, addressed to such a public quarter, merely proved their utter loss of respect for themselves, not only as professing Christians and subjects of a Christian Empire, but as men and women. No real follower of a Faith--any Faith--would be so lost to every sense of decency as to discuss it in a daily newspaper. As for the clergy who took part in the boresome palaver, one can only marvel at them and ask why they did not “veto” the whole thing at once? A penny paper is not the Hall of Pontius Pilate. As ministers of Christ they might have protested against a modern-vulgar “mock” trial of their Master. It was in their power to do so, and such a protest would have redounded to their honour. At any rate, they might themselves have abstained from joining in the foolish and unnecessary gabble. For gabble it was, and gabble it is. No useful cause has been served thereby and no advantage gained. The Sons of Israel have asked a question,--and some of the unwise among professing Christians, being caught in the Israelitish trap, have answered it. The manner in which both question was put and answer given, was unworthy of a country where the Christian Faith is the guiding light of the realm. Matters of religion are of course open to discussion in the treatise or book intended for quiet library reading, or even in the better-class magazines, but to hawk sacred subjects of personal sentiment and national creed about in the daily wear of newspaper columns which equally include murders, divorces, bigamies, stocks and shares, and the general _débris_ cast off as flotsam and jetsam in the turgid waves of Mankind’s ever-recurring mischief against itself, was to the last degree reprehensible and regrettable. And this, if only for the possible impression likely to be created by such an action among the peoples of those countries to whom, with ridiculous inconsistency, we presume to send missionaries for the purpose of “converting” them to a Creed we ourselves drag through the mire of doubt in our daily press. Fortunately, however, the matter, deplorably as it has exhibited our “religion” to the eyes of “heathen” nations, has now come to an end. It has worked no change,--it has strengthened no weak places,--it has helped no struggling effort towards good. The Soul of the Nation has not been moved thereby, and it is the Soul of the Nation--that great, silent patient and labouring Soul with which all religion has to do,--that Soul, which the Christian Creed, ever since it was first preached in Britain, has raised to such a height of supremacy and power, that it needs all its reserve of sober courage and devout humility to help it bear its honours greatly. For has it not been said--“Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall!”

One may look upon the innate spirit of Revivalism, exemplified in the hysteric wave of preaching, praying and psalm-singing that has recently spread over Wales and other districts, as so much instinctive and natural popular rebellion against the insidious flood of atheism which has for the past ten years been striving to poison all the channels of man’s better health and saner condition,--rebellion too against the apathetic coldness and shameless indifference of the ordained clergy to the clamorous needs of those neglected “flocks” which they are elected to serve. “Enough,” say the People, “of shams and shows!--enough of ministers who only minister to themselves and their own convenience!--enough of the preaching of the Gospel by men who do not and will not fulfil a single one of its commands in their own lives and actions! Let us have something forcible and earnest,--let us be permitted to _feel_, even though we shout and sing ourselves hoarse with the emotion which has been seething in us for years,--an emotion which we cannot explain to ourselves, but which craves, with a passion beyond all speech, for some touch of Heaven, some closer comprehension of that ‘After-Death,’ which God keeps back from us like a prize or a punishment for His obedient or rebellious children! Anything is better than the cold dead inertia of the Churches, sunk as they are in a blind lethargy from which they only bestir themselves dully when a chance is offered to them of engaging in some petty personal quarrel. We are weary of priestly humbug, selfishness and inefficiency--we will gather ourselves together and re-assert our faith in the world to come, as true disciples of the Lord!” And whether such Revivalists elect to march under the banner of Cocoa Cadbury, (an excellent advertisement for Cadbury,) or any other emblazoned device of a successful trading concern, is not a matter of much moment. Starving folk will march anywhere,--under anything or anybody,--if they are promised nourishment at the end of the journey. And the Soul of the Nation is, at this present period of time, starving to the point of inanition in all forms of spiritual food. The Good Shepherd gave His life for the sheep, but the underlings who care not for the flock have let the wolves into the fold.

A thing which would appear to be frequently forgotten by those who hold Governmental authority, is that the most vital, most powerful and most active principle of a Nation is this spark of the Divine which for want of any clearer mode of description we call the Soul. The Soul of a single individual man or woman is the mere copy in miniature of the Soul of a race, or the Soul of a world. An involuntary, half-conscious, but nevertheless resistless impetus towards ultimate Good is the Soul’s original quality and inborn Ideal. For, if the human weakness of the fleshly creature impel it towards temporary phases of evil, sooner or later the Soul will set to work to pull it out of the stifling quagmire. Material Nature is, as we all know, a remedial agent, and wherever mischief is wrought she seeks to amend it. Spiritual Nature is a still stronger healer. For every injury self-inflicted or wrought by others on the immortal Soul she has a saving balm,--and for every inch of progress which the Soul essays to make along the lines leading to good, she helps it forward a mile. Individuals find this out very soon in their own personal experience,--Nations discover it more slowly, first, because they have a longer time to live and learn than the individual unit,--and secondly because, moving in great masses, their periods of transit from one epoch of civilization to another must necessarily be more laborious and difficult. But in all epochs, in all eras, the Soul wins. The fiery leaven which is of God, works through the lump in various strange and complex forms till the whole is leavened. And those nations in which the Soul, or Spirit of the Ideal, is crushed and kept down by the iron hand of Materialism, are very soon seen to fall back in the rear of progress,--so far back indeed that we are fain to speak of them as “decaying nations,” though of a truth no decay is possible to them, but only temporary retrogression, which will in due course revert to progress again when the Soul is once more allowed to have its way. But Governments whose common law of procedure is to put this Soul or “spirit of the Ideal,” in the background as a kind of myth or chimera, and who seek to settle everything pertaining to the interests of the people by what they term “practical” methods, (which often prove wholly _un_practical,) are naturally prone to forget that whatever they do, whatever they say, the busy Soul of the Nation is altogether outside and above them, fighting for itself, often desperately and piteously, and struggling to make use of its wings and rise higher and ever higher despite its hobbles of iron and feet of clay. Religion is supposed to give it this, its demanded freedom of noble flight, and the Christian religion, above all religions in the world, with its consoling teaching that out of sorrow cometh joy, and out of Death is born Life, should make for the happiness and peace of every living creature. But when the very ministers of that glorious Faith cast doubt upon it, and live their own lives in direct opposition to it,--when undevout and therefore limited scientists dissect a midge of truth in order to launch a leviathan of fallacious theory,--when there is no ONE pure and simple Church of Christ where all may meet in honest worship of His perfect Creed, but only a million Sects which blaspheme His Divine memory by their outrageous and petty quarrels one with the other,--it is no matter for surprise that a strong revulsion of feeling should set in, or that the Soul of the Nation, conceiving itself grievously wronged and neglected, should try to find some fresh path of its own heavenward,--some way out of mere Sham--in the belief that if it obeys its own instinctive desire towards the Highest Ideal, God will not suffer it to go far astray. For the quarrels of the Churches are the second crucifixion of Christ. The apathy of the priesthood is the deliberate casting away to sin of the people. Where there is no unity, there is no force; and the divine founder of Christianity Himself has told us that a house divided against itself shall not stand.

Yet when one comes to think of it, it is the strangest thing in the world that Christians should quarrel, seeing how plain and clear are the instructions left to them for their guidance by the Master whom they profess to serve. The New Testament is easy reading. Its commands are brief and concise enough. There would seem to be no room for discussion or difference. Why should there be followers of Luther, Wesley, or any other limited human preacher or teacher, when all that is necessary is that we should be followers of Christ? The Soul of the Nation asks no more than this Gospel of Love, lovingly imparted,--it seeks but for the one firm faith in the eternal things which are its birthright,--a faith held purely, and wholly undoubted by those whose high mission is to teach it to each generation in turn,--it craves no more than that touch of heavenly sympathy which makes the whole world kin--that holy link which binds all mankind together in one strong knot of indissoluble spiritual belief in the love and justice; the Unseen Force behind Creation, which will surely, out of the verities of that same love and justice, grant us a future life wherein will be made clear to us the reason and necessity of our strange sufferings, martyrdoms, disappointments and losses in this present mere brief episode of living. The Soul of the Nation does not in itself ask reward for its good deeds,--nor does it weakly complain if punishment be inflicted upon it for its evil ones,--but it does demand justice,--it does ask why, for no conscious fault of its own, it should be born, only to die. Were this question never to be answered, then the mathematical exactitude with which everything, small or great, is balanced in the universe would be a merely elaborate scheme of unnecessary fallacy, irrationally designed for the delusion of creatures who are not worth the trouble of deluding. No one who is sane and morally healthy can contemplate such an idea as this for a moment,--it follows therefore that Man, living as he does between two Infinities, and endowed with a brain which can spiritually consider both without reeling, must be guided by some great and illimitably wise destiny towards ends he knows not, but which he may be reverently permitted to believe are for his better progress, greater happiness and higher understanding, and that he needs, out of all things in the world, a Faith, by which his soul shall be kept strong and pure, his mind steady, and his sympathies active. No mockery of Christianity, such as that of Servian priests who have publicly blessed regicides,--no cruel tyranny, such as that of the Greek Church which dares to appeal to a God of Love while the mighty masses of the Russian people remain steeped in misery, and are, by very wretchedness, driven to crime,--no cold Conventionality of Form and Custom, such as is practised in fashionable London “West End” churches where society humbugs gather together to listen smirkingly to the civil cant of other society humbugs in surplices, who, passing for ministers of Christ, almost fear to preach the Gospel as it was written, lest its plain blunt truths should offend some highly-placed personage,--none of this kind of “religion” at all is of use,--but faith,--real faith--real aspiration--real uplifting to the Ideal of all things noble, all things great, wise, helpful and true. This, at the present crucial moment of time, is what the Soul of the Nation demands,--and not only the Soul of our own beloved and glorious Nation, but the Souls of all nations whatsoever on the globe. They stand up,--each in place, each on its own spiritual plane,--stern, strong and beautiful;--like the fabled statue of Memnon they face the sunrise, and at the first touch of the first ray of glory they speak. Their voices are as thunder among the spheres,--they demand what they deserve,--justice, hope, comfort, uplifting! To the mystic High Altar of the Infinite and Eternal they lift their praying hands, and to the priests of all religions they appeal. “Give us the Way, the Truth and the Life! Cease your own wranglings and petty disputations,--have done with mere human dogma concerning the matters of life and death,--let us see the MAN, Christ,--He who suffered our sorrows, and knew our need,--the Brother, the Friend, the Helper, for whom, in braver days than these, men gladly gave their lives to sword and fire and the jaws of wild beasts,--is there no manhood left now of such undaunted mettle?--is there not one who will think of US, the Nations, who hunger for the glorious vitality of Faith, which, like the blood in our veins, keeps us warm and young and vigorous? Or must we perish in the devil-clutch of Materialism, and go down to the depths, thrust there by the very men who have been elected to hold us close to God? We demand our rights in the Divine and Eternal Love!--and these rights, born in us from the beginning, we will have, even if all present-existing human forms and fabrics of creed go down in our struggle for the one pure faith under whose holy influence we shall become stronger and wiser, and better able to understand our work and place in creation! The gates of Life shall not be shut upon us;--we will not accept the materialist’s latter-day testimony that death shall be the end of all. For if there be an Eternal Good we are part of its being and share in its Eternal attributes. And we say,--we Souls of the Nations,--to all our preachers and teachers and representatives of the Divine on earth--Lift us up! Do not cast us down! Be yourselves the models of what you would have US become!--so shall we be willing and ready to learn from you,--so shall we honour, love and patiently follow you. But if you, as ministers of religion, show yourselves worse hypocrites than the very sinners whom the law condemns, then beware of us and our just vengeance! For you take from us our very life-blood, when you cheat us of the hope of Heaven!”

This is true. A Nation robbed of its faith, is like a human body robbed of its heart--it has neither pulse nor motion,--it is the mere corpse of itself lying prone in the dust of perishable waste things. And the fact that grave retribution will follow the steps of those who assist in bringing it to this doom cannot be doubted. Such retribution has then been visited heavily on over-prosperous peoples, who, misled by special pleaders in the cause of Materialism have set God aside out of their countings as a non-proven quantity. The “non-proven” has always proved itself with crushing swiftness and authority in the fall of great powers, the shaking of great thrones, and the ruin and degradation of great names,--while very often a calamitous climax of misery and disaster has befallen an entire civilization and brought it to utter decay. Such occurrences are traceable through all history, and always appear to result from the same cause,--the crushing out of the vital principle, the spiritual starving of the Soul of a Nation. Heaven has not denied or diminished its bounteous nourishment and blessing,--for, in our own day, the wonders of Science have opened out to our view such infinite reaches of the Ideal as should double and treble our perception of the glories yet to be unfolded to us when we have “shuffled off this mortal coil”--while at the same time, nothing in all our changing phases of progress has yet occurred to alter the simple and noble teaching of Christ, or to make such instruction otherwise than sane, pure and helpful for every man, woman and child ever born. Indeed, it would seem with the marvellous new penetration we have gained into the secrets of the earth, air and light, that the Infinite Creator is approaching His creature even more nearly, with fresh pledges of help and promise such as His Messenger brought in the words: “Fear not, little flock,--it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the Kingdom.” And to the Soul of the Nation that “Kingdom” is everything. In that kingdom it hopes to find all it has loved and lost, all it has striven for and failed to win, all that it has prayed for, wept for, worked for. Yet to-day between that aspiring Soul and its immortal Inheritance stand two deadly enemies,--a contentious Churchdom and a capitalized Press,--the one hypocrite, the other materialist. And the satirical demand “Do we Believe?” is but an echo of Pilate’s question “What is truth?”--a question immediately followed by Truth’s crucifixion. Nevertheless the Soul of the Nation--our nation, our empire--is becoming aware of its enemies. It is instinctively conscious of threatening evil, and is on the alert to save Itself if others will not save it. But its way out of the labyrinth of difficulty will probably be neither through Church nor Press,--nor will it be aided by “revival” meetings or Salvationist assemblies. Its path will be cloven straight,--not crookedly; for the British Nation, above all other nations in the world, does most easily sicken of priestly Sham and subsidized Journalism. And the sane, strong Soul of it--that Soul which in its native intrinsic virtue, is devoutly God-fearing, pure and true, will find means to shake off its pressing foes and stand free. For priestcraft and dogma are like prison chains fastened upon the progressive spirit of humanity, and they have nothing in common with the simple teaching of Christ, which is the only real Christianity.

BUTLER & TANNER, THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS, FROME, AND LONDON.