To conclude; I must say that Mr. Newman, in his account of the genesis of religion, does himself in effect admit (as Harrington has remarked) an "external revelation," though not in a book. For what else is that apparatus of external influences by which the several preparatory or auxiliary emotions are awakened, and the development of your "spiritual faculty" effected?—contact with the outward world,—with visible and material nature,—the instruction of the living voice! You acknowledge all this without derogation, as you imagine, to the sublime and divine functions of the indwelling "spiritual" power, why this rabid, this, I might almost say, puerile (if I ought not rather to say fanatical), hatred of the very notion of a "book-revelation"?

Let us confess that, if a revelation be possible at all, it cannot be more worthy of God to give one even from "within" than in such a shape as a "book"; since without a "BOOK" man remains an idolater, in spite of his fine "spiritual faculties," and a barbarian, in spite of his sublime intellect; in fact, not much better than the beasts, in spite of all those noble capacities which, although they are in him, are as it were hopelessly locked up till he has obtained this key to their treasures.

Nor do I think that the invectives of the modern spiritualists on this point are particularly becoming, when we reflect not only that they freely give mankind what Harrington declares to be to him, and I must say are equally to me, their "book-revelations," but in very deed, as he truly affirms, have given us nothing else. It has been much the same with all who have rejected historical Christianity, from Lord Herbert's time downwards.

I paused, and Fellowes mused. At last he said, "I cannot feel convinced that the 'absolute religion' is (as Mr. Parker says) essentially the same in all men, and internally revealed. The want exists in all, and there must, according to the arrangements of universal nature, be the supply; just as the eye is for the light, and the light is for the eye. As he says, 'we feel instinctively it must be so.'"

"Unhappily," said Harrington, "Mr. Parker says that many things must be which we find are not, and this among the number. At least I, for one, shall not grant that the sort of spiritual 'supply' which is to the Calmuck, or the savage 'besmeared with the blood of human sacrifices,' at all resembles that uniform light which is made for all people's eyes."

Fellowes seemed still perplexed with his old difficulty. "I cannot help thinking," he began again, "that the 'spiritual faculty' acts by immediate 'insight,' and has nothing to do with 'logical processes' or 'intellectual propositions,' or the sensational or the imaginative parts of our nature; that it 'gazes immediately upon spiritual truth.' Now in the argument you have constructed, you have expressly implied the contrary. You have said, you know, that, even if you granted men to be in possession of 'spiritual and moral truth,' there might still be large space for a divinely constructed book from the reflex operation of the intellect, the imagination, and so forth, upon the products of the spiritual faculty; both directly, and also indirectly, inasmuch as external influences modify or stimulate them."

"But," said I, "does not Mr. Newman himself, in the first part of his Treatise on the Soul, admit the reciprocal action of all these on the too plastic spiritual products; and as to 'logical and intellectual processes,' does he not continually employ them—for his system of opinions, though he will not allow them to be employed against it? And by what other means than through the intervention of your senses, by which you read his pages,—your imagination, by which you seize his illustrations,—your intellect, by which you comprehend his arguments, did he reclaim you, as you say he has done, from many of your ancient errors? How else, in the name of common sense, did he get access to your soul at all?"

"I cannot pretend to defend Mr. Newman's consistency," said he, "in his various statements on this subject. I acknowledge I am even puzzled to find out how he did convince me, upon his hypothesis."

"Are you sure," said I, laughing, "that he ever convinced you at all? However, all your perplexity seems to me to arise from supposing the spiritual powers of man to act in greater isolation from his other powers than is conceivable or even possible. Not apart from these, but in intimate conjunction with them, are the functions of the soul performed. The divorce between the 'spiritual faculties' and the intellect, which your favorite, Mr. Newman, has attempted to effect, is impossible. It is an attempt to sever phenomena which coexist in the unity of our own consciousness. I am bound in justice to admit, that there are others of our 'modern spiritualists' who condemn this attempt to separate what God hath joined so inseparably. Even Mr. Newman does practically contradict his own assertions; and outraged reason and intellect have avenged his wrongs upon them by deserting him when he has invoked them, and left him to express his paradoxes in endless perplexity and confusion. But this conversation is no bad preface to some observations on this important fallacy, (as I conceive,) which I have appended to the paper I have read, and, with your leave, I will finish with them." They assented, and I proceeded.

It is very common for philosophers, spiritual and otherwise, to be guilty of two opposite errors, both exposed in the first book of the Novum Organum. One is, that of supposing the phenomena which they have to analyze more simple, more capable of being reduced to some one principle, than is really the case; the other, that of introducing a cumbrous complexity of operations unknown to nature. It is unnecessary here to adduce examples of the last; quite as frequently, at least, man apt to be guilty of the first. He imagines that complex and generally deeply convoluted phenomena he is called to investigate are capable of being more summarily analyzed than they can be. The ends to be answered in nature by the same set of instruments are in many cases so various, and in some respects so limit and traverse one another, that though the same multiplicity of ends is attained more completely, and in higher aggregate perfection, than by any device which man's ingenuity could substitute for them, yet those instruments are necessarily very complex at the best. Look, for example, at the system of organs by which, variously employed, we utter the infinite variety of articulate sounds, perform the most necessary of all vital functions (that of respiration), masticate solid food, and swallow fluids. The miracle is, that any one set of organs in any conceivable juxtaposition should suffice to discharge with such amazing facility and rapidity these different and rapidly alternated functions; yet I suppose few who have studied anatomy will deny, that, though relatively to the variety of purposes it has to perform the apparatus is very simple, it is absolutely very complex; and that its parts play into one another with great facility indeed, but with endless intricacy.

To apply these observations to my special object. To one who attentively studies man's immaterial anatomy, much the same complexity is, I think, apparent; the philosopher is too apt to assume it to be much more simple than it is. It is the very error, as I conceive, into which some of you modern "spiritualists" fall when considering the phenomena of our religious nature. You do not sufficiently regard man as a complicated unity; you represent, if you do not suppose, the several capacities of his nature,—the different parts of it, sensational, emotional, intellectual, moral, spiritual,—as set off from one another by a sharper boundary line than nature acknowledges. They all work for immediate ends, indeed; but they all also work for, with, and upon each other, for other ends than their own. Yet, as they all exist in one indivisible mind, or rather constitute it, they form one most intricate machine: and it can rarely happen that the particular phenomena of our interior nature we happen to be investigating do not involve many others. Throughout his book on the "Soul," we find Mr. Newman employing expressions (though I admit there are others which contradict them) which imply that the phenomena of religion, of what he calls "spiritual insight," may be viewed in clearer distinction from those of the intellect, than, as I conceive, they ever can be; and that a much clearer separation can be effected between them than nature has made possible. To hear him sometimes speak, one would imagine that the logical, the moral, and the spiritual are held together by no vital bond of connection; nay, from some expressions, one would think that the "logical" faculty had nothing to do with religion, if it is not to be supposed rather to stand in the way of it; that the "intellect" and the "spiritual faculty" may each retire to its "vacant interlunar cave," and never trouble its head about what the other is doing. Thus he says in one place, "All the grounds of Belief proposed to the mere understanding have nothing to do with Faith at all." (Soul, p. 223.) In another, "The processes of thought have nothing to quicken the conscience or affect the soul." (ibid. p. 245) "How, then, can the state of the soul be tested by the conclusion to which the intellect is led?" (ibid. p. 245.) And accordingly you see he everywhere affirms that we ought not to have any better or worse opinion of any man for his "intellectual creed"; and that "religious progress" cannot be "anticipated" till intellectual "creeds are destroyed." (Phases, p. 222.)

Here one would imagine that the intellectual, moral, and spiritual had even less to do with the production of each other's results than matter and mind reciprocally have with theirs. These last, we see, in a thousand cases act and react upon one another; and modify each other's peculiar products and operations in a most important manner. How much more reasonably may we infer that the elementary faculties of the same indivisible mind will not discharge their functions without important reciprocal action; that in no case can we have the process pure and simple as the result of the operation of a single faculty!

If it were not so, I see not how we are to perform any of the functions of a spiritual nature, even as defined by you and your favorite writers; unless, indeed, you would equip the soul with an entire Sunday suit of separate capacities of reasoning, remembering, imagining, hoping, rejoicing, and so on, to be expressly used by the "soul" alone when engaged in her spiritual functions; quite different from that old, threadbare, much-worn suit of faculties, having similar functions indeed, but exercised on other objects.

What can be more obvious (and it must be admitted that the most fanatical "spiritualist" employs expressions, and, what is more, uses methods, which imply it) than that, whether we have a distinct religious faculty or whether it be the result of the action of many faculties, the functions of our "spiritual" nature are performed by the instrumentality, and involve the intervention, of the very same much-abused faculties which enable us to perform any other function. It is one and the same indivisible mind which is the subject of religious thought and emotion, and of any other thought and emotion. Religious truth, like any other truth, is embraced by the understanding—as indeed it would be a queer kind of truth that is not is stated in propositions, yields inferences, is adorned by eloquence is illustrated by the imagination, and is thus, as well from its intrinsic claims, rendered powerful over the emotions, the affections, and the will. In brief, when the soul apprehends, reasons, remembers, rejoices, hopes, fears, spiritually, it surely does not perform these functions by totally different faculties from these by which similar things are done on other occasions. All experience and consciousness are against the supposition. In religion, men's minds are employed on more sublime and elevated themes indeed, but the operations themselves are essentially of the same nature as in other cases. Hence we see the dependence of the true development of religion on the just and harmonious action of all our faculties. They march together; and it is the glorious prerogative of true religion that it makes them do so; that all the elements of our nature, being indissolubly connected, and perpetually acting and reacting on one another, should aid one another and attain a more just conjoint action. If there be acceptable faith, it presupposes belief of the truth, as well as love of it in the heart; if there be holy habit, it implies just knowledge of duty; if there be spiritual emotion awakened, it will still be in accordance with the laws which ordinarily produce it; that is, because that which should produce it is perceived by the senses or the intellect, is recalled by the memory, is vivified by the imagination. If faith and hope and love often kindle into activity, and hallow these instruments by which and through which they act, it is not the less true, that, apart from these,—as constituting the same indivisible mind—faith and hope and love cannot exist: and not only so; but when faith is languid, and hope faint, and love expiring, these faculties themselves shall often in their turn initiate the process which shall revive them all; some outward object, some incident of life, some "magic word," some glorious image, some stalwart truth, suddenly and energetically stated, shall, through the medium of the senses, the imagination, or the intellect, set the soul once more in a blaze, and revive the emotions which it is at other times only their office to express. A sanctified intellect, a hallowed imagination, devout affections, have a reciprocal tendency to stimulate each other. In whatever faculty of our nature the stimulus may be felt,—in the intellect or the imagination,—it is thence propagated through the mysterious net-work of the soul to the emotions, the affections, the conscience, the will: or, conversely, these last may commence the movement and propagate it in reverse order. Each may become in turn a centre of influence; but so indivisible is the soul and mind of man, so indissolubly bound together the elements which constitute them, that the influence once commenced never stops where it began, but acts upon them all. The ripple, as that of a stone dropped into still water, no matter where, may be fainter and fainter the farther from the spot where the commotion began, but it will stop only with the bank. Ordinarily many functions of the mind are involved in each, and sometimes all in one.

_

July 24. Yesterday, a somewhat interesting conversation took place between Harrington and Edward Robinson, a youth at college, a friend of George Fellowes's family. He is a devout admirer of Strauss, and thinks that writer has completely destroyed the historical character of the Gospels. I was, as usual, struck with the candor and logical consistency with which our sceptic was disposed to regard the subject.

"You have Lingard and Macaulay here, I see," said young Robinson. "I need hardly ask, I think, which you find the most pleasant reading?"

"You need not, indeed," cried Harrington. "Mr. Macaulay is so superior to the Roman Catholic historian (though his merits are great too) in genius, in consequence, in variety and amplitude of knowledge, in imagination, in style, that there is no comparison between them."

"And do you think Mr. Macaulay as accurate as he is full of genius and eloquence?"

"If he be not," said Harrington, laughing, "I am afraid there are very few of us deeply versed enough in history to detect his delinquencies, or even to say whether they have been committed. There may be, for aught I know, some cases (of infinite importance of course) in which he has represented an event as having taken place on the 20th of Dec. 1693; whereas it took place on the 3d Jan. 1694; or he may have said that Sir Thomas Nobody was the son of another Sir Thomas Nobody, whereas two or three antiquarians can incontestably prove that he was the son of Sir John Nobody, and nephew of the above. To me, I confess, he appears distinguished scarcely more by the splendor of his imagination than by the opulence of his knowledge, and the imperial command which he possesses over it. But, in truth, the accuracy or otherwise of history, when it is at all remote, is a matter in which I feel less interest than I once did. I read, indeed, Mr. Macaulay with perpetual renewal of wonder and delight. But though I believe that his vivid pictures are the result, of a faithful use of his materials, yet, if I must confess the full extent of my scepticism, his work, and every other work which involves a reference to events which transpired only a century or two ago, is poisoned as history by the suspicion that to ascertain the truth is impossible. I know it must be so, if the principles of your favorite Strauss are to be received; and yet it seems so absurd, that I am sometimes inclined, on that account alone, to laugh at Strauss's criticisms, just as David Hume did at his own speculative doubts when he got into society and sat down to backgammon with a friend. At other times, as I say, the whole field of historic investigation seems more or less the territory of scepticism."

"I know not," said the other, "how you can justify any such general scepticism from any thing that Strauss has written."

"Do you not? and yet I think it is a perfectly legitimate inference. Does not Strauss argue that certain discrepancies are to be observed, certain apparent contradictions and inconsistencies detected, in the New Testament narratives; and that therefore we are to reckon, if not the whole, yet by far the larger part, as utterly fabulous or doubtful, mythic or legendary? Now, I cannot but feel, on the other hand, that these narratives are as strikingly marked by all the usual indications of historic truthfulness as any historic writings in the world. The artlessness, simplicity, and speciality of the narrative,—a certain inimitable tone and air of reality, earnestness, and candor,—the general harmony of these so-called sacred writers with themselves and with profane authors (quite as general, to say the least, as usually distinguishes other narratives by different hands),—above all, the long-concealed, and yet most numerous 'coincidences' which lie deep beneath the surface and which only a very industrious mind brings to light; coincidences which, if ingenuity had been subtle enough to fabricate, that same ingenuity would have been too sagacious to conceal so deep, and which are too numerous and striking (one would imagine) to be the effect of accident;—all these things, I say, would seem to argue (if any thing can) the integrity of the narrative. Yet all these things must necessarily, of course, go for nothing, on Strauss's hypothesis. There are, you say, certain discrepancies, and from them you proceed to conclude that the narrative is uncertain, and unworthy of credit; that, if there be a residuum of truth at all, no man can know with any certainty what or how much it is. We must there-fore leave the whole problematical. Now the question comes, whether we must not in consistency apply the same principle further; and, if so, whether we can find in any history whatever stronger marks of credibility; whether any was ever submitted to an examination more severe, or so severe; whether any can boast of a larger number of minds, of the first order, giving their assent to it."

"Let me stop you there," said the other; "you must consider that those minds were prejudiced in favor of the conclusion. They were inclined to believe the supernatural wonders which these pretended historians retail."

"How differently men may argue with the same premises! I was about to mention the suspicion attaching to miraculous narratives, as attesting (I still think so, notwithstanding your observation) that stress and pressure of supposed historic credibility under which so many powerful minds—minds many of them of the first order—have felt themselves compelled to receive these histories as true, in spite of such obstacles. Surely, you do not think that a miracle is in our age, or has been for many ages, an antecedent ground of credibility; or that if a history does not contain enough of them, as this assuredly does, it is certain to be believed. No; do not you with Strauss contend that a miracle is not to be believed at all, because it contradicts uniform experience? And yet thousands of powerful minds have believed the truth of these historic records against all this uniform experience! Their prejudices against it must surely have been stronger than those for it.—But to resume the statement of my difficulties. I say the question returns whether there is any history in the world which either presents in inexplicable marks of historic credibility, or in which as numerous and equally inexplicable discrepancies cannot be discovered. If there be none, then how far shall we adopt and carry out the principles of Strauss? for if we carry them out with rigid equity, the whole field of history is abandoned to scepticism: it is henceforth the domain of doubt and contention; as, in truth, a very large part of it in Germany has already become, in virtue of these very principles. Much of profane history is abandoned, as well as the sacred; and Homer becomes as much a shadow as Christ."

"You seem," said Robinson, "to be almost in the condition to entertain Dr. Whately's ingenious 'Historic Doubts' touching the existence of Napoleon Bonaparte!" * _

* Are the ingenious "Historic Certainties," by "Aristar hus Newlight," from the same admirable mint?—ED. _

"I believe that it is simply our proximity to the events which renders it difficult to entertain them. If the injuries of time and the caprice of fortune should in the remote future leave as large gaps in the evidence, and as large scope for ingenious plausibilities, as in relation to the remote past, I believe multitudes would find no difficulty in entertaining those 'doubts.' They seem to me perfectly well argued, and absolutely conclusive on the historic canons on which Strauss's work is constructed,—namely, that if you find what seem discrepancies and improbabilities in a reputed history, the mass of that historic texture in which they are found may be regarded as mythical or fabulous, doubtful or false. If you say the principles of Strauss are false, that is another matter. I shall not think it worth while to contest their truth or their falsehood with you. But if you adhere to them, I will take the liberty of showing you that you do not hold them consistently, if you think any remote history is to be regarded as absolutely placed beyond doubt."

"Well, if you will be grave," said Robinson, "though, upon my word. I thought you in jest,—is it possible that you do not see that there is a vast difference between rejecting, on the same ground of discrepancies, the credibility of the narratives of the Gospel, and that of any common history?"

"I must honestly confess, then, that I do not, if the discrepancies, as Strauss alleges, and not something else, is to be assigned as the cause of their rejection. If indeed, like some criminals under despotic governments, they are apprehended and convicted on a certain charge, but really hanged for an entirely different reason, I can understand that there may be policy in the proceeding; but I do not comprehend its argumentative honesty. Be pleased, therefore, (that I may form some conclusion,) to tell me what are those circumstances which so wonderfully discriminate the discrepancies in the New Testament histories from those in other histories, as that the inevitable consequence of finding a certain amount of discrepancies in the former leads to the rejection of the entire, or nearly entire, documents in which they are found, while their presence in other histories even to a far greater extent shall not authorize their rejection at all, or the rejection only of the parts in which the discrepancies are found. And yet I think I can guess."

"Well, what do you guess?"

"That you think that the miraculous nature of the events which form a portion of the New Testament history makes a great difference in the case."

"And do not you?"

"I cannot say I do: for though it is doubtless Strauss's principal object to get rid of these miracles, it is not as miracles, but as history, that his canons of historic criticism are applied to them. It is as history that he attacks the books in which they are contained. His weapons are directed against the miracles, indeed; but it is only by piercing the history, with which alone the supposed discrepancies had ally thing to do."

"But I cannot conceive that the historic discrepancies occurring in connection with such topics must not have more weight attached to them than if they occurred in any other history."

"This is because you have already resolved that miracles are impossible on totally different grounds. But you may see the fallacy in a moment. Talk with a man who does not believe miracles a priori impossible, and that, though of course improbable (otherwise they would be none, I suppose), the authentication of a divine revelation is a sufficient reason for their being wrought, and he evades your argument. You are then compelled, you see, to throw yourself exclusively upon the alleged historic discrepancies; they become your sole weapon; and if it pierces the New Testament history, I want to know whether it does not equally pierce all other remote history too? In truth, if, as you and Mr. Fellowes agree,—I only doubt,—a miracle is impossible, nothing can (as I think) be more strange, than that, instead of reposing in that simple fact, which you say is demonstrable, you should fly to historic proofs."

"And do you not think that miracles are impossible and absurd?"

"I think nothing, because, as I told Fellowes the other day, I am half inclined to doubt whether I doubt whether a miracle is possible or not, like a genuine sceptic as I am. And this doubt, you see, even of a doubt, makes me cautious. But to resume. If that principle be sound, it seems much more natural to adhere to it than to attack the Gospels as history. Strauss, however, has thought otherwise; and while he has left this main dictum unproved,—nay, has not even attempted a proof of it,—he has endeavored to shake the historic character of these records, treating them like any other records. I say, therefore, that to adduce the circumstance that the narrative is miraculous, is nothing to the purpose, until the impossibility of miracles is proved; and then, when this is proved, it is unnecessary to adduce the discrepancies. If on the other hand, a man has no difficulty (as the Christian, for example) in believing miracles to be possible, and that they have really occurred, Strauss's argument, as I have said, is evaded; and the seeming discrepancies can do no more against the credibility of the New Testament history, than equal discrepancies can prove against any other document. I will, if possible, make my meaning plain by yet another example. Let us suppose some Walter Scott had compiled some purely fictitious history, professedly laid in the Middle Ages (and surely even miraculous occurrences cannot be more unreal than these products of sheer imagination); and suppose some critic had engaged to prove it fiction from internal evidence supplied by contradictions and discrepancies, and so on, would you not think it strange if he were to enforce that argument by saying, 'And besides all this, what is more suspicious is, that they occur in a work of imagination!' Would you not say, 'Learned sir, we humbly thought this was the point you were engaged in making out? Is it not to assume the very point in debate? And if it be true, would it not be better to stop there at once, instead of taking us so circuitous a road to the same result, which we perceive you had already reached beforehand? Are you not a little like that worthy Mayor who told Henri Quatre that he had nineteen good reasons for omitting to fire a salute on his Majesty's arrival; the first of which was, that he had no artillery; whereupon his Majesty graciously told him that he might spare the remaining eighteen?' So I should say in the supposed case.—To return, then: you must, if you would consider the validity of Strauss's argument, lay aside the miraculous objection, which must be decided on quite different grounds, and which, in fact, if valid, settles the controversy without his critical aid. All who read Strauss's book either believe that miracles are impossible, or not; the former need not his criticisms,—they have already arrived at the result by a shorter road; the latter can only reject the history by supposing the discrepancies in it, as history, justify them. I ask you, then, supposing you one who, like the Christian, believes miracles possible, whether these historic discrepancies would justify you in saying that the New Testament records, considered simply as history, no longer deserve credit, and that you are left in absolute ignorance how much of them, or whether any part, is to be received,—ay or no?"

"Well, then, I should say that Strauss has shown that the history, as history, is to be rejected."

"Very well; only then do not be surprised that, in virtue of such conclusions, I doubt whether you ought not to push the principle a little further, and contend that, as there are no writings in the world which to bear more marks of historic sincerity and trustworthiness, and certainly none of any magnitude or variety in which far greater discrepancies are not to be founds, it is doubtful whether we can receive any thing as absolutely veritable history; and that the Book of Genesis, and Gospel of Luke, and History of Lingard, and History of Hume, are alike covered with a mist of sceptical obscurity."

"But really, Mr. Harrington, this is absurd and preposterous!"

"It may be so; but you must prove it, and not simply content yourself with affirming it. I am, at all events, more consistent than you, who tell the man who does not see your a priori objection to the belief of miracles, that a history which certainly contains as many marks of historic veracity as any history in the world, and discrepancies neither greater nor more numerous, must be reduced (ninety-nine hundredths of it) to myth on account of those discrepancies, while the others may still legitimate their claims to be considered as genuine history! Your only escape, as I conceive, from this dilemma, is, by saying that the marks of historic truth in the New Testament, looked at as mere history, are not so great as those of other histories, or that the discrepancies are greater; and I think even you will not venture to assert that. But if you do, and choose to put it on that issue, I shall be most happy to try the criterion by examining Luke and Paul, Matthew and Mark, on the one side; and Clarendon and May, or Hume, Lingard, and Macaulay, on the other; or, if you prefer them, Livy and Polybius, or Tacitus and Josephus."

"But I have bethought me of another answer," said Robinson. "Suppose the sacred writers affirm that every syllable they utter is infallibly true, being inspired?"

"Why, then," said Harrington, "first, you must find such a passage, which many say you cannot; secondly, you must find one which says that every syllable would remain always infallibly true, in spite of all errors of transcription and corruptions of time, otherwise your discrepancies will not touch the writers; and lastly, it does not affect my argument whether you find any such absurdities or not, since you and I would know what to say, though the Christian would not like to say it; namely, that these writers were mistaken in the notion of their plenary inspiration. It would still leave the mass of their history to be dealt with like any other history. Now I want to know why, if I reject the mass of that on the ground of certain discrepancies, I must not reject the mass of this on the score of equal or greater."

After a few minutes Harrington turned to Fellowes and said,—"That in relation to the bulk of mankind there can be no authentic history of remote events plainly appears from a statement of Mr. Newman. He says, you know, after having relinquished the investigation of the evidences of Christianity, that he might have spared much weary thought and useless labor, if, at an earlier time, this simple truth had been pressed upon him, that since the 'poor and half-educated cannot investigate historical and literary questions, therefore these questions cannot constitute an essential part of religion.' You, if you recollect, mentioned it to my uncle the other night; and, in spite of what he replied, it does appear a weighty objection; on the other hand, if I admit it to be conclusive, I seem to be driven to the most paradoxical conclusions, at direct variance with the experience of all mankind,—at least so they say. For why cannot an historical fact constitute part of a religion?"

"Because, as Mr. Newman says, it is impossible that the bulk of people call have any 'certainty in relation to such remote facts of history," said Fellowes.

"And, therefore, in relation to any other remote history; for if the bulk of men cannot obtain certainty on, such historical questions, neither can they obtain certainty on other historical questions."

"Perhaps not; but then what does it matter, in that case, whether they can obtain certainty or not?"

"I am not talking—I am not thinking—as to whether it would matter or not. I merely remark that, in relation to the generality of people, at all events, they cannot obtain certainty on any remote historical questions. Of course, with regard to ordinary history, it is neither a man's duty, strictly speaking, to believe or disbelieve; and therefore I said nothing about duty. But in neither the one case nor the other is it possible for the bulk of mankind to obtain satisfaction, from a personal investigation, as to the facts of remote history, or indeed any history at all, except of a man's own life and that perhaps of his own family, up to his father and down to his son! What do you say to this,—yes or no?"

"I do not know that I should object to say that the great bulk of mankind never can obtain a sufficiently certain knowledge of any fact of history to warrant their belief of it."

"Very consistent, I think; for you doubtless perceive that if we say they can obtain a reasonable ground of assurance of the facts of remote history,—so that, if any thing did or does depend on their believing it, they are truly in possession of a warrant for acting on that belief,—I say you then see whither our argument, Mr. Newman's and yours and mine, is going; it vanishes,—oichetai, as Socrates would say. If, for example, men can attain reasonable certainty in relation to Alfred and Cromwell, alas! they may do the like in reference to Christ; and many persons will say much more easily. Now, with my too habitual scepticism, I confess to a feeling of difficulty here. You know there are thousands and tens of thousands amongst us, who, if you asked respecting the history of Alfred the Great or Oliver Cromwell, would glibly repeat to you all the principal facts of the story,—as they suppose; and if you ask them whether they have ever investigated critically the sources whence they had obtained their knowledge, they will say, No; but that they have read the things in Hume's History; or, perhaps, (save the mark!) in Goldsmith's Abridgment! But they are profoundly ignorant of even the names of the principal authorities, and have never investigated one of the many doubtful points which have perplexed historians; nay, as to most of them, are not even aware that they exist. Yet nothing can be more certain, than that their supposed knowledge would embrace by far the most important conclusions at which the most accurate historians have arrived. It would be principally in a supposed juster comprehension of minor points—of details—that the latter would have an advantage over them; compensated, however, by a 'plentiful assortment' of doubts on other points, from which these simple souls are free; doubts which are the direct result of more extensive investigation, but which can scarcely be thought additions to our knowledge;—they are rather additions to our ignorance. The impressions of the mass of readers on all the main facts of the two memorable periods respectively would be the same as those of more accurate critics. Now what I want to know is, whether you would admit that these superficial inquirers—the bulk of your decent countrymen, recollect—can be said to have an intelligent belief in any such history; whether you think them justified in saying that they are certain of the substantial accuracy of their impressions, and that they may laugh in your face (which they assuredly would do) if you told them that it is possible that Alfred may have existed, and been a wise and patriotic prince; and that probably Oliver Cromwell was Protector of England, and died in 1658; but that really they know nothing about the matter."

"Of course they would affirm that they are as assured of the substantial accuracy of their impressions as of their own existence," replied Fellowes.

"But what answer do you think they ought to give, my friend? Do you think that they can affirm a reasonable ground of belief in these things?"

"I confess I think they can."

"Ah! then I fear you are grossly inconsistent with Mr. Newman's principles, and must so far distrust his argument against historic religion. If you think that this ready assent to remote historic events may pass for a reasonable conviction and an intelligent belief, I cannot see why it should be more difficult to attain a similar confidence in the general results of a religious history; and in that case it may also become men's duty to act upon that belief. On the other hand, if it be not possible to obtain this degree of satisfaction in the latter case, neither for similar reasons will it be in the former. If you hold Mr. Newman's principles consistently, seeing that neither in the one case nor the other can the bulk of mankind attain that sort of critical knowledge which he supposes necessary to certainty, you ought to deny that any common man has any business to say that he believes that he is certain of the main facts in the history either of Alfred or Cromwell."

"You do not surely mean to compare the importance of a belief in the one case with the importance of a belief in the other?" rejoined Fellowes.

"I do not; and can as little disguise from myself that such a question has nothing to do with the matter. The duty in the one case depends entirely on the question whether such a conviction of the accuracy of the main facts and more memorable events, as may pass for moral certainty, and justify its language and acts, be possible or not. If, from a want of capacity and opportunity for a thorough investigation of all the conditions of the problem, it be not in the one case, neither will it be in the other. If this be a fallacy, be pleased to prove it such,—I shall not be sorry to have it so proved. But at present you seem to me grossly inconsistent in this matter. I have also my doubts (to speak frankly) whether we must not apply Mr. Newman's principle (to the great relief of mankind) in other most momentous questions, in which the notion of duty cannot be excluded, but enters as an essential element. I cannot help fancying, that, if his principle be true, mankind ought to be much obliged to him; for he has exempted them from the necessity of acting in all the most important affairs of life. For example, you are, I know, a great political philanthropist; you plead for the duty of enlightening the masses of the people on political questions, —of making them intelligently acquainted with the main points of political and economical science. You do not despair of all this?"

"I certainly do not," said Fellowes.

"A most hopeless task," said Harrington, "on Mr. Newman's principle. The questions on which you seek to enlighten them are, many of them, of the most intricate and difficult character,—are, all of them, dependent on principles, and involve controversies, with which the great bulk of mankind are no more competent to deal than with Newton's 'Principia.' An easy, and often erroneous assent, on ill-comprehended data, is all that you can expect of the mass; and how can it be their duty, when it may often be their ruin, to act upon this? A superficial knowledge is all that you can give them; thorough investigation is out of the question. Most men, I fear, will continue to believe it at least as possible for the common people to form a judgment on the validity of Paley's 'Evidences,' as on the reasonings of Smith's 'Political Economy.' They will say, if the common people can be sufficiently sure of their conclusions in the latter case to take action upon them,—that is, to render action a duty,—the like is possible in the former. Should you not hold by your principle, and say, that, as from the difficulty of the investigation it is not possible for the bulk of mankind to attain such a degree of certainty as to make belief in an 'historical religion' a duty, so neither, for the like reason, can it be their duty to come to any definite conclusion, or to take any definite action, in relation to the equally difficult questions of politics, legislation, political economy, and a variety of other sciences? I will take another case. I believe you will not deny that you are profoundly ignorant of medicine, nor that, though the most necessary, it is at the same time the most difficult and uncertain of all the sciences. You know that the great bulk of mankind are as ignorant as yourself; nay, some affirm that physicians themselves are about as ignorant as their patients; it is certain that, in reference to many classes of disease, doctors take the most opposite views of the appropriate treatment, and even treat disease in general on principles diametrically opposed! A more miserable condition for an unhappy patient can hardly be imagined.

"Though our own life, or that of our dearest friend in the world, hangs in the balance, it is impossible for us to tell whether the art of the doctor will save or kill. I doubt, therefore, whether you ought not to conclude, from the principle on which we have already said so much, that God cannot have made it a poor wretch's duty to take any step whatever; nay, since even the medical man himself often confesses that he does not know whether the remedies he uses will do harm or good, it may be a question whether he himself ought not to relinquish his profession, at least if it be a duty in man to act only in cases in which he can form something better than conjectures."

"Well," said Fellowes, laughing; "and some even in the profession itself say, that perhaps it might not be amiss if the patient never called in such equivocal aid, and allowed himself to die, not secundum artem, but secundum naturam."

"And yet I fancy that, in the sudden illness of a wife or child, you would send to the first medical man in your street, or the next, though you might be ignorant of his name, and he might be almost as ignorant of his profession; at least, that is what the generality of mankind would do."

"They certainly would."

"But yet, upon your principles, how can it be their duty to act on such slender probabilities, or, rather, mere conjectures, in cases so infinitely important?"

"I know not how that may be, but it is assuredly necessary."

"Well, then, shall we say it is only necessary, but not a duty? But then, if in a case of such importance God has made it thus necessary for man to act in such ignorance, people will say he may possibly have left them in something less than absolute certainty in the matter of an 'historical religion.'—Ah! it is impossible to unravel these difficulties. I only know, that, if the principle be true, then as men in general cannot form any reasonable judgment, not only on the principles of medical science, but even on the knowledge and skill of any particular professor of it, (by their ludicrous mis-estimate of which they are daily duped both of money and life to an enormous extent,) it cannot be their duty to take any steps in this matter at all. The fair application, therefore, of the principle in question would, as I say, save mankind a great deal of trouble;—but, alas! it involves us philosophers in a great deal."

"I cannot help thinking," said Fellowes, "that you have caricatured the principle." And he appealed to me.

"However ludicrous the results," said I, "of Harrington's argument, I do not think that his representation, if the principle is to be fairly carried out, is any caricature at all. The absurdity, if anywhere, is in the principle aimed; viz. that God cannot have constituted it man's duty to act, in cases of very imperfect knowledge, and yet we see that he has perpetually compelled him to do so; nay, often in a condition next door to stark ignorance. To vindicate the wisdom of such a constitution may be impossible; but the fact cannot be denied. The Christian admits the difficulty alike in relation to religion and to the affairs of this world. He believes, with Butler, that 'probability is the guide of life';—that man may have sufficient evidence, in a thousand cases,—varying, however, in different individuals,—to warrant his action, and a reasonable confidence in the results, though that evidence is very far removed from certitude;—that similarly the mass of men are justified in saying that they know a thousand facts of history to be true, though they never had the opportunity, or capacitor, of thoroughly investigating them, and that the great facts of science are true, though they may know no more of science than of the geology of the moon;—that the statesman, the lawyer, and the physician are justified in acting, where they yet are compelled to acknowledge that they act only on most unsatisfactory calculations of probabilities, and amidst a thousand doubts and difficulties;—that you, Mr. Fellowes, are justified in endeavoring to enlighten the common people on many important subjects connected with political and social science, in which it is yet quite certain that not one in a hundred thousand can ever go to the bottom of them; of which very few can do more than attain a rough and crude notion, and in which the bulk must act solely because they are persuaded that other men know more about the matters in question than themselves;—all which, say we Christians, is true in relation to the Christian religion, the evidence for which is plainer, after all, than that on which man in ten thousand cases is necessitated to hazard his fortune or his life. If you follow out Mr. Newman's principle, I think you must with Harrington liberate mankind from the necessity of acting altogether in all the most important relations of human life. If it be thought not only hard that men should be called perpetually to act on defective, grossly defective evidence, but still harder that they should possess varying degrees even of that evidence, it may be said that the difference perhaps is rather apparent than real. Those whom we call profoundly versed in the more difficult matters which depend on moral evidence, are virtually in the same condition as their humbler neighbors; they are profound only by comparison with the superficiality of these last. Where men must act, the decisive facts, as was said in relation to history, may be pretty equally grasped by all; and as for the rest, the enlargement of the circle of a man's knowledge is, in a still greater proportion, the enlargement of the circle of his ignorance; for the circumscribing periphery lies in darkness. Doubts, in proportion to the advance of knowledge, spring up where they were before unknown; and though the previous ignorance of these was not knowledge, the knowledge of them (as Harrington has said) is little better than an increase of our ignorance."

"If, as you suppose, it cannot be our duty to act in reference to any 'historical religion' because a satisfactory investigation is impossible to the mass of mankind, the argument may be retorted on your own theory. You assert, indeed, that in relation to religion we have an internal 'spiritual faculty' which evades this difficulty; yet men persist in saying, in spite of you, that it is doubtful,—1st, whether they have any such; 2d, whether, if there be one, it be not so debauched and sophisticated by other faculties, that they can no longer trust it implicitly; 3d, what is the amount of its genuine utterances; 4th, what that of its aberrations; 5th, whether it is not so dependent on development, education, and association, as to leave room enough for an auxiliary external revelation;—on all which questions the generality of mankind are just as incapable of deciding, as about any historical question whatever."

Here Fellowes was called out of the room. Harrington, who had been glancing at the newspaper, exclaimed,—"Talk about the conditions on which man is left to act indeed! Only think of his gross ignorance and folly being left a prey to such quack advertisements as half fill this column. Here empirics every day almost invite men to be immortal for the small charge of half a crown. Here is a panacea for nearly every disease under heaven in the shape of some divine elixir, and, what is more, we know that thousands are gulled by it. How satisfactory is that condition of the human intellect in which quack promises can be proffered with any plausible chance of success!"

I told him I thought the science of medicine would yield an argument against religious sceptics which they would find it very difficult to reply to.

"How so?"

"Ah! it is well masked; but I know you too well to allow me to doubt that you suspect what I am referring to."

"Upon my word, I am all in the dark."

"Is there not," said I, "a close analogy between the condition of men in reference to the health of their bodies and the science by which they hope to conserve or restore it, and the health of their souls and the science by which they hope to conserve or restore that? Has not God placed them in precisely the same difficulty and perplexity in both cases,—nay, as I think, in greater in relation to medicine,—and yet is not man most willing and eager to apply to its most problematic aid, imparted even by the most ignorant practitioners, rather than be without it altogether? The possession which man holds most valuable in this world, and most men, alas! more valuable than aught in any other world,—LIFE itself,—is at stake; it is subjected to a science, or rather an art, proverbially difficult in theory and uncertain in practice, about which there have been ten thousand varieties of opinion, —whimsically corresponding to the diversity of sect, creed, and priesthood, on which sceptics like you lay so much stress; in which even the wisest and most cautious practitioners confess that their art is at best only a species of guessing; while the patient can no more judge of the remedies he consents, with so much faith, to swallow on the knowledge of him who prescribes them, than he can of the perturbations of Jupiter's satellites. Yet the moment he is sick, away he goes to this dubious oracle, and trusts it with a most instructive faith and docility, as if it were infallible. All his doubts are mastered in an instant. I strongly suspect yours would be. Ought you not in consistency to refuse to act at all in such deplorable deficiency of evidence?"

"Well," said he, "consistent or inconsistent, it must be admitted that the parallel is very complete,—and amusing." And he then went on, as he was apt to do, when an analogy struck his fancy. "Let me see,—yes, our unlucky race is condemned to put its most valued possession on the hazard of a wise choice, without any of the essential qualifications for wisely making it; a man cannot at all tell whether his particular priest in medicine understands and can skilfully apply even his own theory. Yes," he went on, "and I think (as you say) we might find, not only in the partisans of different systems of physic, the representatives of the various priesthoods, but in their too credulous—or shall we say, too faithful patients? —the representatives of all sects. There is, for example, the superstitious vulgar in medicine,—the gross worshipper of the Fetish, who believes in the efficacy of charm, and spell, and incantation, of mere ceremonial and opus operatum; then there is the polytheist, who will adore any thing in the shape of a drug, and who is continually quacking himself with some nostrum or other from morning to night; who not only takes his regular physician's prescriptions, but has his household gods of empirical remedies, to which he applies with equal devotion. Then there is the Romanist in medicine, who swears by the infallibility of some papal Abernethy, and the unfailing efficacy of some viaticum of a blue pill."

"And who," said I, "would represent our friend who has just left the room, and who has tried every thing?"

"Why," he replied, "I think he is in the condition of a little boy of whom I heard a little while ago, whose mother was a homoeopathist, and kept a little chest, from which she dispensed to her family and friends, perhaps as skilfully as the doctor himself could have done. The little fellow, going into her dressing-room, opened this box, and, thinking that he had fallen on a score of 'millions' (as children call them), swallowed up his mother's whole doctor's shop before he could be stopped. It was happy, said the doctor, when called in, that the little patient had swallowed so many, or he would have been infallibly killed. Or perhaps we may liken our friend to that humorous traveller, Mr. Stephens, who tells us, that, having been provided at Cairo, by a skilful physician there, with a number of remedies for some serious complaint to which he was subject, found, to his dismay, when suffering under a severe paroxysm in the fortress of Akaba, that he had lost the directions which told him in what order the medicines were to be taken. Whether pill, powder, or draught was to come first, he knew not: 'on which,' says he, 'in a fit of desperation, I placed them all in a row before me, and resolved to swallow them all serialim till I obtained relief.' George has equal faith."

"You have omitted," said I, "one character,—that of the sceptic, who believes in no medicine at all; who sturdily dies with his doubts unresolved, and unattended by any physician. But it must be confessed that he is a still rarer character than the sceptic in religion. Nature, my dear Harrington, everywhere decides against you."

"I acknowledge," he said, "that we are but a scanty flock in any department of life; but, upon my word, the parallel you have suggested is so striking, that I think I must in consistency, extend my scepticism to physic at least, and, if I am ill, refrain from availing myself of so uncertain an art, practised by such uncertain hands and which are to be selected by one who cannot even guess whether they are ignorant or skilful;—doctors, who may perhaps, as Voltaire said, put drugs of which they know nothing into bodies of which they know still less."

"Act upon that resolution, Harrington," said I, "and you will at least be consistent: but, depend upon it, nature will confute you."

"Why," said he, jestingly, "perhaps in the case of medicine, at all events, I might face the consequences of scepticism'. I remember reading, in some account of Madagascar, that the natives are absolutely without the healing art; 'and yet,' says the author, with grave surprise, 'it is not observed that the number of deaths is increased.' Perhaps, thought I, that is the cause of it."

"The statistics," I replied, "of more civilized countries amply refute you, and show you that, uncertain as is the evidence on which God has destined and compelled men to act in this, the most important affair of the present life, and absolute as is the faith they are summoned to exercise, neither is the study of the art (uncertain as it is in itself), nor the dependence of patients upon it (still more precarious as that is), unjustified on the whole by the result; and as to the abuses of downright quackery, a little prudence and common sense are required, and are sufficient to preserve men from them."

He mused, and, I thought, seemed struck by this analogy between man's temporal and spiritual condition I said no more, hoping that he would ponder it. _

July 25. I had been so much interested in the discussion between Harrington and young Robinson on the fair application of the principle of Strauss to history in general, that I could not resist the temptation to tell the youth, in secret, that I thought the matter would admit of further discussion, and that he would do well to challenge Harrington plausibly to show that some undoubted modern event might, when it became remote history, be rendered dubious to posterity. He willingly acted on the hint the next morning. To some remark of his, Harrington replied thus:—

"Assuming with you, that Strauss has really cast suspicion on the historic character of the bulk of the transactions recorded in the New Testament, I must suspect that there is not an event in history, if at all remote, which, arguing exactly on the same principles, may not be made doubtful; and that is—"

"Why, now," replied the other, "do you think it possible that the events of the present year" (referring to the Papal Aggression), "which are making such a prodigious noise in England, will ever stand a chance of being similarly treated some centuries hence?"

"If they are ever treated at all," said Harrington; "but you must have observed that it is the tendency of man to make ridiculous miss-estimates of the importance of the transactions of his own age, and to imagine that posterity will have nothing to do but to recount them. He is much mistaken; they forget or care not a doit for nine tenths of what he does; and misrepresent the tenth," continued he, laughing.

"Well, then, upon the supposition that Pio Nono and Cardinal Wiseman are of sufficient importance to be remembered at all eighteen hundred and fifty years hence, that is, in the year 3700 of the Christian era, —though in all probability some new and more rational epoch will have jostled out both the Christian era the Mahometan hegira by that time—"

"Pray be sure," interrupted I, "before you predict a new epoch, that it will be wanted; that Christianity is really dead before you bury her. You will please remember that the experiment was tried in France with much formality, but somehow came to a speedy ignominious conclusion; the new era did not survive infancy. As Paulus thinks that Christ was only in a trance when he seemed to be dead, so it certainly often is (figuratively speaking) with his religion: it seems to be dead when it is only in a trance. It is apt to rise again, and be more active than ever; and never more so than when, as in the middle of the last century, our infidel undertakers were providing for its funeral. But I beg your pardon for interrupting your conversation; you were saying—"

"I was saying," said Robinson, "that I doubt whether Cardinal Wiseman and his doings, eighteen hundred and fifty years hence, could be as much the subject of doubt and controversy (if remembered at all) as the events which Strauss has shown to be unhistorical. I think the press alone, with its diffusion and multiplication 'of the sources of knowledge, will alone prevent in the future the doubts which gather over the past. There will never again be the same dearth of historic materials."

"In spite of all that," replied Harrington, "I suspect it will be very possible for men to entertain the same doubts about many events of our time, eighteen hundred and fifty years hence, as they entertain of many which happened eighteen hundred and fifty years ago."

"I can hardly imagine this to be possible."

"Because, I apprehend, first, that you are laboring under the delusion already mentioned, by which men ever magnify the importance of the events of their own age, and forget how readily future generations will let them slip from their memory, and let documents which contain the record of them slip out of existence; and, secondly, because you do not give yourself time to realize all that is implied in supposing eighteen hundred years to have elapsed, nor to transport yourself fairly into that distant age. As to the first;—let us recollect that the importance of historical events is by no means in proportion to the excitement they produce at the time of their occurrence. We have many exemplifications of this even in our own time; see the rapidity with which every trace of a political storm, which for a moment may have lashed the whole nation into fury, is appeased again: the surface is as smooth after a few short years as if it had never been ruffled at all! In all such cases, the constant tendency is to let the events which have been thus transient in their effects sink into oblivion. But even of those which have been far more significant, (since each future age will teem with fresh events equally significant, all claiming a part in the page of general history,) the importance will be perpetually diminishing in estimate, and still more in interest, from the intenser feeling with which each age will in turn regard the events which stand in immediate proximity to its own. As time rolls on, all of the past that can be spared will be gradually jostled out. Details will be lost; and then, when remote ages turn to reinvestigate the half-forgotten past, the want of those details will issue in the customary problems and 'historic doubts.' In the page of general history, events of a remote age, except those of a surpassing interest, will be reduced to more and more meagre outlines, till abridgments are abridged, and even these compendiums thought tedious. The interval between decade and decade now will be as much as that between century and century then. History will have to employ a sort of Bramah press in her compositions, and its application will compress into mere films the loose and pulpy textures submitted to it by each age. Let human vanity think what it will, many events and many names which seem imperishable will speedily die out of remembrance; many lights in the firmament, destined (as we deem) to shine 'like the stars for ever and ever,' will hereafter be missing from the catalogue of the historic astronomer."

"But, at all events," said the other, "though there are thousands of facts which will be virtually forgotten, it will be at all times easy to ascertain (if a sufficiently strong motive exist) the real character of past, events by a reference to the documents preserved by the press. The press,—the press it is which will preserve us from the doubts of the past."

"I doubt that. Has there been any lack of historic controversy respecting a thousand facts which have transpired since the press was in full activity? You forget, that, in the first place, neither the press, nor any thing else, can preserve any original documents. Time will not be inactive in the future more than in the past; it will have no more respect for printed books than for manuscripts. An immense mass of print is every year silently perishing by mere decay. The original documents to which you refer will, eighteen hundred years hence, have almost all perished; few will be preserved except in copies, and how many disputes that alone will cause, it is hard to say; but we may form some guess from the experience of the past. Of thousands of these documents, again, no importance having been attached to them, and no one having imagined that any importance would ever be attached to them, no copies will have been taken, and there will be here again the usual field for conjectures. This is a common trick of time;—silently destroying what a present age thinks may as well be left to his maw. It is not even discovered that valuable documents are lost, till something turns up to make mankind wish they may be found. But neither is this the sole nor the chief source of future historic doubts. Do not flatter yourself too much on the wonders which the press can work, amongst which one unquestionably is, that it will bury at least as much as it will preserve. Several considerations will suffice to show that here, too, we labor under a delusion. Oblivion will practically cover many events, owing to the mere accumulations of the press itself. You talk of the ease of consulting 'original documents'; but when they lie buried in the depths of national museums, amidst mountain loads of forgotten and decaying literature, it will not be so easy, even supposing the present activity of the press only maintained for eighteen hundred and fifty years (although, in all probability, it will proceed at a rapidly increased ratio),—I say it will not be so easy to lay your hands on what you want. The materials, again, will often exist by that time in dead or half-obsolete languages, or at least in languages full of archaic forms. It will be almost as difficult to unearth and collate the documents which bear upon any events less than the most momentous, as to recover the memorials of Egypt from the pyramids, or of ancient Assyria from the mounds of Nineveh. The historian of a remote period must be a sort of Belzoni or Layard. If we can suppose any thing so extravagant as that the British Museum will be in existence then, having preserved during these centuries (as it does now) all new hooks, and accumulated ancient and foreign literature only at the rate it has during these few years past, the library alone will extend over hundreds of acres at least. This, unless our posterity are fools, can hardly be the case; and therefore much will be rejected and left to the mercy of the great destroyer. But the very existence of any such repository is itself a very doubtful supposition. Comprehensive, indeed, may be the destruction of many large portions of our archives, essentially necessary to minute accuracy at so distant a date; nay, England herself may have ceased to exist. If her subterranean fuel be not exhausted, a cheaper and equally abundant supply of it may have been found elsewhere, and transfer for ever the chief elements of her manufacturing or commercial prosperity; or entirely new and more transcendent sources of science may have done the same thing, and our country may be left, like a stranded vessel, to rot upon the beach! Her furnaces extinguished, her manufactories deserted, her cities decayed, the hum of her busy population silenced, she may present a spectacle of desolation like that of so many other famous nations which have risen, culminated, and set for ever."

"Or," interrupted I, "(and may God avert the omen!) the same ruin may be accomplished still earlier, and by more potent causes. Her nobles enervated by luxury, her lower classes sunk in vice and ignorance, and both the one and the other decaying in piety and religion (a sure result of neglecting that Bible which has directly and indirectly formed her strength), she may have fallen a victim to the consequences of her own degeneracy, or to an irresistible combination of the enemies who envy and hate her. That picture of the splendid imagination of the great historian of our day may be realized, 'when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul's.'"

"In short," resumed Harrington, "in several ways that appalling catastrophe may have taken place; and, should this be the case, how many questions will be asked of history, but asked in vain! As for Rome,—what other great name in the present strife pitted against England,—for aught we can tell, she may by that time be in desolation far more remediless than when the grim Attilas and Alarics stormed her walls. For aught we know, the agency of those terrible elements which more or less mine the soil of Italy may have made her 'like unto' Herculaneum or Pompeii; or that silent desolater, the malaria, which Dr. Arnold thinks will be perpetual and will increase, may long before that period have reduced, not only the Campagna of Rome, but the whole region of the 'seven hills,' to a pestilential solitude."

"But all this is mere vision?" said Robinson.

"Certainly; but it is the vision of the possible. Similarly wonderful and equally unexpected revolutions have taken place in the history of past nations and empires in a less space of time; and some enormous changes, we know, must happen during the next eighteen hundred and fifty years; and they will tend both to jostle out thousands of events of meaner moment, and to effect a comparative destruction of the memorials of the past. You do not suppose, I presume, that London and Rome are absolutely privileged from the fate which has overtaken Babylon and Memphis. I, for one, therefore, do not expect that the time will arrive when, in the historic investigations of the past, our Strausses will not find abundant scope for ingenious theories; nay, many real sources of perplexity even in reference to events which, at the time of their occurrence, seemed written as 'with a pen of iron on the rock for ever.' But even supposing no other difficulty, I cannot lay small stress upon the mere accumulation of materials on which the historian, two thousand years hence, will have to operate, if he would recover an exact account of the events of our time. It is much the same whether you have to dig into the pyramids of Egypt, or into the catacombs of the buried literature of two thousand years, for the memorials which are to enable you to arrive at the exact truth, at least as to any events of transient interest, however important at the time of their occurrence. It will be like 'hunting for a needle in a bundle of hay,' as the proverb says."

"Still, I cannot imagine that facts like those with which our ears have been ringing during the last eight months, can ever be contested."

"Can you not?" said Harrington. "I cannot imagine any thing more likely than that, eighteen hundred and fifty years hence, such an event, on Strauss's principles, may be shown to be very problematical."

"Will you endeavor to show how it may probably be?" rejoined Robinson.

"Well, I have no objection, if you will give me till this evening to prepare so important a document."

In the evening, after supper, he amused us by reading us a brief paper, entitled

THE PAPAL AGGRESSION SHOWN TO BE IMPOSSIBLE.

"I shall proceed on the supposition that some Dr. Dickkopf or Dr. Scharfsinn, for either name will do, has to deal (as my uncle here believes our modern critics have to deal in the Gospels) with an account literally true. This learned man I shall imagine as existing in some nation at the antipodes eighteen hundred and fifty years hence, and intellectually, if not literally, descended from some erudite critics of our age. Let me further suppose that the principal memorials of the current events are found in the page of some continuator of Macaulay (may the Fates have pity on him! I am afraid he will be far worse than even Smollett after Hume), who publishes his work only sixty years hence. Let us suppose him (as surely we well may) proceeding thus: 'During the year 1850-51, our countrymen are represented to us, by the accounts of those who lived at the time (some few still survive), as having been in a condition of political and religious excitement almost unprecedented in their history. It was occasioned by the attempt of the Pope to reestablish the Roman Catholic hierarchy, which had been extinct since the Reformation. As these events, though all-absorbing to the actors in them, (as are so many others of very secondary importance,) have now shrunk to their true dimensions, and are, in fact, infinitely less momentous than others which were silently transpiring at the time almost without notice, I shall content myself with simply condensing a brief contemporaneous document which gives the chief points, without passion or prejudice, in a narrative so simple that it vouches for its own veracity:—

"Without permission of the Crown, or any negotiations with the Government whatever, Pope Plus the Ninth divided the whole of England into twelve sees, and assigned these to as many Roman Catholic bishops with local titles and territorial jurisdiction. The chief of them was one Nicholas Wiseman (by birth, it is said, a Spaniard), who was created Archbishop of Westminster and Cardinal.

"'The said Wiseman issued a pastoral letter, which was read on the 27th day of October, 1850, in all the churches and chapels of the Romanists, congratulating Catholic England on the reestablishment of the Roman hierarchy. In it he used the startling expression, "Our beloved country has been restored to its orbit in the ecclesiastical firmament, from which its light had long vanished."

"'The nation was the more surprised at all this, inasmuch as the position of Pio Nono was not such as to warrant any expectation of a step so audacious. Little more than a year had elapsed since his own subjects in Rome itself rebelled against him, murdered his Prime Minister, and compelled him, in the disguise of a menial, to fly from Rome; nor was he restored except by the arms of the French, who besieged and took Rome in 1849.

"'That the Pope, while holding his own little dominions on so precarious a tenure, should venture to assume such an exercise of supremacy over the most powerful nation in the world,—a nation so jealous of its independence, which had so long been, and which still was, most averse to his claims,—seemed almost incredible to the people of England; and they were proportionably indignant.

"'Some affirmed that the aforesaid Cardinal Wiseman was the chief cause of it all,—the spectacle of many conversions from the Church of England to that of Rome having deceived him into a notion that the national mind was far more generally disposed to receive Romanism; and to make up the long-standing breach with the Papacy, than was really the case. The principal cause of the conversions above mentioned was what was called the "Oxford Movement." In the University of Oxford had sprung up a body of men who had consecrated their lives to the diffusion of doctrines indefinitely near those of Rome. They spoke of the Reformation contemptuously; advocated very many, obsolete rites and usages; magnified the power of the church and the prerogatives of the priesthood. Many of them, at length, finding that they could not, with any shadow of consistency, remain in the English church, abandoned it; but many others remained, and propagated the same opinions with impunity. They were regarded as traitors by their brethren, though no steps were taken to prevent them from teaching their notions, nor to deprive them of their benefices and emoluments. Among those who gave up their livings, of their own accord, from the feeling that they could not hold them with a safe conscience, the principal was one afterwards called Father Newman.

"'Now this Newman must by no means be confounded with another of the same name, Professor Newman,—in fact his own brother,—who was also educated at Oxford, but whose history was in most singular contrast with his. While the one brother went over to Rome, exceeded in zeal and credulity even the Romanists themselves, and sighed for a restoration of mediaeval puerilities, the other lapsed into downright infidelity, and denied even the possibility of an external revelation.

"'Very many thought, that, if the Oxford party had been wise enough to proceed more gently in the propagation of their notions, they would have accomplished much greater things, and perhaps eventually brought the popular mind to embrace the Romish Church. But their later publications (and especially No. 90) opened the eyes of many, and the frequent defections from the English Church, which were almost daily announced in the papers, opened the eyes of many more.

"'But whether or not Wiseman and other principal persons were misled by erroneous representations of the state of the English mind, certain it is that he advised the Pope to take this perilous step. The Pope was persuaded; he assured the people of England, that he should not cease to supplicate the Virgin Mary and all the saints whose virtues had made this country illustrious, that they would deign to obtain, by their intercessions with God, a happy issue to his enterprise.

"'The excitement produced by the publication of the Pope's proceedings throughout England was prodigious, and can hardly be conceived by us at this day. Every county, city, and almost every town, held meetings in the utmost alarm and indignation; and resolved on petitioning the Queen and Parliament to do something or other to prevent the Pope's measures from taking effect; and especially to annul all claims to local and territorial jurisdiction in this country. The universities; the clergy in their dioceses; the Bishops collectively,—even Philpotts of Exeter, though intoxicated with zeal for those Oxford notions which had done all the mischief; the municipalities; almost all organized bodies, whether of Churchmen or Dissenters;—discussed and resolved. Amongst these meetings one was held at the Guildhall of London, which was crowded with the merchant princes of that great city, and all that could represent its wealth, intelligence, and energy. One Masterman opened the proceedings, made a vehement speech against the Bishop of Rome and his pretensions, and proposed a stringent resolution, which was carried by acclamation.

"'At a dinner given by the Lord Mayor, at which were present many of the Ministers of the Crown, the Lord Chancellor Wilde spoke very boldly, and, as some thought, unadvisedly, on his possible future relations to the Cardinal.

"'Cardinal Wiseman published a subtle defence of himself and the Popish measure, which he addressed to the people of England; and, whether consistently or inconsistently, pleaded in the most strenuous manner for the inviolable observance of the principles of "religious liberty."

"'A singular and indeed inexplicable circumstance occurred in the course of this controversy. In a lecture, delivered at the Hanover Square Rooms, a certain Presbyterian clergyman had asserted that the oath prescribed in the Pontificale Romanum, which the Cardinal Wiseman must have taken to the Pope when he received the Pallium as Archbishop of Westminster, notoriously contained a clause enjoining the duty of persecution. This clause, a facetious Englishman said, ought to be translated, "I will persecute and pitch into all heretics to the utmost of my power"; and every one knew that the Pope of Rome looked upon the English as the greatest heretics in the world.

"'When Wiseman heard of the representations thus made, he caused his secretary to write to the Protestant lecturer, to say that the clause in the oath to which he had referred was not insisted upon, in his (the Cardinal's) case, by the Pope, and that, if his calumniator chose to go to the Cardinal's library, he would see that it was cancelled in his copy of the Pontifical. The Protestant accepted his challenge and went to the said library. He was then shown the oath, and found the clause in question, totidem verbis; not cancelled, however, but marked off by a line in black ink drawn over it, and (as it seemed) very recently.

"'Pamphlets were published on this curious circumstance on both sides; the Roman Catholics contended that the mere fact of Wiseman's challenge was a sufficient proof of his consciousness of rectitude.

"'On the whole, after half a year of perpetual agitation, both in and out of Parliament, a measure was passed which was notoriously inadequate to suppress the offence, and which was broken with impunity.

"'It is gratifying to add, that, notwithstanding the dangerous and vehement excitement which so long inflamed the minds of the people, no life was lost except on one occasion. The sufferer—contrary to what might have been expected—was of the dominant party a policeman, who was endeavoring to repress the party violence of some Irish Catholics in the North of England.'" _

"Now it need not be said," proceeded Harrington, "that these sentences contain what is perfectly well known by you—for myself I say nothing—to be the merest matter of fact, narrated in the simplest language, without any art or embellishment. Would you like to hear how Dr. Dickkopf, of New Zealand, or Kamtschatka, or Caffre-land, might treat such a document eighteen hundred and fifty years hence, amidst that imperfect light which we well know rests upon so many portions of the past, and which may, very possibly, be felt in the future? I think it would not be difficult for him to show that the 'Papal Aggression' was impossible."

"We will, at least, listen to you," said Robinson.

"Let us suppose, then, some learned Theban stumbling upon this brief record of an obscure event, and, as usual, making (if only because he had discovered what nobody in the world either knew or cared about) a huge commentary upon it; concluding from the internal evidence, the simplicity of the style, the absence of all imaginable motives for misrepresentation, and some external corroborative fragments painfully gleaned from the history of the period, that these sentences formed a genuine, literal, historic account of certain events which transpired in England in the year 1850. This, of course, would of itself be sufficient to make ten Dr. Dickkopfs turn to and prove the contrary; and any one of them, I imagine, might, and probably would, thus reply. Excuse his clumsy style. He would say:—

"'That there may have been, and very probably was, some nucleus of fact which may have served as a groundwork for these pseudo-historical memorials, is not denied: but to regard that document of which it is professedly a condensation as a genuine record of the period in question, can only, we conceive, be the infelicity of an essentially uncritical mind. Most evidently, whether we regard the known events and relations of that age (as far as they have come down to us) or the internal characteristics of the document itself, we discover unequivocal traces of an unhistoric origin. Let us look at both these sources of evidence in order. If we mistake not, the document, even as it now stands, bears on its very front, that the original document, so far from being a literal description of the events of the time to which it professedly related, was allegorical, or at most historico- allegorical, and most likely designed broadly to caricature and satirize some perceived tendencies or conditions of the English religious development in certain parties of that age. But whether it be, or be not, reducible to the class of allegorieo-ecclesiastico- political satire, certainly no person of critical discernment can for a moment allow it to be a literal statement of historic events. And first to look at the internal evidence.

"'Is it possible to overlook the singular character of the names which everywhere meet us? They, in fact, tell their own tale, and almost, as it were, proclaim of themselves that they are allegorical. Wiseman, Newman (two of them, be it observed), Masterman, Philpotts, Wilde. Who, that has been gifted with even a moderate share of critical acumen, can fail to see that these are all fictitious names, invented by the allegorist either to set forth certain qualities or attributes of certain persons whose true names are concealed, or, as I rather think, to embody certain tendencies of the times, or represent certain party characteristics. Thus the name "Wiseman" is evidently chosen to represent the proverbial craft which was attributed to the Church of Rome; and Nicholas has also been chosen (as I apprehend) for the purpose of indicating the sources whence that craft was derived. In all probability the name was selected just in the same manner as Bunyan in his immortal Pilgrim's Progress (which still delights the world) has chosen "Worldly Wiseman" for one of his characters. It is said that he was a Spaniard: but who so fit as a Spaniard to be represented as the agent of the Holy See? while, as there never was a Spaniard of that name, every one can see that historic probability has not been regarded. The word "Newman" again (and observe the significant fact that there were two of them) was, in all probability, I may say certainly, designed to embody two opposite tendencies, both of which, perhaps, claimed, in impatience of the effete humanity of that age (a dead and stereotyped Protestantism), to introduce a new order of things. These parties (if I may form a conjecture from the document itself) were essaying to extricate the mind of the age from the difficulties of its intellectual position; an age, asserting inconsistently, on the one hand, the freedom of spiritual life, and, on the other, claiming for the Bible an authorized supremacy over all the phenomena of that spiritual life. One of these parties sought to solve this difficulty by endeavoring to resuscitate the spirit of the past; the other, by attempting to set human intellect and consciousness free from the yoke of all external authority. In all probability the names were suggested to the somewhat profane allegorico-satitical writer by that text in the English version, "Put on the Newman," the new man of the spirit. We are almost driven to this interpretation, indeed, by the extreme and ludicrous improbability of two men—brothers, brought up at the same university—gradually receding, pari passu, from the same point in opposite directions, to the uttermost extreme; one till he had embraced the most puerile legends of the Middle Ages, the other, till he had proceeded to open infidelity. Probably such a curious coincidence of events was never heard of since the world began; and this must, at all events, be rejected.

"'Similar observations apply to the name Masterman, which, in ancient English, was applied to him who was not a "servant" or "journeyman," and is not unfitly used to indicate collectively the assemblage of wealthy merchants who, like those of Tyre, were "princes"; as well as to imply that the powerful class to which they belonged were the "Mastermen" in the country, and, in fact, spoke in a potential voice in all such crises as that supposed. It might also, perhaps, be designed obliquely to intimate, that, 'whatever the clergy and the theologians of different parties might wish to realize, it was, after all, the powerful and independent class of the laity who were the "mastermen," and would not succumb to any spiritual guides whatever, even though called by the specious names of Wisemen and Newmen. The mere singularity of the names alone ought to decide the point. And what further confirms our view is, that it is impossible to point out any Englishmen of any distinction who ever had any of these names. Here we do not argue from conjecture, after merely looking into the most recent biographical repertories (as, for example, the "Bibliotheca Clarisimorum Virorum," in three hundred and fifty volumes folio); for it is no argument that this meagre collection makes no mention of any such names; since, in the successive compilations of such works, (as the world grows older,) it has been found necessary to extrude from time to time thousands of lesser names, which had twinkled in preceding ages. But, deeply anxious to establish truth, we have at infinite pains caused to be fished up, from the depths of the archives of our national museums, very rare reprints of some of the works of the age nearest that in which these events are said to have occurred, and in none of these works is there an individual mentioned of the name of Newman or Masterman, and only one comparatively obscure person of the name of Wiseman,—a presumptive proof that they were fictitious names. Is it possible that these curious and varied coincidences can be the mere effect of chance?'

"I shall spare you," said Harrington, "Dr. Dickkopf's learned etymological disquisitions on the names Wilde and Philpotts, which, aided by the imputed 'rashness' of the one, and the 'intoxicated zeal' of the other, he clearly demonstrated to be fictitious.

"After which, I will suppose him to proceed thus:—

'We presume we have said enough to convince any acute and candid mind of the extreme improbability of the document being designed to convey to posterity a literal statement of facts; not that we for a moment think it necessary to suppose that any evil design actuated the writer, whoever he might be. It was most likely intended, as we have already said, to be an allegorico-political caricature of certain events which did undeniably occur, and which formed a slender basis of historic fact on which to found it.