not only their spiritual prospects in the after-life,
but of possibly advancing their material prosperity
in this, by thus displaying their piety and zeal in
God’s service. I cannot believe that the
churches were designed with the intention of making
the rustic inhabitants of the place holier, more virtuous,
more refined—except incidentally; they
were built more in obedience to ecclesiastical tradition,
in a time when rationalism had not begun to cast doubt
on what I may call the Old Testament theory of the
relation of God to men—the theory of a
wrathful power, vindictive, jealous of recognition,
withholding blessings from the impious and heaping
them upon the submissive. As to those who worshipped
there, I imagine that the awe and reverence they felt
was based upon the same sort of view, and connected
religious observance with the hope of prosperity and
wealth, and the neglect of it with the fear of chastisement.
If misfortune fell upon the godly, they regarded it
as the chastening of God inflicted upon the sons of
His love; if it fell upon the ungodly, it was a punishment
for sin; religion was a process by which one might
avert the punishment of sin, induce the bestowal of
favours, and in any case improve one’s future
prospects of heaven. No doubt this form of religion
produced a simpler kind of faith, and a profounder
reverence; but I do not think that they were very
beautiful qualities when so produced, because they
seem to me very alien from the simplicity of the religion
of Christ. The difficulty in which popular religion
finds itself, nowadays, is that in a Protestant Church
like our own, neither priest nor people believe in
the old mechanical theories of religion, and yet the
people are not yet capable of being moved by purer
conceptions of it. A priest can no longer threaten
his congregation sincerely with the penalties of hell
for neglecting the observances of the Church; on the
other hand, the conception of religion as a refining,
solemnising attitude of soul, bringing tranquillity
and harmony into life, is too subtle an idea to have
a very general hold upon unimaginative persons.
Thus the beauty of these exquisite and stately little
sanctuaries, enriched by long associations and touched
with a delicate grace by the gentle hand of time, has
something infinitely pathetic about it. The theory
that brought them into existence has lost its hold,
while the spirit that could animate them and give
them a living message has not yet entered them; the
refined grace, the sweet solemnity of these simple
buildings, has no voice for the plain, sensible villager;
it cannot be interpreted to him. If all the inhabitants
of a village were humble, simple, spiritually minded
people, ascetic in life, with a strong sense of beauty
and quality, then a village church might have a tranquil
and inspiring influence. But who that knows anything
of village life can anticipate even in the remote
future such a type of character prevailing? Meanwhile
the beautiful churches, with all the grace of antiquity
and subtle beauty, must stand as survivals of a very
different condition of life and belief; while we who
love them can only hope that a more vital consciousness
of religion may come back to the shrines from which
somehow the significance seems to have ebbed away.
They are now too often mere monuments and memorials
of the past. Can one hope that they may become
the inspiration and the sanctification of the present?