have doubts and fears, and trials and temptations
outward and inward; you have sinned, perhaps, and
feel the burden of your sin. Here was one who,
like you, in this very spat, under the same sky, treading
the same soil, among the same hills and woods and
rocks and riven, was tried like you, tempted like
you, sinned like you; but here he prayed, and persevered,
and did penance, and washed out his sins; he fought
the fight, he vanquished the evil one, he triumphed,
and now he reigns a saint with Christ in heaven.
The same ground which yields you your food, once supplied
him; he breathed and lived, and felt, and died here;
and now, from his throne in the sky, he is still looking
down lovingly on his children, making intercession
for you that you may have grace to follow him, that
by-and-by he may himself offer you at God’s
throne as his own.” It is impossible to
measure the influence which a personal reality of
this kind must have exercised on the mind, thus daily
and hourly impressed upon it through a life; there
is nothing vague any more, no abstract excellences
to strain after; all is distinct, personal, palpable.
It is no dream. The saint’s bones are under
the altar; nay, perhaps, his very form and features
undissolved. Under some late abbot the coffin
may have been opened and the body seen without mark
or taint of decay. Such things have been, and
the emaciation of a saint will account for it without
a miracle. Daily some incident of his story is
read aloud, or spoken of, or preached upon. In
quaint beautiful forms it lives in light in the long
chapel windows; and in the summer matins his figure,
lighted up in splendour, gleams down on them as they
pray, or streams in mysterious shadowy tints along
the pavement, clad, as it seems, in soft celestial
glory, and shining as he shines in heaven. Alas,
alas, where is it all gone?
We are going to venture a few thoughts on the wide
question, what possibly may have been the meaning of
so large a portion of the human race and so many centuries
of Christianity having been surrendered and seemingly
sacrificed to the working out this dreary asceticism.
If right once, then it is right now; if now worthless,
then it could never have been more than worthless;
and the energies which spent themselves on it were
like corn sown upon the rock, or substance given for
that which is not bread. We supposed ourselves
challenged recently for our facts. Here is an
enormous fact which there is no evading. It is
not to be slurred over with indolent generalities,
with unmeaning talk of superstition, of the twilight
of the understanding, of barbarism, and of nursery
credulity; it is matter for the philosophy of history,
if the philosophy has yet been born which can deal
with it; one of the solid, experienced facts in the
story of mankind which must be accepted and considered
with that respectful deference which all facts claim
of their several sciences, and which will certainly
not disclose its meaning (supposing it to have a meaning)