Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“

"THESE THREE."

It is hardly possible to read through carefully the series of magnificent letters which the Apostle Paul sent to the Churches at Corinth, at Ephesus, at Philippi, and other recently-formed congregations of the saints, without coming to the conclusion that the writer was one of the most energetic and indomitable persons of his time. Undisguisedly he glories in the faith that is in him-the faith which checked his sinister career so suddenly and sublimely when on the dusty road to Damascus there "shined round about him a light from heaven." The "threatenings and slaughter" with which he had previously been filled are transmuted by some mysterious spiritual alchemy into an ardent desire for the conversion of men, and whereas before he brought death and disgrace to their bodies, now he strains every nerve in order that their souls may live. He exhorts, warns, reproaches-it is astonishing what a modern note occurs in some of these passages. "Now in this that I declare unto you," he says to the quarrelsome Corinthians, "I praise you not, that ye come together not for the better, but for the worse; for first of all, when ye come together in the church, I hear that there be divisions among you; and I partly believe it.... What shall I say to you? Shall I praise you in this? I praise you not." With a superb egotism he declaims time after time his confidence in himself and his belief: "I therefore so run," he writes, "not as uncertainly; so fight I, not as one that beateth the air"; and in another place, "As the truth of Christ is in me, no man shall stop me of this boasting in the regions of Achaia." In curious contrast comes an occasional self-distrust, as though his impetuous nature had betrayed him into saying too much-"I am become a fool in glory

ing; ye have compelled me; for I ought to have been commended of you: for in nothing am I behind the very chiefest apostles, though I be nothing." The immeasurable joy of it all breaks through irrepressibly again and again. "Now thanks be to God," he cries, "which always causeth us to triumph. ... We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed." And this is the man who stood by, witnessing and consenting to Stephen's martyrdom; who "made havoc of the church, entering into every house, and haling men and women committed them to prison"! It is one of the most wonderful instances of the complete diversion of fiery vigor and ill purpose into a diametrically opposite channel of which we have any record.

This restless, reckless spirit, however, had its calmer interludes, and it was when under the influence of one of these brief tranquilities in the battle that some of his finest periods were penned. Faith and hope are the masts and sails of his vessel, charity—that is, love is its precious freight, and for what splendid havens "eternal in the heavens" this prince of dreamers steered we are told with a repetition that never wearies. "We look not," he says, "at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal." Here was his faith in its primal and intensest form-that belief in the journey's ultimate success and glorious end which to-day seems to many men quite impossible and untenable. Here was his hope, its divine and human aspects indivisible as the root and stem of the perfect flower; the ex

alted and inspiring hope which is today scorned by many who apparently have no need of an "anchor of the soul, both sure and steadfast, which entereth into that within the veil."

It would seem that the rapidity with which we live in the present age renders a certain type of mind independent of spiritual matters An engagement for every hour of the day, be it business or pleasure, leaves little time to spare for the consideration of "things unseen." "It is a secret," wrote Emerson, "which every intelligent man quickly learns, that beyond the energy of his possessed and conscious intellect he is capable of new energy (as of an intellect doubled on itself) by abandonment to the nature of things; that besides his power as an individual man, there is a great public power upon which he can draw, by unlocking at all risks his human doors, and suffering the ethereal tides to roll and circulate through him." And if it be objected that these sentences are somewhat ornate and indeterminate, we can reasonably condense them into one assertion -that man stands in a definite relation

ship to the infinite. The realization of this is not constant like the bodily sense of touch or of sight; it comes and goes irresponsibly, born of a moment's experience, a fleeting transfiguration of the material visible world. Even Shelley in his ardor admitted where he could not prove-in doing which, we conceive, poets rise from the sphere of the artist to that of the prophet and interpreter of mysteries:

The awful shadow of some unseen Power

Floats though unseen amongst usvisiting

This various world with as inconstant wing

As summer winds that creep from flower to flower;

Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower,

It visits with inconstant glance Each human heart and counte

nance;

Like hues and harmonies of evening.— Like clouds in starlight widely spread, Like memory of music fled,

Like aught that for its grace may

be

Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.

The faith and hope which inform these stanzas, and those of many another poet, are directly in line with that imperturbable faith and hope of Paul, differing only in degree and in clearness of definition, and the more we realize the beauty and the simplicity and the strength of the proud apostle's words, the more heavily seems to press the question: Are we losing in these later years the spiritual sense?

fectiveness.

In the physical realm it is common knowledge that an organ consistently neglected or unused becomes atrophied; the injured arm or leg, compelled to stillness, shrinks and wastes away. In the region of intellect the parallel holds good; the mathematician, the anatomist, the astronomer often encourages one gift at the expense of others, which gradually sink below the normal in efPrecisely so the spiritual sense, the sense by which we retain our hold on those shining dreams that have been the inspiration of prophets and priests and poets from the earliest ages, may be cultivated or discarded, enhanced or vitiated beyond all remedy. This sense is no fantasy of the imagination. It is as much and as explicit a part of our nature as the bodily sense of sight, or of hearing; indeed, between these there exists a fundamental analogy, since the spiritual sense is that function or instinct of the soul by which we are enabled to perceive-it may be but dimly-the lands that lie beyond the bounds of space and time, to hear it may be but faintly-the voices of the infinite. The ancient mystics apprehended this subtle bond

connecting the known and the unknown; the prophets of old were familiar with it-the "Vision of Isaiah" is full of suggestive passages; the Apostle Paul, as we have seen, lived to proclaim it, having become cognizant of it in no ordinary manner; and in later times many devout men-Saint Francis, notably-have illustrated in their lives its influence and perseverance. What scope do we allow it to-day?

No

The spectacle of a world wherein this faith, this divine elation of spirit, was permitted to descend into oblivion: where this hope, the super-vision of the soul, was dulled, and where charity, born of faith and hope, was crowded out, would be a pitiful one. Angels could hardly visit such a world. Peace must for ever shun its atmosphere of gloom. Love could scarcely enter within its borders; only passion, wearing the mask of love, could receive a welcome there. The wrangling of the market-place would be its offering of praise to the Most High; the sound of faithless, and therefore meaningless, prayers would rise only to insult the heavens; its ruinous temples and lovely, violated shrines could but mock the God whom once they honored. sweet spirit of pity could ever work in happy ministrations to the weak, the wounded, or to those who had fallen weary by the way; only the shades of anger and contempt and despair would move uneasily among the throng, spurning to yet more sombre depths of sorrow the souls already forsaken and forlorn. The thousand blooms of spring would put forth their pure petals and their delicate colors in vain for eyes that viewed them indifferently; the luxuriant summer would spend its fragrance and its balm for naught; autumn harvests would be garnered without joy, and through the dearth and silence of winter would shine no forerunning gleam to tell of the new birth close at hand. No strange delight

would thrill its dawns, and from its sunsets the dream would be withheld; even the stars, ranging in the dusk for their nightly march across the sky, could flash no bright message to it. And at the end, when having forgotten love, and with faith and hope deflowered, its puny company travelled into eternity, one tremendous question would ring its knell of dismay-"What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?"

It is quite in accordance with his plan that St. Paul should allot less space to the subject of hope than he does to those of faith and charity. Hope is a recurrent state of the soul for which man is irresponsible; it "springs eternal in the human breast," is born of the least things-a word, a glance, a touch, will call it into radiant being. It dies very hardly; indeed, it may be said to be imperishable while life lasts ―a statement so widely admitted that it has passed into proverbial form. For if a man is absolutely destitute of hope the silver cord is loosed, the golden bowl is broken, the sun and stars are darkened; he is to all intent and purpose dead already, soul-dead, and often he will hurry his body out of existence as the last desperate measure he can take to render himself in harmony with a universe which seems to him hopeless. The life of man is one long fugue on the theme of hope, often overcome by discords apparently without resolution, often modulating into strange keys, surprising by mutinous, inexplicable phrases, sometimes faltering to a whisper of fugitive music, but always held and braced to coherence by the theme, although it may be that frequently only the skilled musician can trace that theme at all. says the apostle "we are saved by hope," for lacking it, we die.

Truly

Here appears, then, the line of demarcation between hope and the other two transcendent attributes. We may

live without faith, or without love; they are acts, not states; we can deliberately despoil our souls of them and still possess happiness enough to render life worth the living-a blind, starved, ghostly sort of happiness it is at best, the mere vague reflection of the sunray from base metal, dull and without beauty or warmth, but sufficient to save the body from destruction-not the soul. For the saving of the city of Mansoul there must be the faith which "subdued kingdoms, stopped the mouths of lions," and the love which "suffereth long, and is kind"; for the saving of the soul, that is, in hourly freedom from evil thoughts, conceptions, and desires, the preserving it from taint of contact with things inimical to its purity, things perilous to its sacred, inborn passion for God. So sure is the apostle of this that time after time his magnificent declamations sound in our ears; he can hardly forsake this great subject of man's correspondence with the divine through faith and love. "Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal," he says; and with this verse he leads up to the more comprehensive exposition, where he designates for all time the place of love in this trilogy of indispensable things: "And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing; and though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and The Academy.

though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing." The thought is bound to occur that few present-day experiences can in any manner approach this fervent outpouring of belief. A long way in front of St. Paul are we in art, in science, in education, in all that goes to make our secular sphere habitable and pleasant; a long way behind him in our hold on these "things unseen" which were to him so intensely real, so supremely dear, so tightly bound like three golden threads into the very texture of his life. We are proud of our accomplishments, our tenacity, our money: "charity envieth not, vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up"; we drive hard bargains at every opportunity, and spread sails to every little breeze of scandal: charity "doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil"; we are irritable and nervous: charity "beareth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things." But St. Paul, gentle even in his exhortation, true for all the imperfect centuries that were to come as he was for his own "beloved," the Corinthian citizens of that day, wrote unerringly and keenly his final summing-up of the whole matter:

For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face; now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

THE LESSER AFFECTIONS.

The Countess Martinengo Cesaresco, who has worked so hard to get better treatment for animals in Italy, has written a fascinating book about "The Place of Animals in Human Thought"

(T. Fisher Unwin, 12s. 6d. net). It is a book full of miscellaneous information and entertainment, the sort of book which makes the reader idly long for Macaulay's memory in which to

store all the delightful things which the author has told and shown him. Stories, quotations, comments, and pictures are all alike good.

No

"The Stoics," says Plutarch, "made sensibility towards animals a preparation to humanity and compassion because the gradually formed habit of the lesser affections is capable of leading men very far." Marcus Aurelius in the same spirit coldly exhorts to kindness. "As to animals which have no reason ... do thou, since thou hast reason, and they have none, make use of them with a generous and liberal spirit." doubt the aim of the Stoics in cultivating compassion was the right aim. But the Stoics were terrible prigs. Perhaps that is why they never succeeded in persuading their adherents to abolish the arena. Mercy, to have any dynamic force, must be of the nature of a passion. St. Bernard said that if mercy were a sin, he would still commit it. His words and those quoted above them throw a bright side-light on the essential difference and superficial likeness of the Christianity of Christ and the Stoicism of Marcus Aurelius. Christianity is a venture and Stoicism a scheme. They illustrate the everlasting difference between a faith and a theory.

On the other hand, we must admit that, despite Marcus Aurelius, St. Francis, and St. Bernard, if compassion were a sin, Imperial Rome and the Church of the Middle Ages might both boast their innocence. Our authoress in a most interesting passage shows the sordid side of that arena over which poets have cast a strange heroic light. At Nennig, not far from the Imperial city of Trèves, there exists a superb mosaic pavement. It was only discovered of recent years, and still attracts but few visitors. "The observer of this mosaic perceives at once that the games were of the nature of a 'variety' entertainment." In the central

division, because the most important, is shown the gladiatorial fight; above this is a hardly less deadly struggle between a man and a bear. "The bear has got the man under him, but is being whipped off so that the 'turn' may not end too quickly." To the left there is a fight between a leopard and a wild ass; to the right a gladiator who has run his spear through the neck of a panther. The last picture shows a replete lion, apparently at peace with the world, being led off the stage by a slave. "Everything is quiet, orderly, and a model of good management. The custodian of the little museum told me that the (surprisingly few) visitors to Nennig were in the habit of remarking of this representation of the Roman Games that it made them understand for the first time how the cultivated Romans could endure such sights."

A very odd testimony to man's fellow-feeling for animals, quite apart from pity, is illustrated by the animal trials of the Middle Ages. As early as the ninth century we hear of regular trials of inconvenient or offending animals, in which great care is taken to keep up an appearance of fair play for the defendants. The Countess Martinengo Cesaresco gives an account of such a trial which took place before a certain Prior in 1370. "The young son of a Burgundian swineherd had been killed by three sows." All the members of the herd "were arrested as accomplices." It was pointed out that the mass of the pigs were innocent. Justice did not move quickly, and it was not for years that a settlement was reached. The Duke of Burgundy delivered judgment. "Only the three guilty sows and one young pig (what had it done?) were to be executed; the others were set at liberty, 'notwithstanding that they had seen the death of the boy without defending him." The trial took so long that had they all been executed in the end they would have

« AnkstesnisTęsti »