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LETTER XXXIII.
I went, last Sunday, to the Catholic Cathedral, a fine-looking
Gothic edifice, which impressed me with that feeling
of reverence so easily inspired in my soul by a relic of
the past. I have heard many say that their first visit to a
Catholic church filled them with laughter, the services
seemed so absurd a mockery. It was never thus with me.
I know not whether it is that Nature endowed me so largely
with imagination and with devotional feelings, or whether
it is because I slept for years with “Thomas à Kempis's
Imitation of Christ” under my pillow, and found it
my greatest consolation, and best outward guide, next to
the New-Testament; but so it is, that holy old monk is
twined all about my heart with loving reverence, and the
forms which had so deep spiritual significance to him,
could never excite in me a mirthful feeling. Then the
mere circumstance of antiquity is impressive to a character
inclined to veneration. There stands the image of what
was once a living church. A sort of Congress of Religions
is she; with the tiara of the Persian priest, the staff of
the Roman augur, and the embroidered mantle of the Jewish
rabbi. This is all natural; for the Christian Idea was
a resurrection from deceased Heathenism and Judaism,
and rose encumbered with the grave-clothes and jewels of
the dead. The Greek and Roman, when they became
early faith. The undying flame on Apollo's shrine reappeared
in ever-lighted candles on the Christian altar;
and the same idea that demanded vestal virgins for the
heathen temple, set nuns apart for the Christian sanctuary.
Tiara and embroidered garments were sacred to the imagination
of the converted Jew; and conservatism, which
in man's dual nature ever keeps innovation in check, led
him to adopt them in his new worship. Thus did the spirituality
of Christ come to us loaded with forms, not naturally
and spontaneously flowing therefrom. The very
cathedrals, with their clustering columns and intertwining
arches, were architectural models of the groves and “high-places,”
sacred to the mind of the Pagans, who from infancy
had therein worshipped their “strange gods.” The
days of the Christian week took the names of heathen
deities, and statues of Venus were adored as Virgin Mothers.
The bronze image of St. Peter, at Rome, whose toe has
been kissed away by devotees, was once a statue of Jupiter.
An English traveller took off his hat to it as Jupiter, and
asked him, if he ever recovered his power, to reward the
only individual that ever bowed to him in his adversity.
Let us not smile at this odd commingling of religious
faiths and forms. It is most natural; and must ever be,
when a new idea evolves itself from the old. The Reformers,
to evade this tendency, destroyed the churches, the
paintings, and the statues, which habit had so long endeared
to the hearts and imaginations of men; yet while they
flung away, with ruthless hand, all the poetry of the old
establishment, they were themselves so much the creatures
of education, that they brought into the new order of things
many cumbrous forms of theology, the mere results of tradition;
and the unpretending fishermen, and tent-maker,
still remained Saint Peter, and Saint Paul.
Protestants make no images of Moses; but many divide
toe. Thus will the glory of a coming church walk in the
shadow of our times, casting a radiance over that which it
cannot quite dispel.
I think it is Mosheim, who says, “After Christianity became
incorporated with the government, it is difficult to determine
whether Heathenism was most Christianized, or
Christianity most heathenized.”
Wo for the hour, when moral truth became wedded to
politics, and religion was made to subserve purposes of
State! That prostration of reason to authority still fetters
the extremest Protestant of the nineteenth century, after the
lapse of more than a thousand years, and a succession of
convulsive efforts to throw it off. That boasted “triumph
of Christianity” came near being its destruction. The old
fable of the Pleiad fallen from the sky, by her marriage
with an earth-born prince, is full of significance, in many
applications; and in none more so, than the attempt to advance
a spiritual principle by political machinery. Constantine
legalized Christianity, and straightway the powers
of this world made it their tool. To this day, two-thirds of
Christians look outward to ask whether a thing is law, and
not inward to ask whether it is right. They have mere
legal consciences; and do not perceive that human law is
sacred only when it is the expression of a divine principle.
To them, the slave trade is justifiable while the law sanctions
it, and becomes piracy when the law pronounces it
so. The moral principle that changes laws, never emanates
from them. It acts on them, but never with them.
They through whom it acts, constitute the real church of
the world, by whatsoever name they are called.
The Catholic church is a bad foundation for liberty, civil
or religious. I deprecate its obvious and undeniable tendency
to enslave the human mind; but I marvel not that
the imaginations of men are chained and led captive by this
as with a halo; and within its fantastic pageantry there is
much that makes it sacred poetry.
At the present time, indications are numerous that the
human mind is tired out in the gymnasium of controversy,
and asks earnestly for repose, protection, mystery, and undoubting
faith. This tendency betrays itself in the rainbow
mysticism of Coleridge, the patriarchal tenderness of Wordsworth,
the infinite aspiration of Beethoven. The reverential
habit of mind varies its forms, according to temperament and
character. In some minds, it shows itself in a superstitious
fondness for all old forms of belief; the Church which is
proved to their minds to resemble the apostolic, in its ritual,
as well as its creed, is therefore the true Church. In other
minds, veneration takes a form less obviously religious; it
is shown by a strong affection for everything antique; they
worship shadowy legends, architectural ruins, and ancient
customs. This habit of thought enabled Sir Walter to conjure
up the guardian spirit of the house of Avenel, and repeople
the regal halls of Kenilworth. His works were the
final efflorescence of feudal grandeur; that system had
passed away from political forms, and no longer had a home
in human reason; but it lingered with a dim glory in the
imagination, and blossomed thus.
Another class of minds rise to a higher plane of reverence;
their passion for the past becomes mingled with earnest
aspiration for the holy. Such spirits walk in a golden
for of mysticism, which leads them far, often only to bring
them back in a circling path to the faith of childhood, and
the established laws of the realm.
To such, Puseyism comes forward, like a fine old cathedral
made visible by a gush of moonlight. It appeals to
the ancient, the venerable, and the moss-grown. It promises
permanent repose in the midst of endless agitation.
The young, the poetic, and the mystical, are charmed with
its Gothic aisles, resounding with the echoes of the past;
and the solemn glory fills them with worship. Episcopacy
rebukes, and dissenters argue; but that which ministers to
the sentiment of reverence, will have power over many
souls, who hunt in vain for truths through the mazes of argument.
To the ear that loves music, and sits listening intently
for the voice that speaks while the dove descends
from heaven, how discordant, how altogether unprofitable,
is this hammering of sects!—this coopering and heading up
of empty barrels, so industriously carried on in theological
schools! When I am stunned by the loud, and many-tongued
jargon of sect, I no longer wonder that men are ready
to fall down and worship Romish absurdities, dressed up
in purple robes and golden crown; the marvel rather is,
that they have not returned to the worship of the ancient
graces, the sun, the moon, the stars, or even the element
of fire.
But be not disturbed by Pope or Pusey. They are but
a part of the check-and-balance system of the universe,
and in due time will yield to something better. Modes of
faith last just as long as they are needed in the order of
Providence, and not a day longer. Let the theologian
fume and fret as he may, truth cannot be forced above its
level, any more than its great prototype, water. Of what
avail are sectarian efforts, and controversial words? Live
thou a holy life—let thy utterance be that of a free, meek
spirit! Thus, and not by ecclesiastical machinery, wilt
thou help to prepare the world for a wiser faith and a purer
worship.
Meanwhile, let us hope and trust; and respect sincere
devotion, wheresoever found. A wise mind never despises
aught that flows from a feeling heart. Nothing would tempt
me to disturb, even by the rustle of my garments, the Irish
servant girl, kneeling in the crowded aisle. Blessed be
soul to the foot of the cross, conscious of its weakness and its
ignorance, its errors and its sins! We may call it superstition
if we will, but the zealous faith of the Catholic is everywhere
conspicuous above that of the Protestant. A friend
from Canada lately told me an incident which deeply impressed
this fact upon his mind. When they cut new roads
through the woods, the priests are in the habit of inspecting
all the places where villages are to be laid out. They
choose the finest site for a church, and build thereon a
high, strong cross, with railings round it, about three feet
distant from each other. The inner enclosure is usually
more elevated than the outer; a mound being raised about
the foot of the Cross. Inserted in the main timber is a
small image of the crucified Saviour, defended from the atmosphere
by glass. In Catholic countries, this is called
a Calvare. In the village called Petit Brulé (because
nearly all the dwellings of the first settlers had been consumed
by fire) was one of these tall Calvares, rendered conspicuous
by its whiteness among the dense foliage of the
forest. My friend had been riding for a long time in silence
and solitude, and twilight was fast deepening into evening,
when his horse suddenly reared, and showed signs of fear.
Thinking it most prudent to understand the nature of the
danger that awaited him, he stopped the horse and looked
cautiously round. The tall white Cross stood near, in
distinct relief against the dark back-ground of the forest,
and at the foot were two Irishmen kneeling to say their
evening prayers. They were poor, labouring men, employed
in making the road. There was no human habitation
for miles. From their own rude shantees, they must have
walked at least two or three miles, after their severe daily
toil, thus to bow down and worship the Infinite, in a place
they deemed holy!
Let those who can, ridicule the superstition that prompted
unrevealed to them on earth, that Christ is truly worshipped,
“neither on this mountain, nor yet at Jerusalem.”
I love the Irish. Blessings on their warm hearts, and
their leaping fancies! Clarkson records that while opposition
met him in almost every form, not a single Irish member
of the British Parliament ever voted against the abolition
of the slave trade; and how is the heart of that generous
island now throbbing with sympathy for the American
slave!
Creatures of impulse and imagination, their very speech
is poetry. “What are you going to kill?” said I to one of
the most stupid of Irish serving-maids, who seemed in great
haste to crush some object in the corner of the room. “A
black boog, ma'am,” she replied. “That is a cricket,” said
I. “It does no harm, but makes a friendly chirping on the
hearth stone.”
“Och, and is it a cricket it is? And when the night is
abroad, will it be spaking? Sure, I'll not be after killing it,
at all.”
The most faithful and warm-hearted of Irish labourers,
(and the good among them are the best on earth) urged me
last spring not to fail, by any means, to rise before the sun
on Easter morning. “The Easter sun always dances
when it rises,” said he. Assuredly he saw no mockery in
my countenance, but perhaps he saw incredulity; for he
added, with pleading earnestness, “And why should it not
dance, by reason of rejoicement?” In his believing ignorance,
he had small cause to envy me the superiority of my
reason; at least I felt so for the moment. Beautiful is the
superstition that makes all nature hail the holy; that sees
the cattle all kneel at the hour Christ was born, and the
sun dance, “by reason of rejoicement,” on the morning of
his resurrection; that believes the dark Cross, actually
found on the back of every Ass, was first placed there when
him.
Not in vain is Ireland pouring itself all over the earth.
Divine Providence has a mission for her children to fulfil;
though a mission unrecognized by political economists.
There is ever a moral balance preserved in the universe,
like the vibrations of the pendulum. The Irish, with their
glowing hearts and reverent credulity, are needed in this
cold age of intellect and scepticism.
Africa furnishes another class, in whom the heart ever
takes guidance of the head; and all over the world the
way is opening for them among the nations. Hayti and
the British West Indies; Algiers, settled by the French;
British colonies, spreading over the west and south of Africa;
and emancipation urged throughout the civilized world.
Women, too, on whose intellect ever rests the warm
light of the affections, are obviously coming into a wider
and wider field of action.
All these things prophesy of physical force yielding to
moral sentiment; and they all are agents to fulfil what they
prophesy. God speed the hour.
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