Selections from the Prose Writings of John Henry, Cardinal Newman by Cardinal Newman

Introduction		5
Character Sketches:
Saul		13
Early Years of David		28
Basil and Gregory		45
Augustine and the Vandals		56
Chrysostom		84
The Turk:
The Tartar and the Turk		111
The Turk and the Saracen		122
The Past and Present of the Ottomans		143
Universities
What is a University?		155
University Life: Athens		163
Supply and Demand: The Schoolmen		180
The Strength and Weakness of Universities: Abelard		186
Miscellaneous:
Poetry, with Reference to Aristotle's Poetics		200
The Infinitude of the Divine Attributes		218
Christ upon the Waters		222
The Second Spring		229
St.Paul's Characteristic Gift		251
Notes		269

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It has come to be universally admitted that Cardinal Newman fulfills his own definition of a great author: "One whose aim is to give forth what he has within him; and from his very earnestness it happens that whatever be the splendor of his diction, or the harmony of his periods, he has with him the charm of an incommunicable simplicity.

"Whatever be his subject, high or low, he treats it suitably and for its own sake.... He writes passionately because he feels keenly; forcibly, because he conceives vividly; he sees too clearly to be vague; he is too serious to be otiose; he can analyze his subject, and therefore he is rich; he embraces it as a whole and in its parts, and therefore he is consistent; he has a firm hold of it, and therefore he is luminous.

"When his imagination wells up, it overflows in ornament; when his heart is touched, it thrills along his verse. He always has the right word for the right idea, and never a word too much....

"He expresses what all feel but cannot say; and his sayings pass into proverbs among his people, and his phrases become household words, idioms of their daily speech, which is tessellated with the rich fragments of his language, as we see in foreign lands the marbles of Roman grandeur worked into the walls and pavements of modern palaces."

Newman may be said to have handled England's prose as Shakespeare handled her verse. His language was wrought up little by little to a finish and refinement, a strength and a subtlety, thrown into the form of eloquence, beyond which no English writer of prose has gone. Nor is his excellence that of mere art in form; he possesses not only skill, which he calls an exercise of talent, but power—a second name for genius—which itself implies personality and points to inspiration.

His mind was large, logical, profoundly thoughtful, imaginative, intense, sincere, and above all, spiritual; his soul was keen, delicate, sympathetic, heroic; and his life, at once severe and tender, passionate and self-controlled, alone and unlonely, stands out in its loftiness and saintliness, a strange, majestic contrast to the agitation and turmoil of "confused passions, hesitating ideals, tentative virtues, and groping philanthropies" amidst which it was lived.

Both by word and work did Newman lead forth his generation on the long pilgrimage to the shrine of Truth, and England of the nineteenth century has no surer claim to holiness and genius for her great sons than that set upon John Henry Newman.

He was born in London, 1801; studied, taught, and preached at Oxford; became the chief promoter of the Tractarian Movement of 1833; entered the Catholic Church in 1845; founded the Oratory at Birmingham, 1848; was created Cardinal by Pope Leo XIII. 1879; died at Edgbaston, 1890.

Any attempt to choose from the writings of Newman what seems most desirable for brief class studies is certain to be woefully embarrassed by the very wealth of matter; and apology for risking the choice would be due, were it not lost sight of in the desire to see a literary model so pure, varied, animated, forceful, luminous—"a thing of light and beauty"—given to our students.

What is more significant of the Life Book of the saintly Oxford Scholar than his self-written epitaph: "Ex umbris et imaginibus in veritatem"?

---

Newman's best essays display a delicate and flexible treatment of language, without emphasis, without oddity, which hardly arrests the attention at first,—the reader being absorbed in the argument or statement,—but which, in course of time, fascinates, as a thing miraculous in its limpid grace and suavity.
—Edmund Gosse's History of Modern English Literature.

The work of Newman reveals him as one of the great masters of graceful, scholarly, finished prose. It is individual, it has charm, and this is the secret of its power to interest. No writer of our time has reflected his mind and heart in his pages as has Newman. He has light for the intellect and warmth for the heart.
—A. J. George's Types of Literary Art.

Newman towers, with only three or four compeers, above his generation; and now that the benignity of his great nature has passed from our sight, its majesty is more evident year by year.
—Scudder's Modern English Poets.

The finish and urbanity of Newman's prose have been universally commended even by those who are most strenuously opposed to his opinions.
—H. J. Nicoll.

All the resources of a master of English style are at Newman's command: pure diction, clear arrangement, delicate irony, gracious dignity, a copious command of words combined with a chaste reserve in using them.
All these qualities go to make up the charm of Newman's style—the finest flower that the earliest system of a purely classical education has produced.
—J. Jacobs's Literary Studies.

Newman combines a thoroughly classical training, a scholarly form, with the incommunicable and almost inexplicable power to move audiences and readers.
—George Saintsbury.

The pure style of Newman may be compared in its distinguishing quality to the atmosphere. It is at once simple and subtle, vigorous and elastic; it penetrates into every recess of its subject; it is transparent, allowing each object it touches to display its own proper color.
—H. E. Beeching's English Prose.

There are touching passages characteristic of Newman's writings which give them a peculiar charm. They are those which yield momentary glimpses of a very tender heart that has a burden of its own, unrevealed to man.... It is, as I have heard it described, as though he suddenly opened a book and gave you a glimpse for a moment of wonderful secrets, and then as quickly closed it.... In Newman's Sermons, how the old truth became new; how it came home, as he spoke, with a meaning never felt before! He laid his finger how gently, yet how powerfully, on some inner place in the hearer's heart, and told him things about himself he had never known till then. Subtlest truths, which it would have taken philosophers pages of circumlocution and big words to state, were dropped out by the way in a sentence or two of the most transparent Saxon. What delicacy of style, yet what strength! how simple, yet how suggestive! how penetrating, yet how refined! how homely, yet how tender-hearted! You might come away still not believing the tenets peculiar to the High Church System, but you would be harder than most men if you did not feel more than ever ashamed of coarseness, selfishness, worldliness, if you did not feel the things of faith brought closer to the soul.... Newman's innate and intense idealism is, perhaps, his most striking characteristic.... It is a thought of his, always deeply felt and many times repeated, that this visible world is but the outward shell of an invisible kingdom, a screen which hides from our view things far greater and more wonderful than any which we see, and that the unseen world is close to us and ever ready to break through the shell and manifest itself.
—Shairp.

Newman's great reputation for prose and the supreme interest attaching to his life seem to have obscured the fame he might have won as a poet. He was in poetry, as in theology, a more masculine Keble, but with all the real purity of Keble, with also the indispensable flavor of earth.
—H. Walker.

The Dream of Gerontius resembles Dante more than any other poetry written since the great Tuscan's time.
—Sir Henry Taylor.

The Dream is a rare poetic rendering into English verse of that high ritual which from the death-bed to the Mass of Supplication encompasses the faithful soul.... Newman has no marked affinities with English writers of his day. He is strikingly different from Macaulay, whose eloquence betrays the fury, as it is annealed in the fire, of the Western Celt. To Ruskin, who deliberately built up a monument, stately as the palace of Kubla Khan, he is a contrast, for the very reason that he does not handle words as if they were settings in architecture or colors in a palette; rather, he would look upon them as transparencies which let his meaning through. He is more like De Quincey, but again no player upon the organ for the sake of its music; and that which is common to both is the literary tradition of the eighteenth century enhanced by a power to which abstract and concrete yielded in almost equal degree.... With so prompt and intense an intellect at his call, there was no subject, outside purely technical criticism, which Newman could not have mastered.
—Barry's Literary Lives.

It is when Newman exerts his flexible and vivid imagination in depicting the deepest religious passion that we are most carried away by him and feel his great genius most truly.... Whether tried by the test of nobility, intensity, and steadfastness of his work, or by the test of the greatness of the powers which have been consecrated to that work, Cardinal Newman has been one of the greatest of our modern great men.
—R. H. Hutton's Life of Newman.

Newman's mind was world-wide. He was interested in everything that was going on in science, in the highest form of politics, in literature.... Nothing was too large for him, nothing too trivial, if it threw light upon the central question,—what man really is and what is his destiny.
—J. A. Froude.

In Newman's sketch of the influence of Abelard on his disciples is seen his belief in the immense power for good or ill of a dominating personality. And he himself supplied an object-lesson in his theory. Shairp, Froude, Church, Wilberforce, Gladstone, are only a few of those who have borne testimony to the personal magnetism which left its mark on the whole of thinking Oxford. "Cor ad cor loquitur," the motto chosen by Newman on his receiving the Cardinal's hat, expressed to him the whole reality of intercourse between man and man, and man and God.
—Wilfrid Ward's Problems and Persons.

Newman's mind swung through a wide arc, and thoughts apparently antagonistic often were to him supplemental each to each.... A man of dauntless courage and profound thoughtfulness, while his intellect was preëminently a logical one, both the heart and the moral sense possessed with him their sacred tribunals in matters of reasoning as well as of sentiment.... The extreme subtlety of his intelligence opposed no hindrance to his power of exciting vehement emotion.
—A. De Vere's Literary Reminiscences.

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"I gave them a king in mine anger, and took him away in my wrath."—Hosea xiii. 11.

The Israelites seem to have asked for a king
from an unthankful caprice and waywardness.
The ill conduct, indeed, of Samuel's sons was the
occasion of the sin, but "an evil heart of
unbelief," to use Scripture language, was the real cause{5}
of it. They had ever been restless and
dissatisfied, asking for flesh when they had manna,
fretful for water, impatient of the wilderness, bent
on returning to Egypt, fearing their enemies,
murmuring against Moses. They had miracles{10}
even to satiety; and then, for a change, they
wished a king like the nations. This was the
chief reason of their sinful demand. And further,
they were dazzled with the pomp and splendor
of the heathen monarchs around them, and they{15}
desired some one to fight their battles, some
visible succor to depend on, instead of having
to wait for an invisible Providence, which came in
its own way and time, by little and little, being
dispensed silently, or tardily, or (as they might{20}
consider) unsuitably. Their carnal hearts did
not love the neighborhood of heaven; and, like
the inhabitants of Gadara afterwards, they prayed
that Almighty God would depart from their
coasts.

{5}

Such were some of the feelings under which they
desired a king like the nations; and God at length
granted their request. To punish them, He gave
them a king after their own heart, Saul, the son of
Kish, a Benjamite; of whom the text speaks in{10}
these terms, "I gave them a king in Mine anger,
and took him away in My wrath."

There is, in true religion, a sameness, an absence
of hue and brilliancy, in the eyes of the natural
man; a plainness, austereness, and (what he {15}
considers) sadness. It is like the heavenly manna of
which the Israelites complained, insipid, and at
length wearisome, "like wafers made with honey."
They complained that "their soul was dried
away." "There is nothing at all," they said,{20}
"beside this manna, before our eyes.... We
remember the fish, which we did eat in Egypt
freely; the cucumbers, and the melons, and the
leeks, and the onions, and the garlick."[1]Such
were the dainty meats in which their soul{25}
delighted; and for the same reason they desired a
king. Samuel had too much of primitive
simplicity about him to please them, they felt they
were behind the world, and clamored to be put
on a level with the heathen.{30}

Saul, the king whom God gave them, had much
to recommend him to minds thus greedy of the
dust of the earth. He was brave, daring,
resolute; gifted, too, with strength of body as well
as of mind—a circumstance which seems to{5}
have attracted their admiration. He is described
in person as if one of those sons of Anak, before
whose giant-forms the spies of the Israelites in the
wilderness were as grasshoppers—"a choice
young man, and a goodly; there was not among{10}
the children of Israel a goodlier person than he:
from his shoulders and upward he was higher
than any of the people."[2] Both his virtues and
his faults were such as became an eastern monarch,
and were adapted to secure the fear and{15}
submission of his subjects. Pride, haughtiness,
obstinacy, reserve, jealousy, caprice—these, in
their way, were not unbecoming qualities in the
king after whom their imaginations roved. On
the other hand, the better parts of his character{20}
were of an excellence sufficient to engage the
affection of Samuel himself.

As to Samuel, his conduct is far above human
praise. Though injuriously treated by his countrymen,
who cast him off after he had served them{25}
faithfully till he was "old and gray-headed,"[3] and
who resolved on setting over themselves a king
against his earnest entreaties, still we find no trace
of coldness or jealousy in his behavior towards
Saul. On his first meeting with him, he addressed{30}
him in the words of loyalty—"On whom
is all the desire of Israel? is it not on thee, and
on all thy father's house?" Afterwards, when he
anointed him king, he "kissed him, and said, Is it
not because the Lord hath anointed thee to be{5}
captain over His inheritance?" When he announced
him to the people as their king, he said,
"See ye him whom the Lord hath chosen, that
there is none like him among all the people?"
And, some time after, when Saul had irrecoverably{10}
lost God's favor, we are told, "Samuel came no
more to see Saul until the day of his death:
nevertheless Samuel mourned for Saul." In the
next chapter he is even rebuked for immoderate
grief—"How long wilt thou mourn for Saul,{15}
seeing I have rejected him from reigning over
Israel?"[4] Such sorrow speaks favorably for
Saul as well as for Samuel; it is not only the grief
of a loyal subject and a zealous prophet, but,
moreover, of an attached friend; and, indeed,{20}
instances are recorded, in the first years of his
reign, of forbearance, generosity, and neglect of
self, which sufficiently account for the feelings
with which Samuel regarded him. David, under
very different circumstances, seems to have felt{25}
for him a similar affection.

The higher points of his character are brought
out in instances such as the following: The
first announcement of his elevation came upon
him suddenly, but apparently without unsettling{30}
him. He kept it secret, leaving it to Samuel, who
had made it to him, to publish it. "Saul said
unto his uncle, He" (that is, Samuel) "told us
plainly that the asses were found. But of the
matter of the kingdom, whereof Samuel spake,{5}
he told him not." Nay, it would even seem he
was averse to the dignity intended for him; for
when the Divine lot fell upon him, he hid himself,
and was not discovered by the people, without
recourse to Divine assistance. The appointment{10}
was at first unpopular. "The children of Belial
said, How shall this man save us? They despised
him, and brought him no presents, but he held his
peace." Soon the Ammonites invaded the
country beyond Jordan, with the avowed intention of{15}
subjugating it. The people sent to Saul for relief
almost in despair; and the panic spread in the
interior as well as among those whose country
was immediately threatened. The history
proceeds: "Behold, Saul came after the herd out of{20}
the field; and Saul said, What aileth the people
that they weep? and they told him the tidings
of the men of Jabesh. And the Spirit of God
came upon Saul, and his anger was kindled
greatly." His order for an immediate gathering{25}
throughout Israel was obeyed with the alacrity
with which the multitude serve the strong-minded
in times of danger. A decisive victory over the
enemy followed; then the popular cry became,
"Who is he that said, Shall Saul reign over us?{30}
bring the men, that we may put them to death.
And Saul said, There shall not a man be put to
death this day, for to-day the Lord hath wrought
salvation in Israel."[5]

Thus personally qualified, Saul was, moreover,
a prosperous king. He had been appointed to{5}
subdue the enemies of Israel, and success attended
his arms. At the end of the fourteenth chapter,
we read: "So Saul took the kingdom over Israel
and fought against all his enemies on every side,
against Moab, and against the children of{10}
Ammon, and against Edom, and against the kings of
Zobah, and against the Philistines; and
whithersoever he turned himself, he vexed them. And
he gathered an host, and smote the Amalekites,
and delivered Israel out of the hands of them that{15}
spoiled them."

Such was Saul's character and success; his
character faulty, yet not without promise; his
success in arms as great as his carnal subjects
could have desired. Yet, in spite of Samuel's{20}
private liking for him, and in spite of the good
fortune which actually attended him, we find that
from the beginning the prophet's voice is raised
both against people and king in warnings and
rebukes, which are omens of his destined{25}
destruction, according to the text, "I gave them a king in
Mine anger, and took him away in My wrath."
At the very time that Saul is publicly received as
king, Samuel protests, "Ye have this day rejected
your God, who Himself saved you out of all your {30}
adversities and your tribulations."[6] In a
subsequent assembly of the people, in which he
testified his uprightness, he says, "Is it not wheat
harvest to-day? I will call unto the Lord, and
He shall send thunder and rain; that ye may{5}
perceive and see that your wickedness is great, in asking
you a king." Again, "If ye shall still do wickedly,
ye shall be consumed, both ye and your king."[7]
And after this, on the first instance of disobedience
and at first sight no very heinous sin, the sentence{10}
of rejection is passed upon him: "Thy kingdom
shall not continue; the Lord hath sought Him a
man after His own heart."[8]

Here, then, a question may be raised—-Why
was Saul thus marked for vengeance from the{15}
beginning? Why these presages of misfortune,
which from the first hung over him, gathered, fell
in storm and tempest, and at length overwhelmed
him? Is his character so essentially faulty that
it must be thus distinguished for reprobation{20}
above all the anointed kings after him? Why,
while David is called a man after God's own heart,
should Saul be put aside as worthless?

This question leads us to a deeper inspection of,
his character. Now, we know, the first duty of{25}
every man is the fear of God—a reverence for His
word, a love of Him, and a desire to obey Him; and,
besides, it was peculiarly incumbent on the king of
Israel, as God's vicegerent, by virtue of his office, to
promote His glory whom his subjects had rejected.{30}

Now Saul "lacked this one thing." His
character, indeed, is obscure, and we must be cautious
while considering it; still, as Scripture is given us
for our instruction, it is surely right to make the
most of what we find there, and to form our{5}
judgment by such lights as we possess. It would
appear, then, that Saul was never under the
abiding influence of religion, or, in Scripture language,
"the fear of God," however he might be at times
moved and softened. Some men are inconsistent{10}
in their conduct, as Samson; or as Eli, in a
different way; and yet may have lived by faith,
though a weak faith. Others have sudden falls,
as David had. Others are corrupted by
prosperity, as Solomon. But as to Saul, there is no{15}
proof that he had any deep-seated religious
principle at all; rather, it is to be feared, that his
history is a lesson to us, that the "heart of unbelief"
may exist in the very sight of God, may rule a man
in spite of many natural advantages of character,{20}
in the midst of much that is virtuous, amiable,
and commendable.

Saul, it would seem, was naturally brave,
active, generous, and patient; and what nature
made him, such he remained, that is, without{25}
improvement; with virtues which had no value,
because they required no effort, and implied the
influence of no principle. On the other hand,
when we look for evidence of his faith, that is, his
practical sense of things unseen, we discover{30}
instead a deadness to all considerations not connected
with the present world. It is his habit to
treat prophet and priest with a coldness, to say
the least, which seems to argue some great internal
defect. It would not be inconsistent with the
Scripture account of him, even should the real{5}
fact be, that (with some general notions
concerning the being and providence of God) he doubted
of the divinity of the Dispensation of which he was
an instrument. The circumstance which first
introduces him to the inspired history is not in his{10}
favor. While in search of his father's asses,
which were lost, he came to the city where
Samuel was; and though Samuel was now an old
man, and from childhood known as the especial
minister and prophet of the God of Israel, Saul{15}
seems to have considered him as a mere diviner,
such as might be found among the heathen, who,
for "the fourth part of a shekel of silver," would
tell him his way.

The narrative goes on to mention, that after his{20}
leaving Samuel "God gave him another heart,"
and on meeting a company of prophets, "the
Spirit of God came upon him, and he prophesied
among them." Upon this, "all that knew him
beforetime" said, "What is this that is come unto{25}
the son of Kish: is Saul also among the prophets?
... therefore it became a proverb." From this
narrative we gather, that his carelessness and
coldness in religious matters were so notorious,
that, in the eyes of his acquaintance, there was{30}
a certain strangeness and incongruity, which at
once struck the mind, in his being associated with
a school of the prophets.

Nor have we any reason to believe, from the
after history, that the Divine gift, then first
imparted, left any religious effect upon his mind.{5}
At a later period of his life we find him suddenly
brought under the same sacred influence on his
entering the school where Samuel taught; but,
instead of softening him, its effect upon his
outward conduct did but testify the fruitlessness of{10}
Divine grace when acting upon a will obstinately
set upon evil.

The immediate occasion of his rejection was his
failing under a specific trial of his obedience, as
set before him at the very time he was anointed.{15}
He had collected with difficulty an army against
the Philistines; while waiting for Samuel to offer
the sacrifice, his people became dispirited, and
began to fall off and return home. Here he was
doubtless exposed to the temptation of taking{20}
unlawful measures to put a stop to their defection.
But when we consider that the act to which he was
persuaded was no less than that of his offering
sacrifice—he being neither priest nor prophet,
nor having any commission thus to interfere{25}
with the Mosaic ritual—it is plain "his forcing
himself" to do so (as he tenderly described his
sin) was a direct profaneness—a profaneness
which implied that he was careless about forms,
which in this world will ever be essential to{30}
things supernatural, and thought it mattered
little whether he acted in God's way or in his
own.

After this, he seems to have separated himself
from Samuel, whom he found unwilling to become
his instrument, and to have had recourse to the{5}
priesthood instead. Ahijah or Ahimelech (as he
is afterwards called), the high priest, followed his
camp; and the ark, too, in spite of the warning
conveyed by the disasters which attended the
presumptuous use of it in the time of Eli. "And{10}
Saul said unto Ahijah, Bring hither the ark of
God;" while it was brought, a tumult which was
heard in the camp of the Philistines increased.
On this interruption Saul irreverently put the ark
aside, and went out to the battle.{15}

It will be observed, that there was no professed
or intentional irreverence in Saul's conduct; he
was still on the whole the same he had ever been.
He outwardly respected the Mosaic
ritual—about this time he built his first altar to the Lord,[9]{20}
and in a certain sense seemed to acknowledge God's
authority. But nothing shows he considered that
there was any vast distinction between Israel and
the nations around them. He was indifferent, and
cared for none of these things. The chosen people{25}
desired a king like the nations, and such a one
they received.

After this he was commanded to "go and smite
the sinners, the Amalekites, and utterly destroy
them and their cattle." This was a judgment on{30}
them which God had long decreed, though He had
delayed it; and He now made Saul the minister
of His vengeance. But Saul performed it so far
only as fell in with his own inclination and
purposes. He smote, indeed, the Amalekites, and{5}
"destroyed all the people with the edge of the
sword"—this exploit had its glory; the best of
the flocks and herds he spared, and why? to
sacrifice therewith to the Lord. But since God
had expressly told him to destroy them, what{10}
was this but to imply, that Divine intimations had
nothing to do with such matters? what was it but
to consider that the established religion was but
a useful institution, or a splendid pageant
suitable to the dignity of monarchy, but resting on no{15}
unseen supernatural sanction? Certainly he in
no sense acted in the fear of God, with the wish
to please Him, and the conviction that he was in
His sight. One might consider it mere pride and
willfulness in him, acting in his own way because{20}
it was his own (which doubtless it was in great
measure), except that he appears to have had an
eye to the feelings and opinions of men as to his
conduct, though not to God's judgment. He
"feared the people and obeyed their voice."{25}
Again, he spared Agag, the king of the
Amalekites. Doubtless he considered Agag as "his
brother," as Ahab afterwards called Ben-hadad.
Agag was a king, and Saul observed towards him
that courtesy and clemency which earthly{30}
monarchs observe one towards another, and rightly
when no Divine command comes in the way. But
the God of Israel required a king after His own
heart, jealous of idolatry; the people had desired
a king like the nations around them.

It is remarkable, moreover, that while he spared {5}
Agag, he attempted to exterminate the Gibeonites
with the sword, who were tolerated in Israel by
virtue of an oath taken in their favor by Joshua
and "the princes of the congregation." This he
did "in his zeal to the children of Israel and{10}
Judah."[10]

From the time of his disobedience in the matter
of Amalek, Samuel came no more to see Saul,
whose season of probation was over. The evil
spirit exerted a more visible influence upon him;{15}
and God sent Samuel to anoint David privately,
as the future king of Israel. I need not trace
further the course of moral degradation which is
exemplified in Saul's subsequent history. Mere
natural virtue wears away, when men neglect to {20}
deepen it into religious principle. Saul appears
in his youth to be unassuming and forbearing;
in advanced life he is not only proud and gloomy
(as he ever was in a degree), but cruel, resentful,
and hard-hearted, which he was not in his youth.{25}
His injurious treatment of David is a long
history; but his conduct to Ahimelech, the high
priest, admits of being mentioned here.
Ahimelech assisted David in his escape. Saul resolved
on the death of Ahimelech and all his father's{30}
house.[11] On his guards refusing to execute his
command, Doeg, a man of Edom, one of the
nations which Saul was raised up to withstand,
undertook the atrocious deed. On that day,
eighty-five priests were slain. Afterwards Nob,{5}
the city of the priests, was smitten with the edge
of the sword, and all destroyed, "men and women,
children and sucklings, and oxen, and asses, and
sheep." That is, Saul executed more complete
vengeance on the descendants of Levi, the sacred{10}
tribe, than on the sinners, the Amalekites, who
laid wait for Israel in the way, on their going up
from Egypt.

Last of all, he finishes his bad history by an open
act of apostasy from the God of Israel. His last{15}
act is like his first, but more significant. He
began, as we saw, by consulting Samuel as a diviner;
this showed the direction of his mind. It steadily
persevered in its evil way—and he ends by
consulting a professed sorceress at Endor. The{20}
Philistines had assembled their hosts; Saul's
heart trembled greatly—he had no advisers or
comforters; Samuel was dead—the priests he had
himself slain with the sword. He hoped, by magic
rites, which he had formerly denounced, to{25}
foresee the issue of the approaching battle. God
meets him even in the cave of Satanic
delusions—but as an Antagonist. The reprobate king
receives, by the mouth of dead Samuel, who had
once anointed him, the news that he is to be{30}
"taken away in God's wrath"—that the Lord
would deliver Israel, with him, into the hands of
the Philistines, and that on the morrow he and his
sons should be numbered with the dead.[12]

The next day "the battle went sore against him,{5}
the archers hit him; and he was sore wounded of
the archers."[13] "Anguish came upon him,"[14] and
he feared to fall into the hands of the
uncircumcised. He desired his armor-bearer to draw his
sword and thrust him through therewith. On his{10}
refusing, he fell upon his own sword, and so came
to his end.

"Behold, I have seen a son of Jesse the Beth-lehemite, that is cunning in playing, and a mighty valiant man, and a man of war, and prudent in matters, and a comely person, and the Lord is with him."—1 Samuel xvi. 18.

Such is the account given to Saul of David, in
many respects the most favored of the ancient
Saints. David is to be accounted the most
favored, first as being the principal type of Christ,
next as being the author of great part of the book{5}
of Psalms, which have been used as the Church's
form of devotion ever since his time. Besides, he
was a chief instrument of God's providence, both
in repressing idolatry and in preparing for the
gospel; and he prophesied in an especial manner{10}
of that Saviour whom he prefigured and preceded.
Moreover, he was the chosen king of Israel, a man
after God's own heart, and blessed, not only in
himself, but in his seed after him. And, further,
to the history of his life a greater share is given of{15}
the inspired pages than to that of any other of
God's favored servants. Lastly, he displays in
his personal character that very temper of mind
in which his nation, or rather human nature
itself, is especially deficient. Pride and unbelief{20}
disgrace the history of the chosen people; the
deliberate love of this world, which was the sin of
Balaam, and the presumptuous willfulness which
is exhibited in Saul. But David is conspicuous
for an affectionate, a thankful, a loyal heart{5}
towards his God and defender, a zeal which was
as fervent and as docile as Saul's was sullen,
and as keen-sighted and as pure as Balaam's was
selfish and double-minded. Such was the son
of Jesse the Beth-lehemite; he stands midway{10}
between Abraham and his predicted seed, Judah
and the Shiloh, receiving and transmitting the
promises; a figure of the Christ, and an inspired
prophet, living in the Church even to the end of
time, in his office, his history, and his sacred{15}
writings.

Some remarks on his early life, and on his
character, as therein displayed, may profitably
engage our attention at the present time.

When Saul was finally rejected for not{20}
destroying the Amalekites, Samuel was bid go to
Bethlehem, and anoint, as future king of Israel, one
of the sons of Jesse, who should be pointed out to
him when he was come there. Samuel
accordingly went thither and held a sacrifice; when, at{25}
his command, Jesse's seven sons were brought by
their father, one by one, before the prophet; but
none of them proved to be the choice of Almighty
God. David was the youngest and out of the
way, and it seemed to Jesse as unlikely that God's{30}
choice should fall upon him, as it appeared to
Joseph's brethren and to his father, that he and
his mother and brethren should, as his dreams
foretold, bow down before him. On Samuel's
inquiring, Jesse said, "There remaineth yet the
youngest, and, behold, he keepeth the sheep."{5}
On Samuel's bidding, he was sent for. "Now
he was ruddy," the sacred historian proceeds,
"and withal of a beautiful countenance, and
goodly to look to. And the Lord said, Arise,
anoint him, for this is he." After Samuel had{10}
anointed him, "the Spirit of the Lord came upon
David from that day forward." It is added,
"But the Spirit of the Lord departed from Saul."

David's anointing was followed by no other
immediate mark of God's favor. He was tried{15}
by being sent back again, in spite of the promise,
to the care of his sheep, till an unexpected
occasion introduced him to Saul's court. The
withdrawing of the Spirit of the Lord from Saul was
followed by frequent attacks from an evil spirit, as{20}
a judgment upon him. His mind was depressed,
and a "trouble," as it is called, came upon him,
with symptoms very like those which we now
refer to derangement. His servants thought that
music, such, perhaps, as was used in the schools{25}
of the prophets, might soothe and restore him;
and David was recommended by one of them for
that purpose, in the words of the text: "Behold,
I have seen a son of Jesse the Beth-lehemite,
that is cunning in playing, and a mighty valiant{30}
man, and a man of war, and prudent in matters,
and a comely person, and the Lord is with
him."

David came in the power of that sacred
influence whom Saul had grieved and rejected.
The Spirit which inspired his tongue guided his{5}
hand also, and his sacred songs became a medicine
to Saul's diseased mind. "When the evil spirit
from God was upon Saul, ... David took an
harp, and played with his hand; so Saul was
refreshed, and was well, and the evil spirit departed{10}
from him." Thus he is first introduced to us in
that character in which he still has praise in the
Church, as "the anointed of the God of Jacob,
and the sweet psalmist of Israel."[15]

Saul "loved David greatly, and he became his{15}
armor-bearer;" but the first trial of his humility
and patience was not over, while many other trials
were in store. After a while he was a second time
sent back to his sheep; and though there was war
with the Philistines, and his three eldest brethren{20}
were in the army with Saul, and he had already
essayed his strength in defending his father's
flocks from wild beasts, and was "a mighty
valiant man," yet he contentedly stayed at home
as a private person, keeping his promise of{25}
greatness to himself, till his father bade him go to his
brethren to take them a present from him, and
report how they fared. An accident, as it
appeared to the world, brought him forward. On
his arrival at the army, he heard the challenge of{30}
the Philistine champion, Goliath of Gath. I need
not relate how he was divinely urged to engage
the giant, how he killed him, and how he was, in
consequence, again raised to Saul's favor; who,
with an infirmity not inconsistent with the{5}
deranged state of his mind, seems to have altogether
forgotten him.

From this time began David's public life; but
not yet the fulfillment of the promise made to him
by Samuel. He had a second and severer trial{10}
of patience to endure for many years; the trial
of "being still" and doing nothing before God's
time, though he had (apparently) the means in his
hands of accomplishing the promise for himself.
It was to this trial that Jeroboam afterwards{15}
showed himself unequal. He, too, was promised
a kingdom, but he was tempted to seize upon it
in his own way, and so forfeited God's protection.

David's victory over Goliath so endeared him
to Saul, that he would not let him go back to his{20}
father's house. Jonathan, too, Saul's son, at once
felt for him a warm affection, which deepened into
a firm friendship. "Saul set him over the men
of war, and he was accepted in the sight of all the
people, and also in the sight of Saul's servants."[16]{25}
This prosperous fortune, however, did not long
continue. As Saul passed through the cities from
his victory over his enemies, the women of Israel
came out to meet him, singing and dancing, and
they said, "Saul hath slain his thousands, and{30}
David his ten thousands." Immediately the
jealous king was "very wroth, and the saying
displeased him"; his sullenness returned; he
feared David as a rival; and "eyed him from that
day and forward." On the morrow, as David{5}
was playing before him, as at other times, Saul
threw his javelin at him. After this, Saul
displaced him from his situation at his court, and
sent him to the war, hoping so to rid himself of
him by his falling in battle; but, by God's{10}
blessing, David returned victorious.

In a second war with the Philistines, David was
successful as before; and Saul, overcome with
gloomy and malevolent passions, again cast at him
with his javelin, as he played before him, with the{15}
hope of killing him.

This repeated attempt on his life drove David
from Saul's court; and for some years after, that
is, till Saul's death, he was a wanderer upon the
earth, persecuted in that country which was{20}
afterwards to be his own kingdom. Here, as in his
victory over Goliath, Almighty God purposed to
show us, that it was His hand which set David on
the throne of Israel. David conquered his enemy
by a sling and stone, in order, as he said at the{25}
time, that all ... might know "that the Lord
saveth not with sword and spear; for the battle
is the Lord's."[17] Now again, but in a different
way, His guiding providence was displayed. As
David slew Goliath without arms, so now he{30}
refrained himself and used them not, though he
possessed them. Like Abraham, he traversed
the land of promise "as a strange land,"[18] waiting
for God's good time. Nay, far more exactly, even
than to Abraham, was it given to David to act and{5}
suffer that life of faith which the Apostle describes,
and by which "the elders obtained a good report."
By faith he wandered about, "being destitute,
afflicted, evil-entreated, in deserts, and in
mountains, and in dens, and in caves of the earth."{10}
On the other hand, through the same faith, he
"subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness,
obtained promises, waxed valiant in fight, turned to
flight the armies of the aliens."

On escaping from Saul, he first went to Samuel{15}
to ask his advice. With him he dwelt some time.
Driven thence by Saul he went to Bethlehem, his
father's city, then to Ahimelech, the high priest,
at Nob. Thence he fled, still through fear of Saul,
to Achish, the Philistine king of Gath; and{20}
finding his life in danger there, he escaped to Adullam,
where he was joined by his kindred, and put
himself at the head of an irregular band of men, such
as, in the unsettled state of the country, might be
usefully and lawfully employed against the{25}
remnant of the heathen. After this he was driven to
Hareth, to Keilah, which he rescued from the
Philistines, to the wilderness of Ziph among the
mountains, to the wilderness of Maon, to the
strongholds of Engedi, to the wilderness of Paran. After{30}
a time he again betook himself to Achish, king of
Gath, who gave him a city; and there it was that
the news was brought him of the death of Saul in
battle, which was the occasion of his elevation first
to the throne of Judah, afterwards to that of all{5}
Israel, according to the promise of God made to
him by Samuel.

It need not be denied that, during these years of
wandering, we find in David's conduct instances
of infirmity and inconsistency, and some things{10}
which, without being clearly wrong, are yet
strange and startling in so favored a servant of
God. With these we are not concerned, except
so far as a lesson may be gained from them for
ourselves. We are not at all concerned with them{15}
as regards our estimate of David's character.
That character is ascertained and sealed by the
plain word of Scripture, by the praise of Almighty
God, and is no subject for our criticism; and if we
find in it traits which we cannot fully reconcile{20}
with the approbation divinely given to him, we
must take it in faith to be what it is said to be,
and wait for the future revelations of Him who
"overcomes when He is judged." Therefore I
dismiss these matters now, when I am engaged{25}
in exhibiting the eminent obedience and
manifold virtues of David. On the whole his situation
during these years of trial was certainly that of a
witness for Almighty God, one who does good and
suffers for it, nay, suffers on rather than rid{30}
himself from suffering by any unlawful act.

Now, then, let us consider what was, as far as
we can understand, his especial grace, what is his
gift; as faith was Abraham's distinguishing virtue,
meekness the excellence of Moses, self-mastery the
gift especially conspicuous in Joseph.{5}

This question may best be answered by
considering the purpose for which he was raised up.
When Saul was disobedient, Samuel said to him,
"Thy kingdom shall not continue: the Lord hath
sought Him a man after His own heart, and the{10}
Lord hath commanded him to be captain over
His people, because thou hast not kept that which
the Lord commanded thee."[19] The office to
which first Saul and then David were called was
different from that with which other favored{15}
men before them had been entrusted. From the
time of Moses, when Israel became a nation, God
had been the king of Israel, and His chosen
servants, not delegates, but mere organs of His
will. Moses did not direct the Israelites by his{20}
own wisdom, but he spake to them, as God spake
from the pillar of the cloud. Joshua, again, was
merely a sword in the hand of God. Samuel was
but His minister and interpreter. God acted, the
Israelites "stood still and saw" His miracles, then{25}
followed. But, when they had rejected Him
from being king over them, then their chief ruler
was no longer a mere organ of His power and will,
but had a certain authority intrusted to him,
more or less independent of supernatural direction;{30}
and acted, not so much from God, as for
God, and in the place of God. David, when taken
from the sheepfolds "to feed Jacob His people and
Israel His inheritance," "fed them," in the words
of the Psalm, "with a faithful and true heart;{5}
and ruled them prudently with all his power."[20]
From this account of his office, it is obvious that
his very first duty was that of fidelity to Almighty
God in the trust committed to him. He had
power put into his hands, in a sense in which{10}
neither Moses had it nor Samuel. He was charged
with a certain office, which he was bound to
administer according to his ability, so as best to
promote the interests of Him who appointed him.
Saul had neglected his Master's honor; but{15}
David, in this an eminent type of Christ, "came
to do God's will" as a viceroy in Israel, and, as
being tried and found faithful, he is especially
called "a man after God's own heart."

David's peculiar excellence, then, is that of{20}
fidelity to the trust committed to him; a firm,
uncompromising, single-hearted devotion to the
cause of his God, and a burning zeal for His
honor.

This characteristic virtue is especially{25}
illustrated in the early years of his life which have
engaged our attention. He was tried therein and
found faithful; before he was put in power, it
was proved whether he could obey. Till he came
to the throne, he was like Moses or Samuel, an{30}
instrument in God's hands, bid do what was told
him and nothing more;—having borne this trial
of obedience well, in which Saul had failed, then
at length he was intrusted with a sort of
discretionary power, to use in his Master's service.{5}

Observe how David was tried, and what
various high qualities of mind he displayed in
the course of the trial. First, the promise of
greatness was given him, and Samuel anointed
him. Still he stayed in the sheepfolds; and{10}
though called away by Saul for a time, yet
returned contentedly when Saul released him from
attendance. How difficult is it for such as know
they have gifts suitable to the Church's need to
refrain themselves, till God make a way for their{15}
use! and the trial would be the more severe in
David's case, in proportion to the ardor and
energy of his mind; yet he fainted not under it.
Afterwards for seven years, as the time appears
to be, he withstood the strong temptation, ever{20}
before his eyes, of acting without God's guidance,
when he had the means of doing so. Though
skillful in arms, popular with his countrymen,
successful against the enemy, the king's
son-in-law, and on the other hand grievously injured by{25}
Saul, who not only continually sought his life,
but even suggested to him a traitor's conduct
by accusing him of treason, and whose life was
several times in his hands, yet he kept his
honor pure and unimpeachable. He feared God{30}
and honored the king; and this at a time of
life especially exposed to the temptations of
ambition.

There is a resemblance between the early
history of David and that of Joseph. Both
distinguished for piety in youth, the youngest and{5}
the despised of their respective brethren, they
are raised, after a long trial to a high station,
as ministers of God's Providence. Joseph was
tempted to a degrading adultery; David was
tempted by ambition. Both were tempted to{10}
be traitors to their masters and benefactors.
Joseph's trial was brief; but his conduct under it
evidenced settled habits of virtue which he could
call to his aid at a moment's notice. A long
imprisonment followed, the consequence of his{15}
obedience, and borne with meekness and patience;
but it was no part of his temptation, because,
when once incurred, release was out of his power.
David's trial, on the other hand, lasted for years,
and grew stronger as time went on. His master,{20}
too, far from "putting all that he had into his
hand,"[21] sought his life. Continual opportunity
of avenging himself incited his passions;
self-defense, and the Divine promise, were specious
arguments to seduce his reason. Yet he mastered{25}
his heart—he was "still"; he kept his hands clean
and his lips guileless—he was loyal
throughout—and in due time inherited the promise.

Let us call to mind some of the circumstances
of his steadfastness recorded in the history.{30}

He was about twenty-three years old when he
slew the Philistine; yet, when placed over Saul's
men of war, in the first transport of his victory,
we are told he "behaved himself wisely."[22]
When fortune turned, and Saul became jealous{5}
of him, still "David behaved himself wisely in
all his ways, and the Lord was with him." How
like is this to Joseph under different circumstances!
"Wherefore when Saul saw that he behaved
himself very wisely he was afraid of him; and all{10}
Israel and Judah loved David." Again, "And
David behaved himself more wisely than all the
servants of Saul, so that his name was much set
by." Here, in shifting fortunes, is evidence of
that staid, composed frame of mind in his youth,{15}
which he himself describes in the one hundred
and thirty-first Psalm. "My heart is not haughty,
nor mine eyes lofty.... Surely I have behaved
and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his
mother."{20}

The same modest deportment marks his
subsequent conduct. He consistently seeks counsel
of God. When he fled from Saul he went to
Samuel; afterwards we find him following the
directions of the prophet Gad, and afterwards of{25}
Abiathar the high priest.[23] Here his character is
in full contrast to the character of Saul.

Further, consider his behavior towards Saul,
when he had him in his power; it displays a most
striking and admirable union of simple faith and{30}
unblemished loyalty.

Saul, while in pursuit of him, went into a cave
in Engedi. David surprised him there, and his
companions advised to seize him, if not to take{5}
his life. They said, "Behold the day of which the
Lord said unto thee."[24] David, in order to show
Saul how entirely his life had been in his power,
arose and cut off a part of his robe privately.
After he had done it, his "heart smote him" even{10}
for this slight freedom, as if it were a disrespect
offered towards his king and father. "He said
unto his men, The Lord forbid that I should do
this thing unto my master, the Lord's anointed,
to stretch forth mine hand against him, seeing he{15}
is the anointed of the Lord." When Saul left
the cave, David followed him and cried, "My
Lord the king. And when Saul looked behind
him, David stooped with his face to the earth
and bowed himself." He hoped that he could{20}
now convince Saul of his integrity. "Wherefore
hearest thou men's words," he asked, "saying,
Behold, David seeketh thy hurt? Behold, this
day thine eyes have seen how that the Lord had
delivered thee to-day into mine hand in the cave:{25}
and some bade me kill thee.... Moreover, my
father, see, yea see the skirt of thy robe in my
hand: for in that I cut off the skirt of thy robe,
and killed thee not, know thou and see, that
there is neither evil nor transgression in mine{30}
hand, and I have not sinned against thee: yet
thou huntest my soul to take it. The Lord judge
between me and thee, and the Lord avenge me
of thee: but mine hand shall not be upon
thee.... After whom is the king of Israel come out?{5}
after whom dost thou pursue? after a dead dog,
after a flea. The Lord therefore judge ... and
see, and plead my cause, and deliver me out of
thine hand." Saul was for the time overcome;
he said, "Is this thy voice, my son David? and{10}
Saul lifted up his voice and wept." And he said,
"Thou art more righteous than I; for thou hast
rewarded me good, whereas I have rewarded thee
evil." He added, "And now, behold, I know well
that thou shalt surely be king." At another time{15}
David surprised Saul in the midst of his camp,
and his companion would have killed him; but
he said, "Destroy him not, for who can stretch
forth his hand against the Lord's anointed and
be guiltless?"[25] Then, as he stood over him, he{20}
meditated sorrowfully on his master's future
fortunes, while he himself refrained from
interfering with God's purposes. "Surely the Lord
shall smite him; or his day shall come to die; or
he shall descend into battle and perish." David{25}
retired from the enemy's camp; and when at a safe
distance, roused Saul's guards, and blamed them
for their negligent watch, which had allowed a
stranger to approach the person of their king. Saul
was moved the second time; the miserable man,{30}
as if waking from a dream which hung about
him, said, "I have sinned; return, my son David
... behold, I have played the fool, and have erred
exceedingly." He added, truth overcoming him,
"Blessed be thou, my son David; thou shalt{5}
both do great things, and also shalt still prevail."

How beautiful are these passages in the history
of the chosen king of Israel! How do they draw
our hearts towards him, as one whom in his
private character it must have been an extreme{10}
privilege and a great delight to know! Surely,
the blessings of the patriarchs descended in a
united flood upon "the lion of the tribe of Judah,"
the type of the true Redeemer who was to come.
He inherits the prompt faith and magnanimity{15}
of Abraham; he is simple as Isaac; he is humble
as Jacob; he has the youthful wisdom and
self-possession, the tenderness, the affectionateness,
and the firmness of Joseph. And, as his own
especial gift, he has an overflowing thankfulness,{20}
an ever-burning devotion, a zealous fidelity to
his God, a high unshaken loyalty towards his
king, an heroic bearing in all circumstances, such
as the multitude of men see to be great, but
cannot understand. Be it our blessedness, unless{25}
the wish be presumptuous, so to acquit ourselves
in troubled times; cheerful amid anxieties,
collected in dangers, generous towards enemies,
patient in pain and sorrow, subdued in good
fortune! How manifold are the ways of the{30}
Spirit, how various the graces which He imparts;
what depth and width is there in that moral truth
and virtue for which we are created! Contrast
one with another the Scripture Saints; how
different are they, yet how alike! how fitted for
their respective circumstances, yet how unearthly,{5}
how settled and composed in the faith and fear
of God! As in the Services, so in the patterns of
the Church, God has met all our needs, all our
frames of mind. "Is any afflicted? let him
pray; is any merry? let him sing Psalms."[26]{10}
Is any in joy or in sorrow? there are Saints at
hand to encourage and guide him. There is
Abraham for nobles, Job for men of wealth and
merchandise, Moses for patriots, Samuel for
rulers, Elijah for reformers, Joseph for those who{15}
rise into distinction; there is Daniel for the
forlorn, Jeremiah for the persecuted, Hannah for the
downcast, Ruth for the friendless, the
Shunamite for the matron, Caleb for the soldier, Boaz
for the farmer, Mephibosheth for the subject;{20}
but none is vouchsafed to us in more varied lights,
and with more abundant and more affecting
lessons, whether in his history or in his writings,
than he whose eulogy is contained in the words of
the text, as cunning in playing, and a mighty{25}
valiant man, and prudent in matters, and comely
in person, and favored by Almighty God. May
we be taught, as he was, to employ the gifts, in
whatever measure given us, to God's honor and
glory, and to the extension of that true and only{30}
faith which is the salvation of the soul!

"What are these discourses that you hold one with another, as you walk and are sad?"

I

The instruments raised up by Almighty God
for the accomplishment of His purposes are of
two kinds, equally gifted with faith and piety,
but from natural temper and talent, education,
or other circumstances, differing in the means by{5}
which they promote their sacred cause. The
first of these are men of acute and ready mind,
with accurate knowledge of human nature, and
large plans, and persuasive and attractive
bearing, genial, sociable, and popular, endued with{10}
prudence, patience, instinctive tact and decision
in conducting matters, as well as boldness and
zeal. Such in a measure we may imagine the
single-minded, the intrepid, the much-enduring
Hildebrand, who, at a time when society was{15}
forming itself anew, was the Saviour, humanly
speaking, of the City of God. Such, in an earlier age,
was the majestic Ambrose; such the
never-wearied Athanasius. These last-named
luminaries of the Church came into public life early,{20}
and thus learned how to cope with the various
tempers, views, and measures of the men they
encountered there. Athanasius was but
twenty-seven when he went with Alexander to the Nicene
Council, and the year after he was Bishop of
Alexandria. Ambrose was consecrated soon after{5}
the age of thirty.

Again, there is an instrument in the hand of
Providence, of less elaborate and splendid
workmanship, less rich in its political endowments,
so to call them, yet not less beautiful in its{10}
texture, nor less precious in its material. Such is
the retired and thoughtful student, who remains
years and years in the solitude of a college or a
monastery, chastening his soul in secret, raising
it to high thought and single-minded purpose,{15}
and when at length called into active life,
conducting himself with firmness, guilelessness, zeal
like a flaming fire, and all the sweetness of purity
and integrity. Such an one is often unsuccessful
in his own day; he is too artless to persuade, too{20}
severe to please; unskilled in the weaknesses of
human nature, unfurnished in the resources of
ready wit, negligent of men's applause,
unsuspicious, open-hearted, he does his work, and so
leaves it; and it seems to die; but in the{25}
generation after him it lives again, and on the long run
it is difficult to say which of the two classes of
men has served the cause of truth the more
effectually. Such, perhaps, was Basil, who issued
from the solitudes of Pontus to rule like a king,{30}
and minister like the lowest in the kingdom; yet
to meet little but disappointment, and to quit
life prematurely in pain and sorrow. Such was
his friend, the accomplished Gregory, however
different in other respects from him, who left his
father's roof for an heretical city, raised a church{5}
there, and was driven back into retirement by
his own people, as soon as his triumph over the
false creed was secured. Such, perhaps, St. Peter
Damiani in the middle age; such St. Anselm,
such St. Edmund. No comparison is, of course,{10}
attempted here between the religious excellence
of the two descriptions of men; each of them
serves God according to the peculiar gifts given
to him. If we might continue our instances
by way of comparison, we should say that St.{15}
Paul reminds us of the former, and Jeremiah of
the latter....

It often happens that men of very dissimilar
talents and tastes are attracted together by their
very dissimilitude. They live in intimacy for a{20}
time, perhaps a long time, till their circumstances
alter, or some sudden event comes, to try them.
Then the peculiarities of their respective minds
are brought out into action; and quarrels ensue,
which end in coolness or separation. It would{25}
not be right or true to say that this is exemplified
in the instance of the two blessed Apostles, whose
"sharp contention" is related in the Book of
Acts; for they had been united in spirit once for
all by a Divine gift; and yet their strife reminds{30}
us of what takes place in life continually. And it
so far resembled the everyday quarrels of friends,
in that it arose from difference of temper and
character in those favored servants of God.
The zealous heart of the Apostle of the Gentiles
endured not the presence of one who had swerved{5}
in his course; the indulgent spirit of Barnabas
felt that a first fault ought not to be a last trial.
Such are the two main characters which are found
in the Church,—high energy, and sweetness of
temper; far from incompatible, of course, united{10}
in Apostles, though in different relative
proportions, yet only partially combined in ordinary
Christians, and often altogether parted from each
other.

This contrast of character, leading, first, to{15}
intimacy, then to differences, is interestingly
displayed, though painfully, in one passage of the
history of Basil and Gregory: Gregory the
affectionate, the tender-hearted, the man of quick
feelings, the accomplished, the eloquent{20}
preacher,—and Basil, the man of firm resolve and hard
deeds, the high-minded ruler of Christ's flock,
the diligent laborer in the field of ecclesiastical
politics. Thus they differed; yet not as if they
had not much in common still; both had the{25}
blessing and the discomfort of a sensitive mind;
both were devoted to an ascetic life; both were
men of classical tastes; both were special
champions of the Catholic creed; both were skilled
in argument, and successful in their use of it;{30}
both were in highest place in the Church, the one
Exarch of Cæsarea, the other Patriarch of
Constantinople. I will now attempt to sketch the
history of their intimacy.

II

Basil and Gregory were both natives of
Cappadocia, but here, again, under different{5}
circumstances; Basil was born of a good family, and
with Christian ancestors: Gregory was the son of
the Bishop of Nazianzus, who had been brought
up an idolater, or rather an Hypsistarian, a
mongrel sort of religionist, part Jew, part Pagan.{10}
He was brought over to Christianity by the efforts
of his wife Nonna, and at Nazianzus admitted by
baptism into the Church. In process of time he
was made bishop of that city; but not having a
very firm hold of the faith, he was betrayed in{15}
360 into signing the Ariminian creed, which caused
him much trouble, and from which at length his
son recovered him. Cæsarea being at no
unsurmountable distance from Nazianzus, the two
friends had known each other in their own country;{20}
but their intimacy began at Athens, whither
they separately repaired for the purposes of
education. This was about A.D. 350, when each of
them was twenty-one years of age. Gregory
came to the seat of learning shortly before Basil,{25}
and thus was able to be his host and guide on his
arrival; but fame had reported Basil's merits
before he came, and he seems to have made his
way, in a place of all others most difficult to a
stranger, with a facility peculiar to himself. He
soon found himself admired and respected by
his fellow-students; but Gregory was his only
friend, and shared with him the reputation of{5}
talents and attainments. They remained at
Athens four or five years; and, at the end of the
time, made the acquaintance of Julian, since of
evil name in history as the Apostate. Gregory
thus describes in after life his early intimacy{10}
with Basil:

"Athens and letters followed on my stage;
Others may tell how I encountered them;—
How in the fear of God, and foremost found
Of those who knew a more than mortal lore;—{15}
And how, amid the venture and the rush
Of maddened youth with youth in rivalry,
My tranquil course ran like some fabled spring,
Which bubbles fresh beneath the turbid brine;
Not drawn away by those who lure to ill,{20}
But drawing dear ones to the better part.
There, too, I gained a further gift of God,
Who made me friends with one of wisdom high,
Without compeer in learning and in life.
Ask ye his name?—in sooth, 'twas Basil, since{25}
My life's great gain,—and then my fellow dear
In home, and studious search, and knowledge earned.
May I not boast how in our day we moved
A truest pair, not without name in Greece;
Had all things common, and one only soul{30}
In lodgment of a double outward frame?
Our special bond, the thought of God above,
And the high longing after holy things.
And each of us was bold to trust in each,
Unto the emptying of our deepest hearts;
And then we loved the more, for sympathy
Pleaded in each, and knit the twain in one."

The friends had been educated for rhetoricians,
and their oratorical powers were such, that they{5}
seemed to have every prize in prospect which a
secular ambition could desire. Their names were
known far and wide, their attainments
acknowledged by enemies, and they themselves personally
popular in their circle of acquaintance. It was{10}
under these circumstances that they took the
extraordinary resolution of quitting the world
together,—extraordinary the world calls it,
utterly perplexed to find that any conceivable
objects can, by any sane person, be accounted{15}
better than its own gifts and favors. They
resolved to seek baptism of the Church, and to
consecrate their gifts to the service of the Giver.
With characters of mind very different—the
one grave, the other lively; the one desponding,{20}
the other sanguine; the one with deep feelings,
the other with feelings acute and warm;—they
agreed together in holding, that the things that
are seen are not to be compared to the things that
are not seen. They quitted the world, while it{25}
entreated them to stay.

What passed when they were about to leave
Athens represents as in a figure the parting which
they and the world took of each other. When
the day of valediction arrived, their companions{30}
and equals, nay, some of their tutors, came about
them, and resisted their departure by entreaties,
arguments, and even by violence. This occasion
showed, also, their respective dispositions; for
the firm Basil persevered, and went; the
tender-hearted Gregory was softened, and stayed awhile{5}
longer. Basil, indeed, in spite of the reputation
which attended him, had, from the first, felt
disappointment with the celebrated abode of
philosophy and literature; and seems to have given up
the world from a simple conviction of its emptiness.{10}

"He," says Gregory, "according to the way of human
nature, when, on suddenly falling in with what we hoped
to be greater, we find it less than its fame, experienced
some such feeling, began to be sad, grew impatient, and
could not congratulate himself on his place of residence.{15}
He sought an object which hope had drawn for him;
and he called Athens 'hollow blessedness.'"

Gregory himself, on the contrary, looked at
things more cheerfully; as the succeeding
sentences show.{20}

"Thus Basil; but I removed the greater part of his
sorrow, meeting it with reason, and smoothing it with
reflections, and saying (what was most true) that
character is not at once understood, nor except by long time
and perfect intimacy; nor are studies estimated, by{25}
those who are submitted to them, on a brief trial and
by slight evidence. Thus I reassured him, and by
continual trials of each other, I bound myself to him."
—Orat. 43.

III

Yet Gregory had inducements of his own to{30}
leave the world, not to insist on his love of Basil's
company. His mother had devoted him to God,
both before and after his birth; and when he was
a child he had a remarkable dream, which made
a great impression upon him.

"While I was asleep," he says in one of his poems,{5}
which runs thus in prose, "a dream came to me, which
drew me readily to the desire of chastity. Two virgin
forms, in white garments, seemed to shine close to me.
Both were fair and of one age, and their ornament lay
in their want of ornament, which is a woman's beauty.{10}
No gold adorned their neck, nor jacinth; nor had they
the delicate spinning of the silkworm. Their fair robe
was bound with a girdle, and it reached down to their
ankles. Their head and face were concealed by a veil,
and their eyes were fixed on the ground. The fair glow{15}
of modesty was on both of them, as far as could be seen
under their thick covering. Their lips were closed in
silence, as the rose in its dewy leaves. When I saw
them, I rejoiced much; for I said that they were far
more than mortals. And they in turn kept kissing me,{20}
while I drew light from their lips, fondling me as a dear
son. And when I asked who and whence the women
were, the one answered, 'Purity,' the other, 'Sobriety';
'We stand by Christ, the King, and delight in the beauty
of the celestial virgins. Come, then, child, unite thy{25}
mind to our mind, thy light to our light; so shall we carry
thee aloft in all brightness through the air, and place
thee by the radiance of the immortal Trinity.'"
—Carm. p. 930.

He goes on to say, that he never lost the{30}
impression this made upon him, as "a spark of
heavenly fire," or "a taste of divine milk and
honey."

As far, then, as these descriptions go, one might
say that Gregory's abandonment of the world
arose from an early passion, as it may be called,
for a purity higher than his own nature; and
Basil's, from a profound sense of the world's
nothingness and the world's defilements. Both{5}
seem to have viewed it as a sort of penitential
exercise, as well as a means towards perfection.

When they had once resolved to devote
themselves to the service of religion, the question
arose, how they might best improve and employ{10}
the talents committed to them. Somehow, the
idea of marrying and taking orders, or taking
orders and marrying, building or improving their
parsonages, and showing forth the charities, the
humanities, and the gentilities of a family man,{15}
did not suggest itself to their minds. They fancied
that they must give up wife, children, property,
if they would be perfect; and, this being taken
for granted, that their choice lay between two
modes of life, both of which they regarded as{20}
extremes. Here, then, for a time, they were in
some perplexity. Gregory speaks of two ascetic
disciplines, that of the solitary or hermit, and that
of the secular;[27] one of which, he says, profits
a man's self, the other his neighbor. Midway,{25}
however, between these lay the Cœnobite, or
what we commonly call the monastic; removed
from the world, yet acting in a certain select
circle. And this was the rule which the friends
at length determined to adopt, withdrawing from{30}
mixed society in order to be of the greater service
to it.

The following is the passage in which Gregory
describes the life which was the common choice
of both of them:{5}

"Fierce was the whirlwind of my storm-toss'd mind,
Searching,'mid holiest ways, a holier still.
Long had I nerved me, in the depths to sink
Thoughts of the flesh, and then more strenuously.
Yet, while I gazed upon diviner aims,{10}
I had not wit to single out the best:
For, as is aye the wont in things of earth,
Each had its evil, each its nobleness.
I was the pilgrim of a toilsome course,
Who had o'erpast the waves, and now look'd round,{15}
With anxious eye, to track his road by land.
Then did the awful Thesbite's image rise,
His highest Carmel, and his food uncouth;
The Baptist wealthy in his solitude;
And the unencumbered sons of Jonadab.{20}
But soon I felt the love of holy books,
The spirit beaming bright in learned lore,
Which deserts could not hear, nor silence tell.
Long was the inward strife, till ended thus:—
I saw, when men lived in the fretful world,{25}
They vantaged other men, but risked the while
The calmness and the pureness of their hearts.
They who retired held an uprighter port,
And raised their eyes with quiet strength towards heaven;
Yet served self only, unfraternally.{30}
And so, 'twixt these and those, I struck my path,
To meditate with the free solitary,
Yet to live secular, and serve mankind."

"The just perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart; and men of mercy are taken away, for there is none to understand; for the just man is taken away from before the face of evil."

I

I began by directing the reader's attention to
the labors of two great bishops, who restored
the faith of Christianity where it had long been
obscured. Now, I will put before him, by way
of contrast, a scene of the overthrow of{5}
religion,—the extinction of a candlestick,—effected, too,
by champions of the same heretical creed which
Basil and Gregory successfully resisted. It will
be found in the history of the last days of the
great Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, in Africa.{10}
The truth triumphed in the East by the power of
preaching; it was extirpated in the South by the
edge of the sword.

Though it may not be given us to appropriate
the prophecies of the Apocalypse to the real{15}
events to which they belong, yet it is impossible
to read its inspired pages, and then to turn to
the dissolution of the Roman empire, without
seeing a remarkable agreement, on the whole,
between the calamities of that period and the{20}
sacred prediction. There is a plain announcement
in the inspired page, of "Woe, woe, woe, to
the inhabitants of the earth"; an announcement
of "hail and fire mingled with blood," the
conflagration of "trees and green grass," the
destruction of ships, the darkening of the sun, and the{5}
poisoning of the rivers over a third of their course.
There is a clear prophecy of revolutions on the
face of the earth and in the structure of society.
And, on the other hand, let us observe how fully
such general foretokenings are borne out, among{10}
other passages of history, in the Vandalic
conquest of Africa.

The coast of Africa, between the great desert
and the Mediterranean, was one of the most
fruitful and opulent portions of the Roman world.{15}
The eastern extremity of it was more especially
connected with the empire, containing in it
Carthage, Hippo, and other towns, celebrated as
being sees of the Christian Church, as well as
places of civil importance. In the spring of the{20}
year 428, the Vandals, Arians by creed, and
barbarians by birth and disposition, crossed the
Straits of Gibraltar, and proceeded along this
fertile district, bringing with them devastation
and captivity on every side. They abandoned{25}
themselves to the most savage cruelties and
excesses. They pillaged, ravaged, burned,
massacred all that came in their way, sparing not even
the fruit trees, which might have afforded some
poor food to the remnant of the population, who{30}
had escaped from them into caves, the recesses
of the mountains, or into vaults. Twice did this
desolating pestilence sweep over the face of the
country.

The fury of the Vandals was especially exercised
towards the memorials of religion. Churches,{5}
cemeteries, monasteries, were objects of their
fiercest hatred and most violent assaults. They
broke into the places of worship, cut to pieces all
internal decorations, and then set fire to them.
They tortured bishops and clergy with the hope of{10}
obtaining treasure. The names of some of the
victims of their ferocity are preserved. Mansuetus,
Bishop of Utica, was burnt alive; Papinianus,
Bishop of Vite, was laid upon red-hot plates of
iron. This was near upon the time when the{15}
third General Council was assembling at Ephesus,
which, from the insecure state of the roads, and
the universal misery which reigned among them,
the African bishops were prevented from
attending. The Clergy, the religious brotherhoods, the{20}
holy virgins, were scattered all over the country.
The daily sacrifice was stopped, the sacraments
could not be obtained, the festivals of the Church
passed unnoticed. At length, only three cities
remained unvisited by the general{25}
desolation,—Carthage, Hippo, and Cirtha.

II

Hippo was the see of St. Austin, then
seventy-four years of age (forty almost of which had been
passed in ministerial labors), and warned, by
the law of nature, of the approach of dissolution.
It was as if the light of prosperity and peace
were fading away from the African Church, as
sank the bodily powers of its great earthly
ornament and stay. At this time, when the terrors{5}
of the barbaric invasion spread on all sides, a
bishop wrote to him to ask whether it was allowable
for the ruler of a Church to leave the scene of his
pastoral duties in order to save his life.
Different opinions had heretofore been expressed on{10}
this question. In Augustine's own country
Tertullian had maintained that flight was unlawful,
but he was a Montanist when he so wrote. On
the other hand, Cyprian had actually fled, and
had defended his conduct when questioned by{15}
the clergy of Rome. His contemporaries,
Dionysius of Alexandria, and Gregory of Neocæsarea,
had fled also; as had Polycarp before them, and
Athanasius after them.

Athanasius also had to defend his flight, and he{20}
defended it, in a work still extant, thus: First,
he observes, it has the sanction of numerous
Scripture precedents. Thus, in the instance of
confessors under the old covenant, Jacob fled
from Esau, Moses from Pharao, David from Saul;{25}
Elias concealed himself from Achab three years,
and the sons of the prophets were hid by Abdias
in a cave from Jezebel. In like manner under
the Gospel, the disciples hid themselves for fear
of the Jews, and St. Paul was let down in a basket{30}
over the wall at Damascus. On the other hand,
no instance can be adduced of overboldness and
headstrong daring in the saints of Scripture.
But our Lord Himself is the chief exemplar of
fleeing from persecution. As a child in arms He
had to flee into Egypt. When He returned, He{5}
still shunned Judea, and retired to Nazareth.
After raising Lazarus, on the Jews seeking His
life, "He walked no more openly among them,"
but retreated to the neighborhood of the desert.
When they took up stones to cast at Him, He{10}
hid Himself; when they attempted to cast Him
down headlong, He made His way through them;
when He heard of the Baptist's death, He retired
across the lake into a desert place, apart. If it
be said that He did so, because His time was not{15}
yet come, and that when it was come, He
delivered up Himself, we must ask, in reply, how a
man can know that his time is come, so as to
have a right to act as Christ acted? And since
we do not know, we must have patience; and,{20}
till God by His own act determines the time, we
must "wander in sheepskins and goatskins,"
rather than take the matter into our own hands;
as even Saul, the persecutor, was left by David
in the hands of God, whether He would "strike{25}
him, or his day should come to die, or he should
go down to battle and perish."

If God's servants, proceeds Athanasius, have
at any time presented themselves before their
persecutors, it was at God's command: thus Elias{30}
showed himself to Achab; so did the prophet
from Juda, to Jeroboam; and St. Paul appealed
to Cæsar. Flight, so far from implying
cowardice, requires often greater courage than not to
flee. It is a greater trial of heart. Death is an
end of all trouble; he who flees is ever expecting{5}
death, and dies daily. Job's life was not to be
touched by Satan, yet was not his fortitude
shown in what he suffered? Exile is full of
miseries. The after-conduct of the saints showed
they had not fled for fear. Jacob, on his{10}
death-bed, contemned death, and blessed each of the
twelve Patriarchs; Moses returned, and
presented himself before Pharao; David was a
valiant warrior; Elias rebuked Achab and
Ochazias; Peter and Paul, who had once hid{15}
themselves, offered themselves to martyrdom at
Rome. And so acceptable was the previous
flight of these men to Almighty God, that we
read of His showing them some special favor
during it. Then it was that Jacob had the{20}
vision of Angels; Moses saw the burning bush;
David wrote his prophetic Psalms; Elias raised
the dead, and gathered the people on Mount
Carmel. How would the Gospel ever have been
preached throughout the world, if the Apostles{25}
had not fled? And, since their time, those, too,
who have become martyrs, at first fled; or, if they
advanced to meet their persecutors, it was by
some secret suggestion of the Divine Spirit. But,
above all, while these instances abundantly{30}
illustrate the rule of duty in persecution, and the
temper of mind necessary in those who observe
it, we have that duty itself declared in a plain
precept by no other than our Lord: "When they
shall persecute you in this city," He says, "flee
into another;" and "let them that are in Judea{5}
flee unto the mountains."

Thus argues the great Athanasius, living in
spirit with the saints departed, while full of
labor and care here on earth. For the
arguments on the other side, let us turn to a writer,{10}
not less vigorous in mind, but less subdued in
temper. Thus writes Tertullian on the same
subject, then a Montanist, a century and a half
earlier: Nothing happens, he says, without
God's will. Persecution is sent by Him, to put{15}
His servants to the test; to divide between good
and bad: it is a trial; what man has any right
to interfere? He who gives the prize, alone can
assign the combat. Persecution is more than
permitted, it is actually appointed by Almighty{20}
God. It does the Church much good, as leading
Christians to increased seriousness while it lasts.
It comes and goes at God's ordering. Satan
could not touch Job, except so far as God gave
permission. He could not touch the Apostles,{25}
except as far as an opening was allowed in the
words, "Satan hath desired to have you, but I
have prayed for thee," Peter, "and thou, being
once converted, confirm thy brethren." We
pray, "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver{30}
us from evil;" why, if we may deliver ourselves?
Satan is permitted access to us, either for
punishment, as in Saul's case, or for our chastisement.
Since the persecution comes from God, we may
not lawfully avoid it, nor can we avoid it. We
cannot, because He is all powerful; we must not,{5}
because He is all good. We should leave the
matter entirely to God. As to the command of
fleeing from city to city, this was temporary. It
was intended to secure the preaching of the
Gospel to the nations. While the Apostles preached{10}
to the Jews,—till they had preached to the
Gentiles,—they were to flee; but one might as
well argue, that we now are not to go "into the
way of the Gentiles," but to confine ourselves
to "the lost sheep of the house of Israel," as that{15}
we are now to "flee from city to city." Nor,
indeed, was going from city to city a flight; it was
a continued preaching; not an accident, but a
rule: whether persecuted or not, they were to go
about; and before they had gone through the{20}
cities of Israel, the Lord was to come. The
command contemplated only those very cities.
If St. Paul escaped out of "Damascus by night,
yet afterwards, against the prayers of the disciples
and the prophecy of Agabus, he went up to{25}
Jerusalem. Thus the command to flee did not last
even through the lifetime of the Apostles; and,
indeed, why should God introduce persecution,
if He bids us retire from it? This is imputing
inconsistency to His acts. If we want texts to{30}
justify our not fleeing, He says, "Whoso shall
confess Me before men, I will confess him before
My Father." "Blessed are they that suffer
persecution;" "He that shall persevere to the end,
he shall be saved;" "Be not afraid of them that
kill the body;" "Whosoever does not carry his{5}
cross and come after Me, cannot be My disciple."
How are these texts fulfilled when a man flees.
Christ, who is our pattern, did not more than
pray, "If it be possible, let this chalice pass:"
we, too, should both stay and pray as He did.{10}
And it is expressly told us, that "We also ought
to lay down our lives for the brethren." Again, it
is said, "Perfect charity casteth out fear;" he
who flees, fears; he who fears, "is not perfected
in charity." The Greek proverb is sometimes{15}
urged, "He who flees, will fight another day;"
yes, and he may flee another day, also. Again,
if bishops, priests, and deacons flee, why must
the laity stay? or must they flee also? "The
good shepherd," on the contrary, "layeth down{20}
his life for his sheep"; whereas, the bad shepherd
"seeth the wolf coming, and leaveth the sheep,
and fleeth." At no time, as Jeremiah, Ezekiel,
and Zechariah tell us, is the flock in greater
danger of being scattered than when it loses its{25}
shepherd. Tertullian ends thus: "This doctrine, my
brother, perhaps appears to you hard; nay,
intolerable. But recollect that God has said, 'He
that can take, let him take it;' that is, he who
receives it not, let him depart. He who fears to{30}
suffer cannot belong to Him who has suffered.
He who does not fear to suffer is perfect in love,
that is, of God. Many are called, few are chosen.
Not he who would walk the broad way is sought
out by God, but he who walks the narrow."
Thus the ingenious and vehement Tertullian.{5}

III

With these remarks for and against flight in
persecution, we shall be prepared to listen to
Augustine on the subject; I have said, it was
brought under his notice by a brother bishop,
with reference to the impending visitation of the{10}
barbarians. His answer happily is preserved to
us, and extracts from it shall now be set before
the reader.

"To his Holy Brothers and Fellow-bishop
Honoratus, Augustine sends Health in the Lord

"I thought the copy of my letter to our brother
Quodvultdeus, which I sent to you, would have been{15}
sufficient, dear brother, without the task you put on me
of counseling you on the proper course to pursue under
our existing dangers. It was certainly a short letter;
yet I included every question which it was necessary to
ask and answer, when I said that no persons were{20}
hindered from retiring to such fortified places as they were
able and desirous to secure; while, on the other hand, we
might not break the bonds of our ministry, by which
the love of Christ has engaged us not to desert the Church,
where we are bound to serve. The following is what I{25}
laid down in the letter I refer to: 'It remains, then,'
I say, 'that, though God's people in the place where we
are be ever so few, yet, if it does stay, we, whose ministration
is necessary to its staying, must say to the Lord,
Thou art our strong rock and place of defense.'

"But you tell me that this view is not sufficient for
you, from an apprehension lest we should be running
counter to our Lord's command and example, to flee{5}
from city to city. Yet is it conceivable that He meant
that our flocks, whom He bought with His own blood,
should be deprived of that necessary ministration
without which they cannot live? Is He a precedent for
this, who was carried in flight into Egypt by His parents{10}
when but a child, before He had formed Churches which
we can talk of His leaving? Or, when St. Paul was let
down in a basket through a window, lest the enemy
should seize him, and so escaped his hands, was the Church
of that place bereft of its necessary ministration, seeing{15}
there were other brethren stationed there to fulfill what
was necessary? Evidently it was their wish that he,
who was the direct object of the persecutors' search,
should preserve himself for the sake of the Church.
Let then, the servants of Christ, the ministers of His{20}
word and sacraments, do in such cases as He enjoined
or permitted. Let such of them, by all means, flee from
city to city, as are special objects of persecution; so
that they who are not thus attacked desert not the
Church, but give meat to those their fellow-servants,{25}
who they know cannot live without it. But in a case
when all classes—I mean bishops, clergy, and
people—are in some common danger, let not those who need the
aid of others be deserted by those whom they need. Either
let one and all remove into some fortified place, or, if{30}
any are obliged to remain, let them not be abandoned
by those who have to supply their ecclesiastical necessity,
so that they may survive in common, or suffer in common
what their Father decrees they should undergo."

Then he makes mention of the argument of a{35}
certain bishop, that "if our Lord has enjoined
upon us flight, in persecutions which may ripen
into martyrdom, much more is it necessary to
flee from barren sufferings in a barbarian and
hostile invasion," and he says, "this is true and
reasonable, in the case of such as have no{5}
ecclesiastical office to tie them"; but he continues:

"Why should men make no question about obeying
the precept of fleeing from city to city, and yet have
no dread of 'the hireling who seeth the wolf coming, and
fleeth, because he careth not for the sheep'? Why do{10}
they not try to reconcile (as they assuredly can) these
two incontrovertible declarations of our Lord, one of
which suffers and commands flight, the other arraigns
and condemns it? And what other mode is there of
reconciling them than that which I have above laid down?{15}
viz., that we, the ministers of Christ, who are under the
pressure of persecution, are then at liberty to leave our
posts, when no flock is left for us to serve; or again,
when, though there be a flock, yet there are others to
supply our necessary ministry, who have not the same{20}
reason for fleeing,—as in the case of St. Paul; or,
again, of the holy Athanasius, bishop of Alexandria,
who was especially sought after by the emperor
Constantius, while the Catholic people, who remained
together in Alexandria, were in no measure deserted by the{25}
other ministers. But when the people remain, and the
ministers flee, and the ministration is suspended, what
is that but the guilty flight of hirelings, who care not for
the sheep? For then the wolf will come,—not man, but
the devil, who is accustomed to persuade such believers{30}
to apostasy, who are bereft of the daily ministration of
the Lord's Body; and by your, not knowledge, but
ignorance of duty, the weak brother will perish, for whom
Christ died.

"Let us only consider, when matters come to an{35}
extremity of danger, and there is no longer any means
of escape, how persons flock together to the Church, of
both sexes, and all ages, begging for baptism, or
reconciliation, or even for works of penance, and one and
all of them for consolation, and the consecration and{5}
application of the sacraments. Now, if ministers are
wanting, what ruin awaits those, who depart from this
life unregenerate or unabsolved! Consider the grief
of their believing relatives, who will not have them as
partakers with themselves in the rest of eternal life;{10}
consider the anguish of the whole multitude, nay, the
cursings of some of them, at the absence of ministration
and ministers.

"It may be said, however, that the ministers of God
ought to avoid such imminent perils, in order to{15}
preserve themselves for the profit of the Church for more
tranquil times. I grant it where others are present to
supply the ecclesiastical ministry, as in the case of
Athanasius. How necessary it was to the Church, how
beneficial, that such a man should remain in the flesh, the{20}
Catholic faith bears witness, which was maintained
against the Arians by his voice and his love. But when
there is a common danger, and when there is rather
reason to apprehend lest a man should be thought to
flee, not from purpose of prudence, but from dread of{25}
dying, and when the example of flight does more harm
than the service of living does good, it is by no means
to be done. To be brief, holy David withdrew himself
from the hazard of war, lest perchance he should 'quench
the light of Israel,' at the instance of his people, not on{30}
his own motion. Otherwise, he would have occasioned
many imitators of an inactivity which they had in that
case ascribed, not to regard for the welfare of others,
but to cowardice."

Then he goes on to a further question, what is{35}
to be done in a case where all ministers are likely
to perish, unless some of them take to flight? or
when persecution is set on foot only with the view
of reaching the ministers of the Church? This
leads him to exclaim:

"O, that there may be then a quarrel between God's{5}
ministers, who are to remain, and who to flee, lest the
Church should be deserted, whether by all fleeing or all
dying! Surely there will ever be such a quarrel, where
each party burns in its own charity, yet indulges the
charity of the other. In such a difficulty, the lot seems{10}
the fairest decision, in default of others. God judges
better than man in perplexities of this sort; whether it
be His will to reward the holier among them with the
crown of martyrdom, and to spare the weak, or again,
to strengthen the latter to endure evil, removing those{15}
from life whom the Church of God can spare the better.
Should it, however, seem inexpedient to cast
lots,—a measure for which I cannot bring precedent,—at
least, let no one's flight be the cause of the Church's
losing those ministrations which, in such dangers, are{20}
so necessary and so imperative. Let no one make
himself an exception, on the plea of having some particular
grace, which gives him a claim to life, and therefore to
flight.

"It is sometimes supposed that bishops and clergy,{25}
remaining at their posts in dangers of this kind, mislead
their flocks into staying, by their example. But it is
easy for us to remove this objection or imputation, by
frankly telling them not to be misled by our remaining.
'We are remaining for your sake,' we must say, 'lest you{30}
should fail to obtain such ministration, as we know to
be necessary to your salvation in Christ. Make your
escape, and you will then set us free.' The occasion for
saying this is when there seems some real advantage in
retiring to a safer position. Should all or some make{35}
answer, 'We are in His hands from whose anger no one
can flee anywhere; whose mercy every one may find
everywhere, though he stir not, whether some necessary
tie detains him, or the uncertainty of safe escape deters
him'; most undoubtedly such persons are not to be
left destitute of Christian ministrations.{5}

"I have written these lines, dearest brother, in truth,
as I think, and in sure charity, by way of reply, since you
have consulted me; but not as dictating, if, perchance,
you may find some better view to guide you. However,
better we cannot do in these perils than pray the Lord{10}
our God to have mercy upon us."—Ep. 228.

IV

The luminous judgment, the calm faith, and
the single-minded devotion which this letter
exhibits, were fully maintained in the conduct of
the far-famed writer, in the events which{15}
followed. It was written on the first entrance of
the Vandals into Africa, about two years before
they laid siege to Hippo; and during this
interval of dreadful suspense and excitement, as well
as of actual suffering, amid the desolation of the{20}
Church around him, with the prospect of his own
personal trials, we find this unwearied teacher
carrying on his works of love by pen, and word
of mouth,—eagerly, as knowing his time was
short, but tranquilly, as if it were a season of{25}
prosperity....

His life had been for many years one of great
anxiety and discomfort, the life of one dissatisfied
with himself, and despairing of finding the truth.
Men of ordinary minds are not so circumstanced{30}
as to feel the misery of irreligion. That misery
consists in the perverted and discordant action
of the various faculties and functions of the soul,
which have lost their legitimate governing power,
and are unable to regain it, except at the hands{5}
of their Maker. Now the run of irreligious men
do not suffer in any great degree from this
disorder, and are not miserable; they have neither
great talents nor strong passions; they have not
within them the materials of rebellion in such{10}
measure as to threaten their peace. They follow
their own wishes, they yield to the bent of the
moment, they act on inclination, not on principle,
but their motive powers are neither strong nor
various enough to be troublesome. Their minds{15}
are in no sense under rule; but anarchy is not in
their case a state of confusion, but of deadness;
not unlike the internal condition as it is reported
of eastern cities and provinces at present, in
which, though the government is weak or null,{20}
the body politic goes on without any great
embarrassment or collision of its members one with
another, by the force of inveterate habit. It is
very different when the moral and intellectual
principles are vigorous, active, and developed.{25}
Then, if the governing power be feeble, all the
subordinates are in the position of rebels in arms;
and what the state of a mind is under such
circumstances, the analogy of a civil community will
suggest to us. Then we have before us the{30}
melancholy spectacle of high aspirations without
an aim, a hunger of the soul unsatisfied, and a
never ending restlessness and inward warfare of
its various faculties. Gifted minds, if not
submitted to the rightful authority of religion,
become the most unhappy and the most mischievous.{5}
They need both an object to feed upon, and the
power of self-mastery; and the love of their
Maker, and nothing but it, supplies both the one
and the other. We have seen in our own day, in
the case of a popular poet, an impressive instance{10}
of a great genius throwing off the fear of God,
seeking for happiness in the creature, roaming
unsatisfied from one object to another, breaking
his soul upon itself, and bitterly confessing and
imparting his wretchedness to all around him.{15}
I have no wish at all to compare him to St.
Augustine; indeed, if we may say it without
presumption, the very different termination of their trial
seems to indicate some great difference in their
respective modes of encountering it. The one{20}
dies of premature decay, to all appearance, a
hardened infidel; and if he is still to have a name,
will live in the mouths of men by writings at once
blasphemous and immoral: the other is a Saint
and Doctor of the Church. Each makes{25}
confessions, the one to the saints, the other to the
powers of evil. And does not the difference of
the two discover itself in some measure, even to
our eyes, in the very history of their wanderings
and pinings? At least, there is no appearance in{30}
St. Augustine's case of that dreadful haughtiness,
sullenness, love of singularity, vanity, irritability,
and misanthropy, which were too certainly the
characteristics of our own countryman.
Augustine was, as his early history shows, a man of
affectionate and tender feelings, and open and{5}
amiable temper; and, above all, he sought for some
excellence external to his own mind, instead of
concentrating all his contemplations on himself.

But let us consider what his misery was; it
was that of a mind imprisoned, solitary, and wild{10}
with spiritual thirst; and forced to betake itself
to the strongest excitements, by way of relieving
itself of the rush and violence of feelings, of which
the knowledge of the Divine Perfections was the
true and sole sustenance. He ran into excess,{15}
not from love of it, but from this fierce fever of
mind. "I sought what I might love,"[28] he says
in his Confessions, "in love with loving, and safety
I hated, and a way without snares. For within
me was a famine of that inward food, Thyself,{20}
my God; yet throughout that famine I was not
hungered, but was without any longing for
incorruptible sustenance, not because filled therewith,
but the more empty, the more I loathed it. For
this cause my soul was sickly and full of sores; it{25}
miserably cast itself forth, desiring to be scraped
by the touch of objects of sense."—iii. I.

"O foolish man that I then was," he says elsewhere,
"enduring impatiently the lot of man! So I fretted,
sighed, wept, was distracted; had neither rest nor
counsel. For I bore about a shattered and bleeding
soul, impatient of being borne by me, yet where to repose
it I found not; not in calm groves, nor in games and
music, nor in fragrant spots, nor in curious banquetings,{5}
nor in indulgence of the bed and the couch, nor, finally, in
books or poetry found it repose. All things looked ghastly,
yea, the very light. In groaning and tears alone found
I a little refreshment. But when my soul was withdrawn
from them, a huge load of misery weighed me down.{10}
To Thee, O Lord, it ought to have been raised, for Thee
to lighten; I knew it, but neither could, nor would;
the more, since when I thought of Thee, Thou wast not
to me any solid or substantial thing. For Thou wert not
Thyself, but a mere phantom, and my error was my God.{15}
If I offered to discharge my load thereon, that it might
rest, it glided through the void, and came rushing down
against me; and I had remained to myself a hapless
spot, where I could neither be, nor be from thence. For
whither should my heart flee from my heart? whither{20}
should I flee from myself? whither not follow myself?
And yet I fled out of my country; for so should mine
eyes look less for him, where they were not wont to see
him."—iv. 12.

He is speaking in this last sentence of a friend he{25}
had lost, whose death-bed was very remarkable,
and whose dear familiar name he apparently has
not courage to mention. "He had grown from a
child with me," he says, "and we had been both
schoolfellows and playfellows." Augustine had{30}
misled him into the heresy which he had adopted
himself, and when he grew to have more and more
sympathy in Augustine's pursuits, the latter united
himself to him in a closer intimacy. Scarcely had
he thus given him his heart, when God took him.{35}

"Thou tookest him," he says, "out of this life, when he
had scarce completed one whole year of my friendship,
sweet to me above all sweetness in that life of mine.
A long while, sore sick of a fever, he lay senseless in the
dews of death, and being given over, he was baptized{5}
unwitting; I, meanwhile little regarding, or presuming
that his soul would retain rather what it had received
of me than what was wrought on his unconscious body."

The Manichees, it should be observed, rejected
baptism. He proceeds:{10}

"But it proved far otherwise; for he was refreshed
and restored. Forthwith, as soon as I could speak with
him (and I could as soon as he was able, for I never left
him, and we hung but too much upon each other), I
essayed to jest with him, as though he would jest with{15}
me at that baptism, which he had received, when
utterly absent in mind and feeling, but had now understood
that he had received. But he shrunk from me, as from
an enemy; and with a wonderful and sudden freedom
bade me, if I would continue his friend, forbear such{20}
language to him. I, all astonished and amazed,
suppressed all my emotions till he should grow well, and his
health were strong enough for me to deal with him as I
would. But he was taken away from my madness, that
with Thee he might be preserved for my comfort: a few{25}
days after, in my absence, he was attacked again by
fever, and so departed."—iv. 8.

V

From distress of mind Augustine left his native
place, Thagaste, and came to Carthage, where he
became a teacher in rhetoric. Here he fell in{30}
with Faustus, an eminent Manichean bishop and
disputant, in whom, however, he was
disappointed; and the disappointment abated his
attachment to his sect, and disposed him to look
for truth elsewhere. Disgusted with the license
which prevailed among the students at Carthage,{5}
he determined to proceed to Rome, and
disregarding and eluding the entreaties of his mother,
Monica, who dreaded his removal from his own
country, he went thither. At Rome he resumed
his professions; but inconveniences as great,{10}
though of another kind, encountered him in that
city; and upon the people of Milan sending for a
rhetoric reader, he made application for the
appointment, and obtained it. To Milan then he
came, the city of St. Ambrose, in the year of our{15}
Lord 385.

Ambrose, though weak in voice, had the
reputation of eloquence; and Augustine, who seems
to have gone with introductions to him, and was
won by his kindness of manner, attended his{20}
sermons with curiosity and interest. "I listened,"
he says, "not in the frame of mind which became
me, but in order to see whether his eloquence
answered, what was reported of it: I hung on his
words attentively, but of the matter I was but an{25}
unconcerned and contemptuous hearer."—v. 23.
His impression of his style of preaching is worth
noticing: "I was delighted with the sweetness
of his discourse, more full of knowledge, yet in
manner less pleasurable and soothing, than that{30}
of Faustus." Augustine was insensibly moved:
he determined on leaving the Manichees, and
returning to the state of a catechumen in the
Catholic Church, into which he had been admitted
by his parents. He began to eye and muse upon
the great bishop of Milan more and more, and tried{5}
in vain to penetrate his secret heart, and to
ascertain the thoughts and feelings which swayed him.
He felt he did not understand him. If the
respect and intimacy of the great could make
a man happy, these advantages he perceived{10}
Ambrose to possess; yet he was not satisfied that
he was a happy man. His celibacy seemed a
drawback: what constituted his hidden life? or
was he cold at heart? or was he of a famished
and restless spirit? He felt his own malady, and{15}
longed to ask him some questions about it. But
Ambrose could not easily be spoken with. Though
accessible to all, yet that very circumstance
made it difficult for an individual, especially one
who was not of his flock, to get a private{20}
interview with him. When he was not taken up with
the Christian people who surrounded him, he
was either at his meals or engaged in private
reading. Augustine used to enter, as all persons
might, without being announced; but after{25}
staying awhile, afraid of interrupting him, he
departed again. However, he heard his expositions
of Scripture every Sunday, and gradually made
progress.

He was now in his thirtieth year, and since he{30}
was a youth of eighteen had been searching after
truth; yet he was still "in the same mire, greedy of
things present," but finding nothing stable.

"To-morrow," he said to himself, "I shall find it; it
will appear manifestly, and I shall grasp it: lo, Faustus
the Manichee will come and clear everything! O you{5}
great men, ye academics, is it true, then, that no
certainty can be attained for the ordering of life? Nay,
let us search diligently, and despair not. Lo, things in
the ecclesiastical books are not absurd to us now, which
sometimes seemed absurd, and may be otherwise taken{10}
and in a good sense. I will take my stand where, as a
child, my parents placed me, until the clear truth be
found out. But where shall it be sought, or when?
Ambrose has no leisure; we have no leisure to read;
where shall we find even the books? where, or when,{15}
procure them? Let set times be appointed, and
certain hours be ordered for the health of our soul. Great
hope has dawned; the Catholic faith teaches not what
we thought; and do we doubt to knock, that the rest
may be opened? The forenoons, indeed, our scholars {20}
take up; what do we during the rest of our time? why
not this? But if so, when pay we court to our great
friend, whose favors we need? when compose what we
may sell to scholars? when refresh ourselves, unbending
our minds from this intenseness of care?{25}

"Perish everything: dismiss we these empty
vanities; and betake ourselves to the one search for truth!
Life is a poor thing, death is uncertain; if it surprises
us, in what state shall we depart hence? and when shall
we learn what here we have neglected? and shall we not{30}
rather suffer the punishment of this negligence? What
if death itself cut off and end all care and feeling?
Then must this be ascertained. But God forbid this!
It is no vain and empty thing, that the excellent dignity
of the Christian faith has overspread the whole world.{35}
Never would such and so great things be wrought for
us by God, if with the body the soul also came to an
end. Wherefore delay then to abandon worldly hopes,
and give ourselves wholly to seek after God and the
blessed life?..."

Finding Ambrose, though kind and accessible,{5}
yet reserved, he went to an aged man named
Simplician, who, as some say, baptized St.
Ambrose, and eventually succeeded him in his
see. He opened his mind to him, and
happening in the course of his communications to{10}
mention Victorinus's translation of some Platonic
works, Simplician asked him if he knew that
person's history. It seems he was a professor of
rhetoric at Rome, was well versed in literature and
philosophy, had been tutor to many of the{15}
senators, and had received the high honor of a statue
in the Forum. Up to his old age he had
professed, and defended with his eloquence, the old
pagan worship. He was led to read the Holy
Scriptures, and was brought, in consequence, to{20}
a belief in their divinity. For a while he did not
feel the necessity of changing his profession; he
looked upon Christianity as a philosophy, he
embraced it as such, but did not propose to join
what he considered the Christian sect, or, as{25}
Christians would call it, the Catholic Church.
He let Simplician into his secret; but whenever
the latter pressed him to take the step, he was
accustomed to ask, "whether walls made a
Christian." However, such a state could not{30}
continue with a man of earnest mind: the leaven
worked; at length he unexpectedly called upon
Simplician to lead him to church. He was
admitted a catechumen, and in due time baptized,
"Rome wondering, the Church rejoicing." It
was customary at Rome for the candidates for{5}
baptism to profess their faith from a raised place
in the church, in a set form of words. An offer
was made to Victorinus, which was not unusual
in the case of bashful and timid persons, to make
his profession in private. But he preferred to{10}
make it in the ordinary way. "I was public
enough," he made answer, "in my profession of
rhetoric, and ought not to be frightened when
professing salvation." He continued the school
which he had before he became a Christian, till{15}
the edict of Julian forced him to close it. This
story went to Augustine's heart, but it did not
melt it. There was still the struggle of two wills,
the high aspiration and the habitual inertness.
His conversion took place in the summer of 386.{20}

---

He gives an account of the termination of the
conflict he underwent:

"At length burst forth a mighty storm, bringing
a mighty flood of tears; and to indulge it to the full
even unto cries, in solitude, I rose up from Alypius, ... {25}
who perceived from my choked voice how it was with
me. He remained where we had been sitting, in deep
astonishment. I threw myself down under a fig tree, I
know not how, and allowing my tears full vent, offered
up to Thee the acceptable sacrifice of my streaming eyes.{30}

And I cried out to this effect: 'And Thou, O Lord,
how long, how long, Lord, wilt Thou be angry?
Forever? Remember not our old sins!' for I felt that they
were my tyrants. I cried out, piteously, 'How long?
how long? to-morrow and to-morrow? why not now?{5}
why not in this very hour put an end to this my vileness?'
While I thus spoke, with tears, in the bitter contrition
of my heart, suddenly I heard a voice, as if from a house
near me, of a boy or girl chanting forth again and again,
'TAKE UP AND READ, TAKE UP AND READ!' Changing{10}
countenance at these words, I began intently to think
whether boys used them in any game, but could not
recollect that I had ever heard them. I left weeping and
rose up, considering it a divine intimation to open the
Scriptures and read what first presented itself. I had{15}
heard that Antony had come in during the reading of the
Gospel, and had taken to himself the admonition, 'Go,
sell all that thou hast,' etc., and had turned to Thee at
once, in consequence of that oracle. I had left St.
Paul's volume where Alypius was sitting, when I rose{20}
thence. I returned thither, seized it, opened, and read
in silence the following passage, which first met my eyes,
'Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and
impurities, not in contention and envy, but put ye on the
Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh in{25}
its concupiscences.' I had neither desire nor need to
read farther. As I finished the sentence, as though the
light of peace had been poured into my heart, all the
shadows of doubt dispersed. Thus hast Thou converted
me to Thee, so as no longer to seek either for wife or{30}
other hope of this world, standing fast in that rule of
faith in which Thou so many years before hadst revealed
me to my mother."—viii. 26-30.

The last words of this extract relate to a dream
which his mother had had some years before,{35}
concerning his conversion. On his first turning
Manichee, abhorring his opinions, she would not
for a while even eat with him, when she had this
dream, in which she had an intimation that where
she stood, there Augustine should one day be
with her. At another time she derived great{5}
comfort from the casual words of a bishop, who,
when importuned by her to converse with her
son, said at length with some impatience, "Go
thy ways, and God bless thee, for it is not possible
that the son of these tears should perish!" {10}
would be out of place, and is perhaps unnecessary,
to enter here into the affecting and well-known
history of her tender anxieties and persevering
prayers for Augustine. Suffice it to say, she saw
the accomplishment of them; she lived till {15}
Augustine became a Catholic; and she died in her way
back to Africa with him. Her last words were,
"Lay this body anywhere; let not the care of it
in any way distress you; this only I ask, that
wherever you be, you remember me at the Altar{20}
of the Lord."

"May she," says her son, in dutiful remembrance of
her words, "rest in peace with her husband, before and
after whom she never had any; whom she obeyed, with
patience bringing forth fruit unto Thee, that she might{25}
win him also unto Thee. And inspire, O Lord my God,
inspire Thy servants, my brethren,—Thy sons, my
masters,—whom, in heart, voice, and writing I serve,
that so many as read these confessions, may at Thy altar
remember Monica, Thy handmaid, with Patricius, her{30}
sometime husband, from whom Thou broughtest me into
this life; how, I know not. May they with pious affection
remember those who were my parents in this
transitory light,—my brethren under Thee, our Father,
in our Catholic Mother,—my fellow-citizens in the
eternal Jerusalem, after which Thy pilgrim people sigh
from their going forth unto their return: that so, her{5}
last request of me may in the prayers of many receive
a fulfillment, through my confessions, more abundant
than through my prayers."—ix. 37.

---

Introductory

I confess to a delight in reading the lives, and
dwelling on the characters and actions, of the
Saints of the first ages, such as I receive from none
besides them; and for this reason, because we
know so much more about them than about most{5}
of the Saints who come after them. People are
variously constituted; what influences one does
not influence another. There are persons of
warm imaginations, who can easily picture to
themselves what they never saw. They can at{10}
will see Angels and Saints hovering over them
when they are in church; they see their
lineaments, their features, their motions, their
gestures, their smile or their grief. They can go
home and draw what they have seen, from the{15}
vivid memory of what, while it lasted, was so
transporting. I am not one of such; I am touched
by my five senses, by what my eyes behold and
my ears hear. I am touched by what I read
about, not by what I myself create. As faith{20}
need not lead to practice, so in me mere
imagination does not lead to devotion. I gain more
from the life of our Lord in the Gospels than from
a treatise de Deo. I gain more from three verses
of St. John than from the three points of a
meditation. I like a Spanish crucifix of painted wood
more than one from Italy, which is made of gold.
I am more touched by the Seven Dolors than by
the Immaculate Conception; I am more devout{5}
to St. Gabriel than to one of Isaiah's seraphim.
I love St. Paul more than one of those first
Carmelites, his contemporaries, whose names and acts
no one ever heard of; I feel affectionately towards
the Alexandrian Dionysius, I do homage to St.{10}
George. I do not say that my way is better than
another's; but it is my way, and an allowable
way. And it is the reason why I am so specially
attached to the Saints of the third and fourth
century, because we know so much about them.{15}
This is why I feel a devout affection for St.
Chrysostom. He and the rest of them have
written autobiography on a large scale; they
have given us their own histories, their thoughts,
words, and actions, in a number of goodly folios,{20}
productions which are in themselves some of their
meritorious works....

The Ancient Saints have left behind them just
that kind of literature which more than any other
represents the abundance of the heart, which{25}
more than any other approaches to conversation;
I mean correspondence. Why is it that we feel
an interest in Cicero which we cannot feel in
Demosthenes or Plato? Plato is the very type
of soaring philosophy, and Demosthenes of{30}
forcible eloquence; Cicero is something more than
an orator and a sage; he is not a mere ideality, he
is a man and a brother; he is one of ourselves.
We do not merely believe it, or infer it, but we
have the enduring and living evidence of
it—how? In his letters. He can be studied,{5}
criticised if you will; but still dwelt upon and
sympathized with also. Now the case of the Ancient
Saints is parallel to that of Cicero. We have their
letters in a marvelous profusion. We have
above 400 letters of St. Basil's; above 200 of{10}
St. Augustine's. St. Chrysostom has left us
about 240; St. Gregory Nazianzen the same
number; Pope St. Gregory as many as 840....

A Saint's writings are to me his real "Life";
and what is called his "Life" is not the outline{15}
of an individual, but either of the auto-saint or
of a myth. Perhaps I shall be asked what I
mean by "Life." I mean a narrative which
impresses the reader with the idea of moral unity,
identity, growth, continuity, personality. When{20}
a Saint converses with me, I am conscious of the
presence of one active principle of thought, one
individual character, flowing on and into the
various matters which he discusses, and the
different transactions in which he mixes. It is{25}
what no memorials can reach, however skillfully
elaborated, however free from effort or study,
however conscientiously faithful, however
guaranteed by the veracity of the writers. Why
cannot art rival the lily or the rose? Because the {30}
colors of the flower are developed and blended
by the force of an inward life; while on the other
hand, the lights and shades of the painter are
diligently laid on from without. A magnifying
glass will show the difference. Nor will it
improve matters, though not one only, but a dozen{5}
good artists successively take part in the picture;
even if the outline is unbroken, the coloring is
muddy. Commonly, what is called "the Life,"
is little more than a collection of anecdotes brought
together from a number of independent quarters;{10}
anecdotes striking, indeed, and edifying, but
valuable in themselves rather than valuable as parts
of a biography; valuable whoever was the
subject of them, not valuable as illustrating a
particular Saint. It would be difficult to mistake{15}
for each other a paragraph of St. Ambrose, or of
St. Jerome, or of St. Augustine; it would be very
easy to mistake a chapter in the life of one holy
missionary or nun for a chapter in the life of
another.{20}

An almsgiving here, an instance of meekness
there, a severity of penance, a round of religious
duties,—all these things humble me, instruct
me, improve me; I cannot desire anything
better of their kind; but they do not necessarily{25}
coalesce into the image of a person. From such
works I do but learn to pay devotion to an
abstract and typical perfection under a certain
particular name; I do not know more of the real
Saint who bore it than before. Saints, as other{30}
men, differ from each other in this, that the
multitude of qualities which they have in
common are differently combined in each of them.
This forms one great part of their personality.
One Saint is remarkable for fortitude; not that
he has not other heroic virtues by concomitance,{5}
as it may be called, but by virtue of that one gift
in particular he has won his crown. Another is
remarkable for patient hope, another for
renunciation of the world. Such a particular virtue
may be said to give form to all the rest which are{10}
grouped round it, and are molded and modified
by means of it. Thus it is that often what is
right in one would be wrong in another; and, in
fact, the very same action is allowed or chosen
by one, and shunned by another, as being {15}
consistent or inconsistent with their respective
characters,—pretty much as in the combination of
colors, each separate tint takes a shade from
the rest, and is good or bad from its company.
The whole gives a meaning to the parts; but it{20}
is difficult to rise from the parts to the whole.
When I read St. Augustine or St. Basil, I hold
converse with a beautiful grace-illumined soul,
looking out into this world of sense, and leavening
it with itself; when I read a professed life of him,{25}
I am wandering in a labyrinth of which I cannot
find the center and heart, and am but conducted
out of doors again when I do my best to penetrate
within.

This seems to me, to tell the truth, a sort of{30}
pantheistic treatment of the Saints. I ask something
more than to stumble upon the disjecta
membra of what ought to be a living whole. I
take but a secondary interest in books which
chop up a Saint into chapters of faith, hope,
charity, and the cardinal virtues. They are too{5}
scientific to be devotional. They have their
great utility, but it is not the utility which they
profess. They do not manifest a Saint, they
mince him into spiritual lessons. They are
rightly called spiritual reading, that is just what{10}
they are, and they cannot possibly be anything
better; but they are not anything else. They
contain a series of points of meditation on
particular virtues, made easier because those points
are put under the patronage and the invocation{15}
of a Saint. With a view to learning real
devotion to him, I prefer (speaking for myself) to have
any one action or event of his life drawn out
minutely, with his own comments upon it, than
a score of virtues, or of acts of one virtue, strung{20}
together in as many sentences. Now, in the
ancient writings I have spoken of, certain
transactions are thoroughly worked out. We know all
that happened to a Saint on such or such an
occasion, all that was done by him. We have a view{25}
of his character, his tastes, his natural infirmities,
his struggles and victories over them, which in
no other way can be attained. And therefore it
is that, without quarreling with the devotion of
others, I give the preference to my own.{30}

Here another great subject opens upon us,
when I ought to be bringing these remarks to
an end; I mean the endemic perennial fidget
which possesses us about giving scandal; facts
are omitted in great histories, or glosses are put
upon memorable acts, because they are thought{5}
not edifying, whereas of all scandals such
omissions, such glosses, are the greatest. But I am
getting far more argumentative than I thought
to be when I began; so I lay my pen down, and
retire into myself. {10}

I

John of Antioch, from his sanctity and his
eloquence called Chrysostom, was approaching
sixty years of age, when he had to deliver himself
up to the imperial officers, and to leave
Constantinople for a distant exile. He had been the great{15}
preacher of the day now for nearly twenty years;
first at Antioch, then in the metropolis of the
East; and his gift of speech, as in the instance of
the two great classical orators before him, was to
be his ruin. He had made an Empress his enemy,{20}
more powerful than Antipater,—as passionate,
if not so vindictive, as Fulvia. Nor was this all;
a zealous Christian preacher offends not
individuals merely, but classes of men, and much more
so when he is pastor and ruler too, and has to{25}
punish as well as to denounce. Eudoxia, the
Empress, might be taken off suddenly,—as
indeed she was taken off a few weeks after the
Saint arrived at the place of exile, which she personally,
in spite of his entreaties, had marked out
for him; but her death did but serve to increase
the violence of the persecution directed against
him. She had done her part in it, perhaps she
might have even changed her mind in his favor;{5}
probably the agitation of a bad conscience was,
in her critical condition, the cause of her death.
She was taken out of the way; but her partisans,
who had made use of her, went on vigorously
with the evil work which she had begun. When{10}
Cucusus would not kill him, they sent him on his
travels anew, across a far wilder country than he
had already traversed, to a remote town on the
eastern coast of the Euxine; and he sank under
this fresh trial.{15}

The Euxine! that strange mysterious sea,
which typifies the abyss of outer darkness, as
the blue Mediterranean basks under the smile of
heaven in the center of civilization and religion.
The awful, yet splendid drama of man's history{20}
has mainly been carried on upon the
Mediterranean shores; while the Black Sea has ever been
on the very outskirts of the habitable world,
and the scene of wild unnatural portents; with
legends of Prometheus on the savage Caucasus,{25}
of Medea gathering witch herbs in the moist
meadows of the Phasis, and of Iphigenia
sacrificing the shipwrecked stranger in Taurica; and
then again, with the more historical, yet not more
grateful visions of barbarous tribes, Goths, Huns,{30}
Scythians, Tartars, flitting over the steppes and
wastes which encircle its inhospitable waters.
To be driven from the bright cities and sunny
clime of Italy or Greece to such a region, was
worse than death; and the luxurious Roman
actually preferred death to exile. The suicide{5}
of Gallus, under this dread doom, is well known;
Ovid, too cowardly to be desperate, drained out
the dregs of a vicious life on the cold marshes
between the Danube and the sea. I need scarcely
allude to the heroic Popes who patiently lived on{10}
in the Crimea, till a martyrdom, in which they
had not part but the suffering, released them.

But banishment was an immense evil in itself.
Cicero, even though he had liberty of person, the
choice of a home, and the prospect of a return,{15}
roamed disconsolate through the cities of Greece,
because he was debarred access to the
senate-house and forum. Chrysostom had his own
rostra, his own curia; it was the Holy Temple,
where his eloquence gained for him victories not{20}
less real, and more momentous, than the
detection and overthrow of Catiline. Great as was
his gift of oratory, it was not by the fertility of
his imagination, or the splendor of his diction
that he gained the surname of "Mouth of Gold."{25}
We shall be very wrong if we suppose that fine
expressions, or rounded periods, or figures of
speech, were the credentials by which he claimed
to be the first doctor of the East. His oratorical
power was but the instrument by which he{30}
readily, gracefully, adequately expressed—expressed
without effort and with felicity—the
keen feelings, the living ideas, the earnest
practical lessons which he had to communicate to his
hearers. He spoke, because his heart, his head,
were brimful of things to speak about. His{5}
elocution corresponded to that strength and
flexibility of limb, that quickness of eye, hand, and
foot, by which a man excels in manly games or
in mechanical skill. It would be a great mistake,
in speaking of it, to ask whether it was Attic or{10}
Asiatic, terse or flowing, when its distinctive
praise was that it was natural. His unrivaled
charm, as that of every really eloquent man, lies
in his singleness of purpose, his fixed grasp of his
aim, his noble earnestness.{15}

A bright, cheerful, gentle soul; a sensitive
heart, a temperament open to emotion and
impulse; and all this elevated, refined, transformed
by the touch of heaven,—such was St. John
Chrysostom; winning followers, riveting{20}
affections, by his sweetness, frankness, and neglect
of self. In his labors, in his preaching, he
thought of others only. "I am always in
admiration of that thrice-blessed man," says an able
critic,[29] "because he ever in all his writings puts{25}
before him as his object, to be useful to his
hearers; and as to all other matters, he either
simply put them aside, or took the least possible
notice of them. Nay, as to his seeming ignorant
of some of the thoughts of Scripture, or careless of{30}
entering into its depths, and similar defects, all
this he utterly disregarded in comparison of the
profit of his hearers."

There was as little affectation of sanctity in his
dress or living as there was effort in his eloquence.{5}
In his youth he had been one of the most austere
of men; at the age of twenty-one, renouncing
bright prospects of the world, he had devoted
himself to prayer and study of the Scriptures.
He had retired to the mountains near Antioch,{10}
his native place, and had lived among the monks.
This had been his home for six years, and he had
chosen it in order to subdue the daintiness of his
natural appetite. "Lately," he wrote to a friend
at the time,—"lately, when I had made up my{15}
mind to leave the city and betake myself to the
tabernacle of the monks, I was forever
inquiring and busying myself how I was to get a
supply of provisions; whether it would be possible
to procure fresh bread for my eating, whether{20}
I should be ordered to use the same oil for my
lamp and for my food, to undergo the hardship
of peas and beans, or of severe toil, such as
digging, carrying wood or water, and the like; in
a word, I made much account of bodily comfort." [30] {25}
Such was the nervous anxiety and fidget of mind
with which he had begun: but this rough
discipline soon effected its object, and at length, even
by preference, he took upon him mortifications
which at first were a trouble to him. For the{30}
last two years of his monastic exercise, he lived
by himself in a cave; he slept, when he did sleep,
without lying down; he exposed himself to the
extremities of cold. At length he found he was
passing the bounds of discretion, nature would{5}
bear no more; he fell ill, and returned to the
city.

A course of ascetic practice such as this would
leave its spiritual effects upon him for life. It
sank deep into him, though the surface might{10}
not show it. His duty at Constantinople was to
mix with the world; and he lived as others,
except as regards such restraints as his sacred
office and archiepiscopal station demanded of
him. He wore shoes, and an under garment;{15}
but his stomach was ever delicate, and at meals
he was obliged to have his own dish, such as it
was, to himself. However, he mixed freely with
all ranks of men; and he made friends,
affectionate friends, of young and old, men and women,{20}
rich and poor, by condescending to all of every
degree. How he was loved at Antioch, is shown
by the expedient used to transfer him thence to
Constantinople. Asterius, count of the East, had
orders to send for him, and ask his company to a{25}
church without the city. Having got him into
his carriage, he drove off with him to the first
station on the highroad to Constantinople, where
imperial officers were in readiness to convey him
thither. Thus he was brought upon the scene of{30}
those trials which have given him a name in history,
and a place in the catalogue of the Saints.
At the imperial city he was as much followed, if
not as popular, as at Antioch. "The people
flocked to him," says Sozomen, "as often as he
preached; some of them to hear what would{5}
profit them, others to make trial of him. He
carried them away, one and all, and persuaded
them to think as he did about the Divine Nature.
They hung upon his words, and could not have
enough of them; so that, when they thrust and{10}
jammed themselves together in an alarming way,
every one making an effort to get nearer to him,
and to hear him more perfectly, he took his seat
in the midst of them, and taught from the pulpit
of the Reader." [31] He was, indeed, a man to make{15}
both friends and enemies; to inspire affection,
and to kindle resentment; but his friends loved
him with a love "stronger" than "death," and
more burning than "hell"; and it was well to be
so hated, if he was so beloved.{20}

Here he differs, as far as I can judge, from his
brother saints and doctors of the Greek Church,
St. Basil and St. Gregory Nazianzen. They were
scholars, shy perhaps and reserved; and though
they had not given up the secular state, they were{25}
essentially monks. There is no evidence, that I
remember, to show that they attached men to
their persons. They, as well as John, had a
multitude of enemies; and were regarded, the
one with dislike, the other perhaps with contempt;{30}
but they had not, on the other hand,
warm, eager, sympathetic, indignant, agonized
friends. There is another characteristic in
Chrysostom, which perhaps gained for him this great
blessing. He had, as it would seem, a vigor,{5}
elasticity, and, what may be called, sunniness of
mind, all his own. He was ever sanguine,
seldom sad. Basil had a life-long malady, involving
continual gnawing pain and a weight of physical
dejection. He bore his burden well and{10}
gracefully, like the great Saint he was, as Job bore his;
but it was a burden like Job's. He was a calm, mild,
grave, autumnal day; St. John Chrysostom was
a day in spring-time, bright and rainy, and
glittering through its rain. Gregory was the full{15}
summer, with a long spell of pleasant stillness, its
monotony relieved by thunder and lightning.
And St. Athanasius figures to us the stern
persecuting winter, with its wild winds, its dreary
wastes, its sleep of the great mother, and the{20}
bright stars shining overhead. He and
Chrysostom have no points in common; but Gregory was
a dethroned Archbishop of Constantinople, like
Chrysostom, and, again, dethroned by his
brethren the Bishops. Like Basil, too, Chrysostom was{25}
bowed with infirmities of body; he was often ill;
he was thin and wizened; cold was a misery to
him; heat affected his head; he scarcely dare
touch wine; he was obliged to use the bath;
obliged to take exercise, or rather to be{30}
continually on the move. Whether from a nervous or
febrile complexion, he was warm in temper; or
at least, at certain times, his emotion struggled
hard with his reason. But he had that noble
spirit which complains as little as possible; which
makes the best of things; which soon recovers{5}
its equanimity, and hopes on in circumstances
when others sink down in despair....

II

Whence is this devotion to St. John
Chrysostom, which leads me to dwell upon the thought of
him, and makes me kindle at his name, when so{10}
many other great Saints, as the year brings round
their festivals, command indeed my veneration,
but exert no personal claim upon my heart?
Many holy men have died in exile, many holy
men have been successful preachers; and what{15}
more can we write upon St. Chrysostom's
monument than this, that he was eloquent and that he
suffered persecution? He is not an Athanasius,
expounding a sacred dogma with a luminousness
which is almost an inspiration; nor is he{20}
Athanasius, again, in his romantic life-long adventures,
in his sublime solitariness, in his ascendancy over
all classes of men, in his series of triumphs over
material force and civil tyranny. Nor, except
by the contrast, does he remind us of that{25}
Ambrose who kept his ground obstinately in an
imperial city, and fortified himself against the
heresy of a court by the living rampart of a
devoted population. Nor is he Gregory or Basil,
rich in the literature and philosophy of Greece,
and embellishing the Church with the spoils of
heathenism. Again, he is not an Augustine,
devoting long years to one masterpiece of thought,{5}
and laying, in successive controversies, the
foundations of theology. Nor is he a Jerome, so dead to
the world that he can imitate the point and wit
of its writers without danger to himself or
scandal to his brethren. He has not trampled upon{10}
heresy, nor smitten emperors, nor beautified the
house or the service of God, nor knit together the
portions of Christendom, nor founded a religious
order, nor built up the framework of doctrine, nor
expounded the science of the Saints; yet I love{15}
him, as I love David or St. Paul.

How am I to account for it? It has not
happened to me, as it might happen to many a man,
that I have devoted time and toil to the study of
his writings or of his history, and cry up that{20}
upon which I have made an outlay, or love what
has become familiar to me. Cases may occur
when our admiration for an author is only
admiration of our own comments on him, and when
our love of an old acquaintance is only our love{25}
of old times. For me, I have not written the
life of Chrysostom, nor translated his works, nor
studied Scripture in his exposition, nor forged
weapons of controversy out of his sayings or his
doings. Nor is his eloquence of a kind to carry{30}
any one away who has ever so little knowledge
of the oratory of Greece and Rome. It is not
force of words, nor cogency of argument, nor
harmony of composition, nor depth or richness of
thought, which constitute his power,—whence,
then, has he this influence, so mysterious, yet so{5}
strong?

I consider St. Chrysostom's charm to lie in his
intimate sympathy and compassionateness for
the whole world, not only in its strength, but in
its weakness; in the lively regard with which he{10}
views everything that comes before him, taken
in the concrete, whether as made after its own
kind or as gifted with a nature higher than its
own. Not that any religious man—above all,
not that any Saint—could possibly contrive to{15}
abstract the love of the work from the love of
its Maker, or could feel a tenderness for earth
which did not spring from devotion to heaven;
or as if he would not love everything just in that
degree in which the Creator loves it, and{20}
according to the measure of gifts which the Creator
has bestowed upon it, and preëminently for the
Creator's sake. But this is the characteristic
of all Saints; and I am speaking, not of what St.
Chrysostom had in common with others, but what{25}
he had special to himself; and this specialty, I
conceive, is the interest which he takes in all
things, not so far as God has made them alike,
but as He has made them different from each
other. I speak of the discriminating{30}
affectionateness with which he accepts every one for what is
personal in him and unlike others. I speak of his
versatile recognition of men, one by one, for the
sake of that portion of good, be it more or less,
of a lower order or a higher, which has severally
been lodged in them; his eager contemplation of{5}
the many things they do, effect, or produce, of
all their great works, as nations or as states;
nay, even as they are corrupted or disguised by
evil, so far as that evil may in imagination be
disjoined from their proper nature, or may be{10}
regarded as a mere material disorder apart from
its formal character of guilt. I speak of the
kindly spirit and the genial temper with which
he looks round at all things which this
wonderful world contains; of the graphic fidelity with{15}
which he notes them down upon the tablets of
his mind, and of the promptitude and propriety
with which he calls them up as arguments or
illustrations in the course of his teaching as the
occasion requires. Possessed though he be by{20}
the fire of Divine charity, he has not lost one
fiber, he does not miss one vibration, of the
complicated whole of human sentiment and affection;
like the miraculous bush in the desert, which, for
all the flame that wrapt it round, was not thereby{25}
consumed.

Such, in a transcendent perfection, was the
gaze, as we may reverently suppose, with which
the loving Father of all surveyed in eternity that
universe even in its minutest details which He{30}
had decreed to create such the loving pity with
which He spoke the word when the due moment
came, and began to mold the finite, as He
created it, in His infinite hands; such the watchful
solicitude with which he now keeps His
catalogue of the innumerable birds of heaven, and{5}
counts day by day the very hairs of our head and
the alternations of our breathing. Such, much
more, is the awful contemplation with which He
encompasses incessantly every one of those souls
on whom He heaps His mercies here, in order{10}
to make them the intimate associates of His own
eternity hereafter. And we too, in our measure,
are bound to imitate Him in our exact and vivid
apprehension of Himself and of His works. As to
Himself, we love Him, not simply in His nature,{15}
but in His triple personality, lest we become mere
pantheists. And so, again, we choose our patron
Saints, not for what they have in common with
each other (else there could be no room for choice
at all), but for what is peculiar to them severally.{20}
That which is my warrant, therefore, for particular
devotions at all, becomes itself my reason for
devotion to St. John Chrysostom. In him I
recognize a special pattern of that very gift of
discrimination. He may indeed be said in some sense to{25}
have a devotion of his own for every one who
comes across him,—for persons, ranks, classes,
callings, societies, considered as Divine works and
the subjects of his good offices or good will, and
therefore I have a devotion for him.{30}

It is this observant benevolence which gives to
his exposition of Scripture its chief characteristic.
He is known in ecclesiastical literature as the
expounder, above all others, of its literal sense.
Now in mystical comments the direct object which
the writer sets before him is the Divine Author{5}
Himself of the written Word. Such a writer
sees in Scripture, not so much the works of God,
as His nature and attributes; the Teacher more
than the definite teaching, or its human
instruments, with their drifts and motives, their courses{10}
of thought, their circumstances and personal
peculiarities. He loses the creature in the glory
which surrounds the Creator. The problem
before him is not what the inspired writer directly
meant, and why, but, out of the myriad of{15}
meanings present to the Infinite Being who inspired him,
which it is that is most illustrative of that Great
Being's all-holy attributes and solemn dispositions.
Thus, in the Psalter, he will drop David and Israel
and the Temple together, and will recognize {20}
nothing there but the shadows of those greater truths
which remain forever. Accordingly, the
mystical comment will be of an objective character;
whereas a writer who delights to ponder human
nature and human affairs, to analyze the{25}
workings of the mind, and to contemplate what is
subjective to it, is naturally drawn to investigate
the sense of the sacred writer himself, who was the
organ of the revelation, that is, he will investigate
the literal sense. Now, in the instance of St. {30}
Chrysostom, it so happens that literal exposition
is the historical characteristic of the school in
which he was brought up; so that if he commented
on Scripture at all, he anyhow would have
adopted that method; still, there have been
many literal expositors, but only one{5}
Chrysostom. It is St. Chrysostom who is the charm of
the method, not the method that is the charm
of St. Chrysostom.

That charm lies, as I have said, in his habit and
his power of throwing himself into the minds{10}
of others, of imagining with exactness and with
sympathy circumstances or scenes which were
not before him, and of bringing out what he has
apprehended in words as direct and vivid as the
apprehension. His page is like the table of a{15}
camera lucida, which represents to us the living
action and interaction of all that goes on around
us. That loving scrutiny, with which he follows
the Apostles as they reveal themselves to us in
their writings, he practices in various ways{20}
towards all men, living and dead, high and low,
those whom he admires and those whom he weeps
over. He writes as one who was ever looking
out with sharp but kind eyes upon the world of
men and their history; and hence he has always{25}
something to produce about them, new or old,
to the purpose of his argument, whether from
books or from the experience of life. Head and
heart were full to overflowing with a stream of
mingled "wine and milk," of rich vigorous thought{30}
and affectionate feeling. This is why his manner
of writing is so rare and special; and why, when
once a student enters into it, he will ever
recognize him, wherever he meets with extracts from
him.

Letters of Chrysostom, written in Exile

"To Olympias

"Why do you bewail me? Why beat your breast,{5}
and abandon yourself to the tyranny of despondency?
Why are you grieved because you have failed in
effecting my removal from Cucusus? Yet, as far as your own
part is concerned, you have effected it, since you have
left nothing undone in attempting it. Nor have you any{10}
reason to grieve for your ill success; perhaps it has seemed
good to God to make my race course longer that my
crown may be brighter. You ought to leap and dance and
crown yourself for this, viz., that I should be accounted
worthy of so great a matter, which far exceeds my merit.{15}
Does my present loneliness distress you? On the
contrary, what can be more pleasant than my sojourn here?
I have quiet, calm, much leisure, excellent health. To
be sure, there is no market in the city, nor anything
on sale; but this does not affect me; for all things, as if{20}
from some fountains, flow in upon me. Here is my lord,
the Bishop of the place, and my lord Dioscorus, making
it their sole business to make me comfortable. That
excellent person Patricius will tell you in what good
spirits and lightness of mind, and amid what kind{25}
attentions, I am passing my time."—Ep. 14.

The same is his report to his friends at Cæesarea,
and the same are his expressions of gratitude
and affection towards them. The following is
addressed to the President of Cappodocia:{30}
"To Carterius

"Cucusus is a place desolate in the extreme; however,
it does not annoy me so much by its desolateness as it
relieves me by its quiet and its leisure. Accordingly, I
have found a sort of harbor in this desolateness; and
have set me down to recover breath after the miseries{5}
of the journey, and have availed myself of the quiet to
dispose of what remained both of my illness and of the
other troubles which I have undergone. I say this to
your illustriousness, knowing well the joy you feel in
this rest of mine. I can never forget what you did for{10}
me in Cæsarea, in quelling those furious and senseless
tumults, and striving to the utmost, as far as your powers
extended, to place me in security. I give this out
publicly wherever I go, feeling the liveliest gratitude to you,
my most worshipful lord, for so great solicitude towards{15}
me."—Ep. 236.

"To Diogenes

"Cucusus is indeed a desolate spot, and moreover
unsafe to dwell in, from the continual danger to which
it is exposed of brigands. You, however, though away,
have turned it for me into a paradise. For, when I{20}
hear of your abundant zeal and charity in my behalf,
so genuine and warm (it does not at all escape me, far
removed as I am from you), I possess a great treasure
and untold wealth in such affection, and feel myself
to be dwelling in the safest of cities, by reason of the{25}
great gladness which bears me up, and the high
consolation which I enjoy."—Ep. 144.

Diogenes was one of the friends who sent him
supplies: he writes in answer:

"You know very well yourself that I have ever been{30}
one of your most warmly attached admirers; therefore
I beg you will not be hurt at my having returned your
presents. I have pressed out of them and have quaffed
the honor which they did me; and if I return the things
themselves, it has been from no slight or distrust of you,
but because I was in no need of them. I have done the
same in the case of many others; for many others too,
with a generosity like yours, ardent friends of mine, have{5}
made me the same offers; and the same apology has set
me right with them which I now ask you to receive. If
I am in want, I will ask these things of you with much
freedom, as if they were my own property, nay with
more, as the event will show. Receive them back, then,{10}
and keep them carefully; so that, if there is a call for
them some time hence, I may reckon on them."—Ep. 50.

As a fellow to the above, I add one of his
letters:

"To Carteria

"What are you saying? that your unintermitting{15}
ailments have hindered you from visiting me? but you
have come, you are present with me. From your very
intention I have gained all this, nor have you any need
to excuse yourself in this matter. That warm and true
charity of yours, so vigorous, so constant, suffices to{20}
make me very happy. What I have ever declared in
my letters, I now declare again, that, wherever I may be,
though I be transported to a still more desolate place
than this, you and your matters I never shall forget.
Such pledges of your warm and true charity have you{25}
stored up for me, pledges which length of time can never
obliterate nor waste; but, whether I am near you or far
away, ever do I cherish that same charity, being
assured of the loyalty and sincerity of your affection for
me, which has been my comfort hitherto."—Ep. 227.{30}

"To Olympias

"It is not a light effort," he says (Ep. 2), "but
it demands an energetic soul and a great mind to
bear separation from one whom we love in the
charity of Christ. Every one knows this who
knows what it is to love sincerely, who knows
the power of supernatural love. Take the blessed
Paul: here was a man who had stripped himself{5}
of the flesh, and who went about the world
almost with a disembodied soul, who had
exterminated from his heart every wild impulse, and
who imitated the passionless sereneness of the
immaterial intelligences, and who stood on high{10}
with the Cherubim, and shared with them in their
mystical music, and bore prisons, chains,
transportations, scourges, stoning, shipwreck, and every
form of suffering; yet he, when separated from
one soul loved by him in Christian charity, was{15}
so confounded and distracted as all at once to
rush out of that city, in which he did not find the
beloved one whom he expected. 'When I was
come to Troas,' he says, 'for the gospel of Christ,
and a door was opened to me in the Lord, I had{20}
no rest in my spirit, because I found not Titus
my brother; but bidding them farewell, I went
into Macedonia.'

"Is it Paul who says this?" he continues;
"Paul who, even when fastened in the stocks,{25}
when confined in a dungeon, when torn with
the bloody scourge, did nevertheless convert and
baptize and offer sacrifice, and was chary even
of one soul which was seeking salvation? and
now, when he has arrived at Troas, and sees the{30}
field cleansed of weeds, and ready for the sowing,
and the floor full, and ready to his hand,
suddenly he flings away the profit, though he came
thither expressly for it. 'So it was,' he answers
me, 'just so; I was possessed by a predominating
tyranny of sorrow, for Titus was away; and this{5}
so wrought upon me as to compel me to this
course.' Those who have the grace of charity
are not content to be united in soul only, they
seek for the personal presence of him they love.

"Turn once more to this scholar of charity, and{10}
you will find that so it is. 'We, brethren,' he
says, 'being bereaved of you for the time of an
hour, in sight, not in heart, have hastened the
more abundantly to see your face with great
desire. For we would have come unto you, I,{15}
Paul, indeed, once and again, but Satan hath
hindered us. For which cause, forbearing no
longer, we thought it good to remain at Athens
alone, and we sent Timothy.' What force is
there in each expression! That flame of charity{20}
living in his soul is manifested with singular
luminousness. He does not say so much as
'separated from you,' nor 'torn,' nor 'divided,'
nor 'abandoned,' but only 'bereaved'; moreover
not 'for a certain period,' but merely 'for the{25}
time of an hour'; and separated, 'not in heart,
but in presence only'; again, 'have hastened
the more abundantly to see your face.' What!
it seems charity so captivated you that you
desiderated their sight, you longed to gaze upon{30}
their earthly, fleshly countenance? 'Indeed I
did,' he answers: 'I am not ashamed to say so;
for in that seeing all the channels of the senses
meet together. I desire to see your presence;
for there is the tongue which utters sounds and
announces the secret feelings; there is the{5}
hearing which receives words, and there the eyes
which image the movements of the soul.' But
this is not all: not content with writing to them
letters, he actually sends to them Timothy, who
was with him, and who was more than any letters.{10}
And, 'We thought it good to remain alone;'
that is, when he is divided from one brother,
he says, he is left alone, though he had so many
others with him."

---

You may think, Gentlemen, I have been very
long in coming to the Turks, and indeed I have
been longer than I could have wished; but I
have thought it necessary, in order to your taking
a just view of them, that you should survey them{5}
first of all in their original condition. When they
first appear in history they are Huns or Tartars,
and nothing else; they are indeed in no
unimportant respects Tartars even now; but, had they
never been made something more than Tartars,{10}
they never would have had much to do with the
history of the world. In that case, they would
have had only the fortunes of Attila and Zingis;
they might have swept over the face of the earth,
and scourged the human race, powerful to destroy,{15}
helpless to construct, and in consequence
ephemeral; but this would have been all. But this has
not been all, as regards the Turks; for, in spite
of their intimate resemblance or relationship to
the Tartar tribes, in spite of their essential{20}
barbarism to this day, still they, or at least great
portions of the race, have been put under
education; they have been submitted to a slow
course of change, with a long history and a profitable
discipline and fortunes of a peculiar kind;
and thus they have gained those qualities of
mind, which alone enable a nation to wield and
to consolidate imperial power.

I have said that, when first they distinctly{5}
appear on the scene of history, they are
indistinguishable from Tartars. Mount Altai, the
high metropolis of Tartary, is surrounded by a
hilly district, rich not only in the useful, but in
the precious metals. Gold is said to abound{10}
there; but it is still more fertile in veins of iron,
which indeed is said to be the most plentiful in
the world. There have been iron works there
from time immemorial, and at the time that the
Huns descended on the Roman Empire (in the{15}
fifth century of the Christian era), we find
the Turks nothing more than a family of slaves,
employed as workers of the ore and as blacksmiths
by the dominant tribe. Suddenly in the course
of fifty years, soon after the fall of the Hunnish{20}
power in Europe, with the sudden development
peculiar to Tartars, we find these Turks spread
from East to West, and lords of a territory so
extensive, that they were connected, by relations
of peace or war, at once with the Chinese, the{25}
Persians, and the Romans. They had reached
Kamtchatka on the North, the Caspian on the
West, and perhaps even the mouth of the Indus
on the South. Here then we have an
intermediate empire of Tartars, placed between the{30}
eras of Attila and Zingis; but in this sketch it has
no place, except as belonging to Turkish history,
because it was contained within the limits of
Asia, and, though it lasted for 200 years, it only
faintly affected the political transactions of
Europe. However, it was not without some sort{5}
of influence on Christendom, for the Romans
interchanged embassies with its sovereign in the
reign of the then Greek Emperor Justin the
younger (A.D. 570), with the view of engaging
him in a warlike alliance against Persia. The{10}
account of one of these embassies remains, and
the picture it presents of the Turks is important,
because it seems clearly to identify them with
the Tartar race.

For instance, in the mission to the Tartars{15}
from the Pope, which I have already spoken of,
the friars were led between two fires, when they
approached the Khan, and they at first refused
to follow, thinking they might be countenancing
some magical rite. Now we find it recorded of{20}
this Roman embassy, that, on its arrival, it was
purified by the Turks with fire and incense. As
to incense, which seems out of place among such
barbarians, it is remarkable that it is used in
the ceremonial of the Turkish court to this day.{25}
At least Sir Charles Fellows, in his work on the
Antiquities of Asia Minor, in 1838, speaks of the
Sultan as going to the festival of Bairam with
incense-bearers before him. Again, when the
Romans were presented to the great Khan, they{30}
found him in his tent, seated on a throne, to which
wheels were attached and horses attachable, in
other words, a Tartar wagon. Moreover, they
were entertained at a banquet which lasted the
greater part of the day; and an intoxicating
liquor, not wine, which was sweet and pleasant,{5}
was freely presented to them; evidently the
Tartar koumiss.[32] The next day they had a
second entertainment in a still more splendid
tent; the hangings were of embroidered silk, and
the throne, the cups, and the vases were of gold.{10}
On the third day, the pavilion, in which they were
received, was supported on gilt columns; a couch
of massive gold was raised on four gold peacocks;
and before the entrance to the tent was what
might be called a sideboard, only that it was a{15}
sort of barricade of wagons, laden with dishes,
basins, and statues of solid silver. All these
points in the description—the silk hangings, the
gold vessels, the successively increasing splendor
of the entertainments—remind us of the courts{20}
of Zingis and Timour, 700 and 900 years
afterwards.

This empire, then, of the Turks was of a Tartar
character; yet it was the first step of their
passing from barbarism to that degree of civilization{25}
which is their historical badge. And it was their
first step in civilization, not so much by what
it did in its day, as (unless it be a paradox to
say so) by its coming to an end. Indeed it so
happens, that those Turkish tribes which have{30}
changed their original character and have a place
in the history of the world, have obtained their
status and their qualifications for it, by a process
very different from that which took place in the
nations most familiar to us. What this process{5}
has been I will say presently; first, however, let
us observe that, fortunately for our purpose, we
have still specimens existing of those other
Turkish tribes, which were never submitted to
this process of education and change, and, in{10}
looking at them as they now exist, we see at this
very day the Turkish nationality in something
very like its original form, and are able to decide
for ourselves on its close approximation to the
Tartar. You may recollect I pointed out to{15}
you, Gentlemen, in the opening of these lectures,
the course which the pastoral tribes, or nomads
as they are often called, must necessarily take
in their emigrations. They were forced along
in one direction till they emerged from their{20}
mountain valleys, and descended their high
plateau at the end of Tartary, and then they had
the opportunity of turning south. If they did
not avail themselves of this opening, but went on
still westward, their next southern pass would{25}
be the defiles of the Caucasus and Circassia, to
the west of the Caspian. If they did not use this,
they would skirt the top of the Black Sea, and
so reach Europe. Thus in the emigration of the
Huns from China, you may recollect a tribe of{30}
them turned to the South as soon as they could,
and settled themselves between the high Tartar
land and the sea of Aral, while the main body
went on to the furthest West by the north of the
Black Sea. Now with this last passage into
Europe we are not here concerned, for the Turks{5}
have never introduced themselves to Europe by
means of it;[33] but with those two southward
passages which are Asiatic, viz., that to the east
of the Aral, and that to the west of the Caspian.
The Turkish tribes have all descended upon the{10}
civilized world by one or other of these two roads;
and I observe, that those which have descended
along the east of the Aral have changed their
social habits and gained political power, while
those which descended to the west of the Caspian{15}
remain pretty much what they ever were. The
former of these go among us by the general
name of Turks; the latter are the Turcomans
or Turkmans.... At the very date at which
Heraclius called the Turcomans into Georgia, at{20}
the very date when their Eastern brethren
crossed the northern border of Sogdiana, an event
of most momentous import had occurred in the
South. A new religion had arisen in Arabia.
The impostor Mahomet, announcing himself the{25}
Prophet of God, was writing the pages of that
book, and molding the faith of that people, which
was to subdue half the known world. The Turks
passed the Jaxartes southward in A.D. 626; just
four years before Mahomet had assumed the royal
dignity, and just six years after, on his death,
his followers began the conquest of the Persian
Empire. In the course of 20 years they effected
it; Sogdiana was at its very extremity, or its{5}
borderland; there the last king of Persia took
refuge from the south, while the Turks were
pouring into it from the north. There was little to
choose for the unfortunate prince between the
Turk and the Saracen; the Turks were his{10}
hereditary foe; they had been the giants and
monsters of the popular poetry; but he threw
himself into their arms. They engaged in his
service, betrayed him, murdered him, and
measured themselves with the Saracens in his stead.{15}
Thus the military strength of the north and south
of Asia, the Saracenic and the Turkish, came into
memorable conflict in the regions of which I have
said so much. The struggle was a fierce one, and
lasted many years; the Turks striving to force{20}
their way down to the ocean, the Saracens to
drive them back into their Scythian deserts.
They first fought this issue in Bactriana or
Khorasan; the Turks got the worst of the fight,
and then it was thrown back upon Sogdiana{25}
itself, and there it ended again in favor of the
Saracens. At the end of 90 years from the time
of the first Turkish descent on this fair region,
they relinquished it to their Mahometan
opponents. The conquerors found it rich, populous,{30}
and powerful; its cities, Carisme, Bokhara, and
Samarcand, were surrounded beyond their
fortifications by a suburb of fields and gardens, which
was in turn protected by exterior works; its plains
were well cultivated, and its commerce extended
from China to Europe. Its riches were{5}
proportionally great; the Saracens were able to extort
a tribute of two million gold pieces from the
inhabitants; we read, moreover, of the crown
jewels of one of the Turkish princesses; and of
the buskin of another, which she dropt in her{10}
flight from Bokhara, as being worth two
thousand pieces of gold.[34] Such had been the prosperity
of the barbarian invaders, such was its end; but
not their end, for adversity did them service, as
well as prosperity, as we shall see.{15}

It is usual for historians to say, that the
triumph of the South threw the Turks back again
upon their northern solitudes; and this might
easily be the case with some of the many hordes,
which were ever passing the boundary and{20}
flocking down; but it is no just account of the
historical fact, viewed as a whole. Not often indeed
do the Oriental nations present us with an
example of versatility of character; the Turks, for
instance, of this day are substantially what they{25}
were four centuries ago. We cannot conceive,
were Turkey overrun by the Russians at the
present moment, that the fanatical tribes, which
are pouring into Constantinople from Asia Minor,
would submit to the foreign yoke, take service{30}
under their conquerors, become soldiers,
custom-officers, police, men of business, attaches,
statesmen, working their way up from the ranks and
from the masses into influence and power; but,
whether from skill in the Saracens, or from {5}
far-reaching sagacity in the Turks (and it is difficult
to assign it to either cause), so it was, that a
process of this nature followed close upon the
Mahometan conquest of Sogdiana. It is to be
traced in detail to a variety of accidents. Many{10}
of the Turks probably were made slaves, and the
service to which they were subjected was no
matter of choice. Numbers had got attached to
the soil; and inheriting the blood of Persians,
White Huns, or aboriginal inhabitants for three{15}
generations, had simply unlearned the wildness
of the Tartar shepherd. Others fell victims to
the religion of their conquerors, which ultimately,
as we know, exercised a most remarkable
influence upon them. Not all at once, but as{20}
tribe descended after tribe, and generation
followed generation, they succumbed to the creed
of Mahomet; and they embraced it with the
ardor and enthusiasm which Franks and Saxons
so gloriously and meritoriously manifested in their{25}
conversion to Christianity.

Here again was a very powerful instrument
in modification of their national character. Let
me illustrate it in one particular. If there is one
peculiarity above another, proper to the savage{30}
and to the Tartar, it is that of excitability and
impetuosity on ordinary occasions; the Turks,
on the other hand, are nationally remarkable for
gravity and almost apathy of demeanor. Now
there are evidently elements in the Mahometan
creed, which would tend to change them from{5}
the one temperament to the other. Its
sternness, its coldness, its doctrine of fatalism; even
the truths which it borrowed from Revelation,
when separated from the truths it rejected, its
monotheism untempered by mediation, its severe{10}
view of the Divine attributes, of the law, and of a
sure retribution to come, wrought both a gloom
and also an improvement in the barbarian, not
very unlike the effect which some forms of
Protestantism produce among ourselves. But{15}
whatever was the mode of operation, certainly
it is to their religion that this peculiarity of the
Turks is ascribed by competent judges.
Lieutenant Wood in his journal gives us a lively
account of a peculiarity of theirs, which he{20}
unhesitatingly attributes to Islamism. "Nowhere,"
he says, "is the difference between European and
Mahometan society more strongly marked than
in the lower walks of life.... A Kasid, or
messenger, for example, will come into a public{25}
department, deliver his letters in full durbar, and
demean himself throughout the interview with
so much composure and self-possession, that an
European can hardly believe that his grade in
society is so low. After he has delivered his{30}
letters, he takes his seat among the crowd, and
answers, calmly and without hesitation, all the
questions which may be addressed to him, or
communicates the verbal instructions with which
he has been intrusted by his employer, and
which are often of more importance than the{5}
letters themselves. Indeed, all the inferior classes
possess an innate self-respect, and a natural
gravity of deportment, which differs as far from
the suppleness of a Hindustani as from the
awkward rusticity of an English clown." ... "Even{10}
children," he continues, "in Mahometan countries
have an unusual degree of gravity in their
deportment. The boy, who can but lisp his 'Peace be
with you,' has imbibed this portion of the national
character. In passing through a village, these{15}
little men will place their hands upon their
breasts, and give the usual greeting. Frequently
have I seen the children of chiefs approach their
father's durbar, and stopping short at the
threshold of the door, utter the shout of 'Salam{20}
Ali-Kum,' so as to draw all eyes upon them; but
nothing daunted, they marched boldly into the
room, and sliding down upon their knees, folded
their arms and took their seat upon the musnad
with all the gravity of grown-up persons." {25}

As Islamism has changed the demeanor of the
Turks, so doubtless it has in other ways materially
innovated on their Tartar nature. It has given
an aim to their military efforts, a political
principle, and a social bond. It has laid them under{30}
a sense of responsibility, has molded them into
consistency, and taught them a course of policy
and perseverance in it. But to treat this part
of the subject adequately to its importance would
require, Gentlemen, a research and a fullness of
discussion unsuitable to the historical sketch{5}
which I have undertaken. I have said enough
for my purpose upon this topic; and indeed
on the general question of the modification of
national character to which the Turks were at
this period subjected.{10}

Mere occupation of a rich country is not
enough for civilization, as I have granted already.
The Turks came into the pleasant plains and
valleys of Sogdiana; the Turcomans into the
well-wooded mountains and sunny slopes of Asia{15}
Minor. The Turcomans were brought out of
their dreary deserts, yet they retained their old
habits, and they remain barbarians to this day.
But why? it must be borne in mind, they neither
subjugated the inhabitants of their new country{20}
on the one hand, nor were subjugated by them
on the other. They never had direct or intimate
relations with it; they were brought into it by
the Roman Government at Constantinople as its
auxiliaries, but they never naturalized themselves{25}
there. They were like gypsies in England, except
that they were mounted freebooters instead of
pilferers and fortune tellers. It was far otherwise
with their brethren in Sogdiana; they were
there first as conquerors, then as conquered.
First they held it in possession as their prize for
90 or 100 years; they came into the usufruct and
enjoyment of it. Next, their political ascendancy{5}
over it involved, as in the case of the White Huns,
some sort of moral surrender of themselves to it.
What was the first consequence of this? that,
like the White Huns, they intermarried with the
races they found there. We know the custom{10}
of the Tartars and Turks; under such
circumstances they would avail themselves of their
national practice of polygamy to its full extent
of license. In the course of twenty years a new
generation would arise of a mixed race; and{15}
these in turn would marry into the native
population, and at the end of ninety or a hundred
years we should find the great-grandsons or the
great-great-grandsons of the wild marauders who
first crossed the Jaxartes, so different from their{20}
ancestors in features both of mind and body,
that they hardly would be recognized as deserving
the Tartar name. At the end of that period their
power came to an end, the Saracens became
masters of them and of their country, but the{25}
process of emigration southward from the
Scythian desert, which had never intermitted during
the years of their domination, continued still,
though that domination was no more.

Here it is necessary to have a clear idea of the{30}
nature of that association of the Turkish tribes
from the Volga to the Eastern Sea, to which I
have given the name of Empire: it was not so
much of a political as of a national character;
it was the power, not of a system, but of a race.
They were not one well-organized state, but a{5}
number of independent tribes, acting generally
together, acknowledging one leader or not,
according to circumstances, combining and
coöperating from the identity of object which acted
on them, and often jealous of each other and{10}
quarreling with each other on account of that
very identity. Each tribe made its way down to
the south as it could; one blocked up the way of
the other for a time; there were stoppages and
collisions, but there was a continual movement{15}
and progress. Down they came one after another,
like wolves after their prey; and as the tribes
which came first became partially civilized, and
as a mixed generation arose, these would naturally
be desirous of keeping back their less polished{20}
uncles or cousins, if they could; and would do so
successfully for a while: but cupidity is stronger
than conservatism; and so, in spite of delay and
difficulty, down they would keep coming, and
down they did come, even after and in spite of{25}
the overthrow of their Empire; crowding down
as to a new world, to get what they could, as
adventurers, ready to turn to the right or the
left, prepared to struggle on anyhow, willing to
be forced forward into countries farther still,{30}
careless what might turn up, so that they did but
get down. And this was the process which went
on (whatever were their fortunes when they
actually got down, prosperous or adverse) for
400, nay, I will say for 700 years. The
storehouse of the north was never exhausted; it{5}
sustained the never ending run upon its resources.

I was just now referring to a change in the
Turks, which I have mentioned before, and
which had as important a bearing as any other
of their changes upon their subsequent fortunes.{10}
It was a change in their physiognomy and shape,
so striking as to recommend them to their
masters for the purposes of war or of display.
Instead of bearing any longer the hideous exterior
which in the Huns frightened the Romans and{15}
Goths, they were remarkable, even as early as the
ninth century, when they had been among the
natives of Sogdiana only two hundred years,
for the beauty of their persons. An important
political event was the result: hence the{20}
introduction of the Turks into the heart of the
Saracenic empire. By this time the Caliphs had
removed from Damascus to Bagdad; Persia was
the imperial province, and into Persia they were
introduced for the reason I have mentioned,{25}
sometimes as slaves, sometimes as captives taken
in war, sometimes as mercenaries for the
Saracenic armies: at length they were enrolled as
guards to the Caliph, and even appointed to
offices in the palace, to the command of the forces,{30}
and to governorships in the provinces. The son
of the celebrated Harun al Raschid had as many
as 50,000 of these troops in Bagdad itself. And
thus slowly and silently they made their way to
the south, not with the pomp and pretense of
conquest, but by means of that ordinary{5}
inter-communion which connected one portion of the
empire of the Caliphs with another. In this
manner they were introduced even into Egypt.

This was their history for a hundred and fifty
years, and what do we suppose would be the{10}
result of this importation of barbarians into the
heart of a nourishing empire? Would they be
absorbed as slaves or settlers in the mass of the
population, or would they, like mercenaries
elsewhere, be fatal to the power that introduced{15}
them? The answer is not difficult, considering
that their very introduction argued a want of
energy and resource in the rulers whom they
served. To employ them was a confession of
weakness; the Saracenic power indeed was not{20}
very aged, but the Turkish was much younger,
and more vigorous; then too must be
considered the difference of national character
between the Turks and the Saracens. A writer of
the beginning of the present century[35] compares{25}
the Turks to the Romans; such parallels are
generally fanciful and fallacious; but, if we must
accept it in the present instance, we may
complete the picture by likening the Saracens and
Persians to the Greeks, and we know what was{30}
the result of the collision between Greece and
Rome. The Persians were poets, the Saracens
were philosophers. The mathematics, astronomy,
and botany were especial subjects of the studies of
the latter. Their observatories were celebrated,{5}
and they may be considered to have originated
the science of chemistry. The Turks, on the
other hand, though they are said to have a
literature, and though certain of their princes have
been patrons of letters, have never distinguished{10}
themselves in exercises of pure intellect; but
they have had an energy of character, a
pertinacity, a perseverance, and a political talent, in
a word, they then had the qualities of mind
necessary for ruling, in far greater measure, than{15}
the people they were serving. The Saracens,
like the Greeks, carried their arms over the
surface of the earth with an unrivaled brilliancy
and an uncheckered success; but their dominion,
like that of Greece, did not last for more than{20}
200 or 300 years. Rome grew slowly through
many centuries, and its influence lasts to this
day; the Turkish race battled with difficulties
and reverses, and made its way on amid tumult
and complication, for a good 1000 years from{25}
first to last, till at length it found itself in
possession of Constantinople, and a terror to the
whole of Europe. It has ended its career upon
the throne of Constantine; it began it as the
slave and hireling of the rulers of a great empire,{30}
of Persia and Sogdiana.

As to Sogdiana, we have already reviewed one
season of power and then in turn of reverse which
there befell the Turks; and next a more
remarkable outbreak and its reaction mark their presence
in Persia. I have spoken of the formidable force,{5}
consisting of Turks, which formed the guard of
the Caliphs immediately after the time of Harun
al Raschid: suddenly they rebelled against
their master, burst into his apartment at the
hour of supper, murdered him, and cut his body{10}
into seven pieces. They got possession of the
symbols of imperial power, the garment and the
staff of Mahomet, and proceeded to make and
unmake Caliphs at their pleasure. In the course
of four years they had elevated, deposed, and{15}
murdered as many as three. At their wanton
caprice, they made these successors of the false
prophet the sport of their insults and their blows.
They dragged them by the feet, stripped them,
and exposed them to the burning sun, beat them{20}
with iron clubs, and left them for days without
food. At length, however, the people of Bagdad
were roused in defense of the Caliphate, and the
Turks for a time were brought under; but they
remained in the country, or rather, by the {25}
short-sighted policy of the moment, were dispersed
throughout it, and thus became in the sequel
ready-made elements of revolution for the
purposes of other traitors of their own race, who, at
a later period, as we shall presently see, descended{30}
on Persia from Turkistan.

Indeed, events were opening the way slowly,
but surely, to their ascendancy. Throughout the
whole of the tenth century, which followed, they
seem to disappear from history; but a silent
revolution was all along in progress, leading them{5}
forward to their great destiny. The empire of
the Caliphate was already dying in its
extremities, and Sogdiana was one of the first countries
to be detached from his power. The Turks were
still there, and, as in Persia, filled the ranks of the{10}
army and the offices of the government; but the
political changes which took place were not at
first to their visible advantage. What first
occurred was the revolt of the Caliph's viceroy,
who made himself a great kingdom or empire out{15}
of the provinces around, extending it from the
Jaxartes, which was the northern boundary of
Sogdiana, almost to the Indian Ocean, and
from the confines of Georgia to the mountains
of Afghanistan. The dynasty thus established{20}
lasted for four generations and for the space of
ninety years. Then the successor happened to
be a boy; and one of his servants, the governor
of Khorasan, an able and experienced man, was
forced by circumstances to rebellion against him.{25}
He was successful, and the whole power of this
great kingdom fell into his hands; now he was a
Tartar or Turk; and thus at length the Turks
suddenly appear in history, the acknowledged
masters of a southern dominion.{30}

This is the origin of the celebrated Turkish
dynasty of the Gaznevides, so called after Gazneh,
or Ghizni, or Ghuznee, the principal city, and it
lasted for two hundred years. We are not
particularly concerned in it, because it has no direct
relations with Europe; but it falls into our{5}
subject, as having been instrumental to the advance
of the Turks towards the West. Its most
distinguished monarch was Mahmood, and he
conquered Hindostan, which became eventually
the seat of the empire. In Mahmood the{10}
Gaznevide we have a prince of true Oriental splendor.
For him the title of Sultan or Soldan was invented,
which henceforth became the special badge of the
Turkish monarchs; as Khan is the title of the
sovereign of the Tartars, and Caliph of the{15}
sovereign of the Saracens. I have already described
generally the extent of his dominions: he
inherited Sogdiana, Carisme, Khorasan, and Cabul;
but, being a zealous Mussulman, he obtained the
title of Gazi, or champion, by his reduction of{20}
Hindostan, and his destruction of its idol
temples. There was no need, however, of religious
enthusiasm to stimulate him to the war: the
riches, which he amassed in the course of it, were
a recompense amply sufficient. His Indian{25}
expeditions in all amounted to twelve, and they abound
in battles and sieges of a truly Oriental cast....

We have now arrived at what may literally be
called the turning point of Turkish history. We
have seen them gradually descend from the north,{30}
and in a certain degree become acclimated in the
countries where they settled. They first appear
across the Jaxartes in the beginning of the seventh
century; they have now come to the beginning
of the eleventh. Four centuries or thereabout
have they been out of their deserts, gaining{5}
experience and educating themselves in such
measure as was necessary for playing their part in
the civilized world. First they came down into
Sogdiana and Khorasan, and the country below
it, as conquerors; they continued in it as{10}
subjects and slaves. They offered their services to
the race which had subdued them; they made
their way by means of their new masters down to
the west and the south; they laid the foundations
for their future supremacy in Persia, and{15}
gradually rose upwards through the social fabric to
which they had been admitted, till they found
themselves at length at the head of it. The
sovereign power which they had acquired in the
line of the Gaznevides, drifted off to Hindostan;{20}
but still fresh tribes of their race poured down
from the north, and filled up the gap; and while
one dynasty of Turks was established in the
peninsula, a second dynasty arose in the former
seat of their power.{25}

Now I call the era at which I have arrived the
turning point of their fortunes, because, when
they had descended down to Khorasan and the
countries below it, they might have turned to the
East or to the West, as they chose. They were{30}
at liberty to turn their forces eastward against
their kindred in Hindostan, whom they had driven
out of Ghizni and Afghanistan, or to face towards
the west, and make their way thither through the
Saracens of Persia and its neighboring countries.
It was an era which determined the history of the{5}
world....

But this era was a turning point in their
history in another and more serious respect. In
Sogdiana and Khorasan, they had become
converts to the Mahometan faith. You will not{10}
suppose I am going to praise a religious imposture,
but no Catholic need deny that it is, considered
in itself, a great improvement upon Paganism.
Paganism has no rule of right and wrong, no
supreme and immutable judge, no intelligible{15}
revelation, no fixed dogma whatever; on the
other hand, the being of one God, the fact of His
revelation, His faithfulness to His promises, the
eternity of the moral law, the certainty of future
retribution, were borrowed by Mahomet from the{20}
Church, and are steadfastly held by his followers.
The false prophet taught much which is materially
true and objectively important, whatever be its
subjective and formal value and influence in the
individuals who profess it. He stands in his{25}
creed between the religion of God and the religion
of devils, between Christianity and idolatry,
between the West and the extreme East. And
so stood the Turks, on adopting his faith, at
the date I am speaking of; they stood between{30}
Christ in the West, and Satan in the East, and
they had to make their choice; and, alas! they
were led by the circumstances of the time to
oppose themselves, not to Paganism, but to
Christianity. A happier lot indeed had befallen
poor Sultan Mahmood than befell his kindred{5}
who followed in his wake. Mahmood, a
Mahometan, went eastward and found a superstition
worse than his own, and fought against it, and
smote it; and the sandal doors which he tore
away from the idol temple and hung up at his{10}
tomb at Gazneh, almost seemed to plead for him
through centuries as the soldier and the
instrument of Heaven. The tribes which followed him,
Moslem also, faced westward, and found, not
error but truth, and fought against it as zealously,{15}
and in doing so, were simply tools of the Evil One,
and preachers of a lie, and enemies, not witnesses
of God. The one destroyed idol temples, the
other Christian shrines. The one has been saved
the woe of persecuting the Bride of the Lamb;{20}
the other is of all races the veriest brood of the
serpent which the Church has encountered since
she was set up. For 800 years did the sandal
gates remain at Mahmood's tomb, as a trophy
over idolatry; and for 800 years have Seljuk{25}
and Othman been our foe.

The year 1048 of our era is fixed by
chronologists as the date of the rise of the Turkish power,
as far as Christendom is interested in its history.[36]
Sixty-three years before this date, a Turk of high{30}
rank, of the name of Seljuk, had quarreled with
his native prince in Turkistan, crossed the
Jaxartes with his followers, and planted himself in
the territory of Sogdiana. His father had been
a chief officer in the prince's court, and was the{5}
first of his family to embrace Islamism; but
Seljuk, in spite of his creed, did not obtain permission
to advance into Sogdiana from the Saracenic
government, which at that time was in possession of
the country. After several successful encounters,{10}
however, he gained admission into the city of
Bokhara, and there he settled. As time went on, he
fully recompensed the tardy hospitality which
the Saracens had shown him; for his feud with
his own countrymen, whom he had left, took the{15}
shape of a religious enmity, and he fought against
them as pagans and infidels, with a zeal, which
was both an earnest of the devotion of his people
to the faith of Mahomet, and a training for the
exercise of it....{20}

For four centuries the Turks are little or hardly
heard of; then suddenly in the course of as many
tens of years, and under three Sultans, they make
the whole world resound with their deeds; and,
while they have pushed to the East through{25}
Hindostan, in the West they have hurried down
to the coasts of the Mediterranean and the
Archipelago, have taken Jerusalem, and threatened
Constantinople. In their long period of silence
they had been sowing the seeds of future{30}
conquests; in their short period of action they were
gathering the fruit of past labors and sufferings.
The Saracenic empire stood apparently as before;
but, as soon as a Turk showed himself at the head
of a military force within its territory, he found
himself surrounded by the armies of his kindred{5}
which had been so long in its pay; he was joined
by the tribes of Turcomans, to whom the Romans
in a former age had shown the passes of the
Caucasus; and he could rely on the reserve of
innumerable swarms, ever issuing out of his{10}
native desert, and following in his track. Such
was the state of Western Asia in the middle of
the eleventh century.

Alp Arslan, the second Sultan of the line of
Seljuk, is said to signify in Turkish "the{15}
courageous lion": and the Caliph gave its possessor the
Arabic appellation of Azzaddin, or "Protector of
Religion." It was the distinctive work of his
short reign to pass from humbling the Caliph to
attacking the Greek Emperor. Togrul had{20}
already invaded the Greek provinces of Asia Minor,
from Cilicia to Armenia, along a line of 600 miles,
and here it was that he had achieved his
tremendous massacres of Christians. Alp Arslan
renewed the war; he penetrated to Cæesarea in{25}
Cappadocia, attracted by the gold and pearls
which incrusted the shrine of the great St. Basil.
He then turned his arms against Armenia and
Georgia, and conquered the hardy mountaineers
of the Caucasus, who at present give such trouble{30}
to the Russians. After this he encountered,
defeated, and captured the Greek Emperor. He
began the battle with all the solemnity and
pageantry of a hero of romance. Casting away
his bow and arrows, he called for an iron mace and
scimeter; he perfumed his body with musk, as{5}
if for his burial, and dressed himself in white,
that he might be slain in his winding sheet.
After his victory, the captive Emperor of New
Rome was brought before him in a peasant's
dress; he made him kiss the ground beneath his{10}
feet, and put his foot upon his neck. Then,
raising him up, he struck or patted him three times
with his hand, and gave him his life and, on a
large ransom, his liberty.

At this time the Sultan was only forty-four{15}
years of age, and seemed to have a career of glory
still before him. Twelve hundred nobles stood
before his throne; two hundred thousand soldiers
marched under his banner. As if dissatisfied
with the South, he turned his arms against his{20}
own paternal wildernesses, with which his
family, as I have related, had a feud. New tribes
of Turks seem to have poured down, and were
wresting Sogdiana from the race of Seljuk, as
the Seljukians had wrested it from the{25}
Gaznevides. Alp had not advanced far into the
country, when he met his death from the hand of a
captive. A Carismian chief had withstood his
progress, and, being taken, was condemned to a
lingering execution. On hearing the sentence, he{30}
rushed forward upon Alp Arslan; and the Sultan,
disdaining to let his generals interfere, bent his
bow, but, missing his aim, received the dagger of
his prisoner in his breast. His death, which
followed, brings before us that grave dignity of the
Turkish character, of which we have already had{5}
an example in Mahmood. Finding his end
approaching, he has left on record a sort of dying
confession: "In my youth," he said, "I was
advised by a sage to humble myself before God,
to distrust my own strength, and never to despise{10}
the most contemptible foe. I have neglected
these lessons, and my neglect has been deservedly
punished. Yesterday, as from an eminence, I
beheld the numbers, the discipline, and the spirit
of my armies; the earth seemed to tremble under{15}
my feet, and I said in my heart, Surely thou art
the king of the world, the greatest and most
invincible of warriors. These armies are no
longer mine; and, in the confidence of my
personal strength, I now fall by the hand of an{20}
assassin." On his tomb was engraven an
inscription, conceived in a similar spirit. "O ye, who
have seen the glory of Alp Arslan exalted to the
heavens, repair to Maru, and you will behold it
buried in the dust." [37] Alp Arslan was adorned{25}
with great natural qualities both of intellect and
of soul. He was brave and liberal: just, patient,
and sincere: constant in his prayers, diligent in
his alms, and, it is added, witty in his
conversation; but his gifts availed him not.{30}

It often happens in the history of states and
races, in which there is found first a rise and then
a decline, that the greatest glories take place just
then when the reverse is beginning or begun.
Thus, for instance, in the history of the{5}
Ottoman Turks, to which I have not yet come,
Soliman the Magnificent is at once the last and
greatest of a series of great Sultans. So was it
as regards this house of Seljuk. Malek Shah, the
son of Alp Arslan, the third sovereign, in whom{10}
its glories ended, is represented to us in history
in colors so bright and perfect, that it is difficult
to believe we are not reading the account of some
mythical personage. He came to the throne at
the early age of seventeen; he was well-shaped,{15}
handsome, polished both in manners and in
mind; wise and courageous, pious and sincere.
He engaged himself even more in the
consolidation of his empire than in its extension. He
reformed abuses; he reduced the taxes; he{20}
repaired the highroads, bridges, and canals; he
built an imperial mosque at Bagdad; he founded
and nobly endowed a college. He patronized
learning and poetry, and he reformed the
calendar. He provided marts for commerce; he{25}
upheld the pure administration of justice, and
protected the helpless and the innocent. He
established wells and cisterns in great numbers
along the road of pilgrimage to Mecca; he fed
the pilgrims, and distributed immense sums{30}
among the poor.

He was in every respect a great prince; he
extended his conquests across Sogdiana to the
very borders of China. He subdued by his
lieutenants Syria and the Holy Land, and took
Jerusalem. He is said to have traveled round{5}
his vast dominions twelve times. So potent was
he, that he actually gave away kingdoms, and
had for feudatories great princes. He gave to
his cousin his territories in Asia Minor, and
planted him over against Constantinople, as an{10}
earnest of future conquests; and he may be said
to have finally allotted to the Turcomans the
fair regions of Western Asia, over which they
roam to this day.

All human greatness has its term; the more{15}
brilliant was this great Sultan's rise, the more
sudden was his extinction; and the earlier he
came to his power, the earlier did he lose it. He
had reigned twenty years, and was but
thirty-seven years old, when he was lifted up with pride{20}
and came to his end. He disgraced and
abandoned to an assassin his faithful vizir, at the age
of ninety-three, who for thirty years had been the
servant and benefactor of the house of Seljuk.
After obtaining from the Caliph the peculiar{25}
and almost incommunicable title of "the
commander of the faithful," unsatisfied still, he
wished to fix his own throne in Bagdad, and to
deprive his impotent superior of his few
remaining honors. He demanded the hand of the{30}
daughter of the Greek Emperor, a Christian, in
marriage. A few days, and he was no more;
he had gone out hunting, and returned
indisposed; a vein was opened, and the blood would
not flow. A burning fever took him off, only
eighteen days after the murder of his vizir, and{5}
less than ten before the day when the Caliph was
to have been removed from Bagdad.

Such is human greatness at the best, even were
it ever so innocent; but as to this poor Sultan,
there is another aspect even of his glorious deeds.{10}
If I have seemed here or elsewhere in these
Lectures to speak of him or his with interest or
admiration, only take me, Gentlemen, as giving
the external view of the Turkish history, and that
as introductory to the determination of its true{15}
significance. Historians and poets may celebrate
the exploits of Malek; but what were they in the
sight of Him who has said that whoso shall strike
against His cornerstone shall be broken; but
on whomsoever it shall fall, shall be ground to{20}
powder? Looking at this Sultan's deeds as
mere exhibitions of human power, they were
brilliant and marvelous; but there was another
judgment of them formed in the West, and other
feelings than admiration roused by them in the{25}
faith and the chivalry of Christendom.
Especially was there one, the divinely appointed
shepherd of the poor of Christ, the anxious
steward of His Church, who from his high and
ancient watch tower, in the fullness of apostolic{30}
charity, surveyed narrowly what was going on at
thousands of miles from him, and with prophetic
eye looked into the future age; and scarcely had
that enemy, who was in the event so heavily to
smite the Christian world, shown himself, when
he gave warning of the danger, and prepared{5}
himself with measures for averting it. Scarcely
had the Turk touched the shores of the
Mediterranean and the Archipelago, when the Pope
detected and denounced him before all Europe.
The heroic Pontiff, St. Gregory the Seventh, was{10}
then upon the throne of the Apostle; and though
he was engaged in one of the severest conflicts
which Pope has ever sustained, not only against
the secular power, but against bad bishops and
priests, yet at a time when his very life was not{15}
his own, and present responsibilities so urged
him, that one would fancy he had time for no
other thought, Gregory was able to turn his mind
to the consideration of a contingent danger in the
almost fabulous East. In a letter written during{20}
the reign of Malek Shah, he suggested the idea
of a crusade against the misbeliever, which later
popes carried out. He assures the Emperor of
Germany, whom he was addressing, that he had
50,000 troops ready for the holy war, whom he{25}
would fain have led in person. This was in the
year 1074.

In truth, the most melancholy accounts were
brought to Europe of the state of things in the
Holy Land. A rude Turcoman ruled in{30}
Jerusalem; his people insulted there the clergy of
every profession; they dragged the patriarch by
the hair along the pavement, and cast him into
a dungeon, in hopes of a ransom; and disturbed
from time to time the Latin Mass and office in the
Church of the Resurrection. As to the pilgrims,{5}
Asia Minor, the country through which they had
to travel in an age when the sea was not yet safe
to the voyager, was a scene of foreign incursion
and internal distraction. They arrived at
Jerusalem exhausted by their sufferings, and{10}
sometimes terminated them by death, before they
were permitted to kiss the Holy Sepulchre.

---

It is commonly said that the Crusades failed
in their object; that they were nothing else but
a lavish expenditure of men and treasure; and{15}
that the possession of the Holy Places by the
Turks to this day is a proof of it. Now I will not
enter here into a very intricate controversy; this
only will I say, that, if the tribes of the desert,
under the leadership of the house of Seljuk, turned{20}
their faces to the West in the middle of the
eleventh century; if in forty years they had
advanced from Khorasan to Jerusalem and the
neighborhood of Constantinople; and if in
consequence they were threatening Europe and{25}
Christianity; and if, for that reason, it was a
great object to drive them back or break them
to pieces; if it were a worthy object of the
Crusades to rescue Europe from this peril and to
reassure the anxious minds of Christian
multitudes; then were the Crusades no failure in
their issue, for this object was fully accomplished.
The Seljukian Turks were hurled back upon the
East, and then broken up, by the hosts of the{5}
Crusaders. The lieutenant of Malek Shah, who
had been established as Sultan of Roum (as Asia
Minor was called by the Turks), was driven to an
obscure town, where his dynasty lasted, indeed,
but gradually dwindled away. A similar fate {10}
attended the house of Seljuk in other parts of
the Empire, and internal quarrels increased and
perpetuated its weakness. Sudden as was its
rise, as sudden was its fall; till the terrible
Zingis, descending on the Turkish dynasties, like{15}
an avalanche, coöperated effectually with the
Crusaders and finished their work; and if
Jerusalem was not protected from other enemies,
at least Constantinople was saved, and Europe
was placed in security, for three hundred years.{20}

I think it is clear, that, if my account be only
in the main correct, the Turkish power certainly
is not a civilized, and is a barbarous power.
The barbarian lives without principle and
without aim; he does but reflect the successive{25}
outward circumstances in which he finds himself,
and he varies with them. He changes
suddenly, when their change is sudden, and is as
unlike what he was just before, as one fortune
or external condition is unlike another. He
moves when he is urged by appetite; else, he
remains in sloth and inactivity. He lives, and
he dies, and he has done nothing, but leaves the{5}
world as he found it. And what the individual
is, such is his whole generation; and as that
generation, such is the generation before and
after. No generation can say what it has been
doing; it has not made the state of things better{10}
or worse; for retrogression there is hardly room;
for progress, no sort of material. Now I shall
show that these characteristics of the barbarian
are rudimental points, as I may call them, in the
picture of the Turks, as drawn by those who{15}
have studied them. I shall principally avail
myself of the information supplied by Mr.
Thornton and M. Volney, men of name and ability,
and for various reasons preferable as authorities
to writers of the present day.{20}

"The Turks," says Mr. Thornton, who, though
not blind to their shortcomings, is certainly
favorable to them, "the Turks are of a grave
and saturnine cast ... patient of hunger and
privations, capable of enduring the hardships of{25}
war, but not much inclined to habits of
industry.... They prefer apathy and indolence to
active enjoyments; but when moved by a
powerful stimulus they sometimes indulge in pleasures
in excess." "The Turk," he says elsewhere,{30}
"stretched at his ease on the banks of the Bosphorus,
glides down the stream of existence
without reflection on the past, and without
anxiety for the future. His life is one continued
and unvaried reverie. To his imagination the
whole universe appears occupied in procuring him{5}
pleasures.... Every custom invites to repose,
and every object inspires an indolent
voluptuousness. Their delight is to recline on soft verdure
under the shade of trees, and to muse without
fixing the attention, lulled by the trickling of a{10}
fountain or the murmuring of a rivulet, and
inhaling through their pipe a gently inebriating
vapor. Such pleasures, the highest which the
rich can enjoy, are equally within the reach of
the artisan or the peasant."{15}

M. Volney corroborates this account of them:
"Their behavior," he says, "is serious, austere,
and melancholy; they rarely laugh, and the
gayety of the French appears to them a fit of
delirium. When they speak, it is with{20}
deliberation, without gestures and without passion;
they listen without interrupting you; they are
silent for whole days together, and they by no
means pique themselves on supporting
conversation. If they walk, it is always leisurely, and{25}
on business. They have no idea of our
troublesome activity, and our walks backwards and
forwards for amusement. Continually seated,
they pass whole days smoking, with their legs
crossed, their pipes in their mouths, and almost{30}
without changing their attitude." Englishmen
present as great a contrast to the Ottoman as the
French; as a late English traveler brings before
us, apropos of seeing some Turks in quarantine:
"Certainly," he says, "Englishmen are the least
able to wait, and the Turks the most so, of any{5}
people I have ever seen. To impede an
Englishman's locomotion on a journey, is equivalent to
stopping the circulation of his blood; to disturb
the repose of a Turk on his, is to reawaken him
to a painful sense of the miseries of life. The{10}
one nation at rest is as much tormented as
Prometheus, chained to his rock, with the vulture
feeding on him; the other in motion is as
uncomfortable as Ixion tied to his ever-moving wheel."[38]

However, the barbarian, when roused to action,{15}
is a very different being from the barbarian
at rest. "The Turk," says Mr. Thornton, "is
usually placid, hypochondriac, and
unimpassioned; but, when the customary sedateness of
his temper is ruffled, his passions ... are{20}
furious and uncontrollable. The individual seems
possessed with all the ungovernable fury of a
multitude; and all ties, all attachments, all
natural and moral obligations, are forgotten or
despised, till his rage subsides." A similar{25}
remark is made by a writer of the day: "The Turk
on horseback has no resemblance to the Turk
reclining on his carpet. He there assumes a
vigor, and displays a dexterity, which few
Europeans would be capable of emulating; no{30}
horsemen surpass the Turks; and, with all the
indolence of which they are accused, no people
are more fond of the violent exercise of riding."

So was it with their ancestors, the Tartars;
now dosing on their horses or their wagons, now{5}
galloping over the plains from morning to night.
However, these successive phases of Turkish
character, as reported by travelers, have seemed
to readers as inconsistencies in their reports;
Thornton accepts the inconsistency. "The{10}
national character of the Turks," he says, "is a
composition of contradictory qualities. We find
them brave and pusillanimous; gentle and
ferocious; resolute and inconstant; active and
indolent; fastidiously abstemious, and{15}
indiscriminately indulgent. The great are alternately
haughty and humble, arrogant and cringing,
liberal and sordid." [39] What is this but to say in
one word that we find them barbarians?

According to these distinct moods or phases{20}
of character, they will leave very various
impressions of themselves on the minds of successive
beholders. A traveler finds them in their
ordinary state in repose and serenity; he is surprised
and startled to find them so different from what {25}
he imagined; he admires and extols them, and
inveighs against the prejudice which has
slandered them to the European world. He finds them
mild and patient, tender to the brute creation, as
becomes the, children of a Tartar shepherd, kind{30}
and hospitable, self-possessed and dignified, the
lowest classes sociable with each other, and the
children gamesome. It is true; they are as noble
as the lion of the desert, and as gentle and as
playful as the fireside cat. Our traveler observes{5}
all this;[40] and seems to forget that from the
humblest to the highest of the feline tribe, from
the cat to the lion, the most wanton and
tyrannical cruelty alternates with qualities more
engaging or more elevated. Other barbarous{10}
tribes also have their innocent aspects—from
the Scythians in the classical poets and historians
down to the Lewchoo islanders in the pages of
Basil Hall.

But whatever be the natural excellences of{15}
the Turks, progressive they are not. This Sir
Charles Fellows seems to allow: "My intimacy
with the character of the Turks," he says, "which
has led me to think so highly of their moral
excellence, has not given me the same favorable{20}
impression of the development of their mental
powers. Their refinement is of manners and
affections; there is little cultivation or activity
of mind among them." This admission implies
a great deal, and brings us to a fresh{25}
consideration. Observe, they were in the eighth century
of their political existence when Thornton and
Volney lived among them, and these authors
report of them as follows: "Their buildings,"
says Thornton, "are heavy in their proportions,{30}
bad in detail, both in taste and execution,
fantastic in decoration, and destitute of genius.
Their cities are not decorated with public
monuments, whose object is to enliven or to embellish."
Their religion forbids them every sort of {5}
painting, sculpture, or engraving; thus the fine arts
cannot exist among them. They have no music
but vocal; and know of no accompaniment
except a bass of one note like that of the bagpipe.
Their singing is in a great measure recitative,{10}
with little variation of note. They have scarcely
any notion of medicine or surgery; and they do
not allow of anatomy. As to science, the
telescope, the microscope, the electric battery, are
unknown, except as playthings. The compass {15}
is not universally employed in their navy, nor
are its common purposes thoroughly understood.
Navigation, astronomy, geography, chemistry,
are either not known, or practiced only on
antiquated and exploded principles. As to their{20}
civil and criminal codes of law, these are
unalterably fixed in the Koran....

Compare the Rome of Junius Brutus to the
Rome of Constantine, 800 years afterwards. In
each of these polities there was a continuous{25}
progression, and the end was unlike the
beginning; but the Turks, except that they have gained
the faculty of political union, are pretty much
what they were when they crossed the Jaxartes
and Oxus. Again, at the time of Togrul Beg, the{30}
Greek schism also took place; now from Michael
Cerularius, in 1054, to Anthimus, in 1853,
Patriarchs of Constantinople, eight centuries have
passed of religious deadness and insensibility: a
longer time has passed in China of a similar
political inertness: yet China has preserved at{5}
least the civilization, and Greece the ecclesiastical
science, with which they respectively passed into
their long sleep; but the Turks of this day are
still in the less than infancy of art, literature,
philosophy, and general knowledge; and we may{10}
fairly conclude that, if they have not learned
the very alphabet of science in eight hundred
years, they are not likely to set to work on it in
the nine hundredth.

---

It is true that in the last quarter of a century{15}
efforts have been made by the government of
Constantinople to innovate on the existing
condition of its people; and it has addressed itself
in the first instance to certain details of daily
Turkish life. We must take it for granted that it{20}
began with such changes as were easiest; if so, its
failure in these small matters suggests how little
ground there is for hope of success in other
advances more important and difficult. Every
one knows that in the details of dress, carriage,{25}
and general manners, the Turks are very
different from Europeans: so different, and so
consistently different, that the contrariety would
seem to arise from some difference of essential
principle. "This dissimilitude," says Mr.
Thornton, "which pervades the whole of their habits,
is so general, even in things of apparent
insignificance, as almost to indicate design rather than
accident...."{5}

To learn from others, you must entertain a
respect for them; no one listens to those whom
he contemns. Christian nations make progress
in secular matters, because they are aware they
have many things to learn, and do not mind from{10}
whom they learn them, so that he be able to teach.
It is true that Christianity, as well as
Mahometanism, which imitated it, has its visible polity,
and its universal rule, and its especial
prerogatives and powers and lessons, for its disciples.{15}
But, with a Divine wisdom, and contrary to its
human copyist, it has carefully guarded (if I
may use the expression) against extending its
revelations to any point which would blunt the
keenness of human research or the activity of{20}
human toil. It has taken those matters for its
field in which the human mind, left to itself,
could not profitably exercise itself, or progress,
if it would; it has confined its revelations to the
province of theology, only indirectly touching{25}
on other departments of knowledge, so far as
theological truth accidentally affects them; and
it has shown an equally remarkable care in
preventing the introduction of the spirit of caste
or race into its constitution or administration.{30}
Pure nationalism it abhors; its authoritative
documents pointedly ignore the distinction of
Jew and Gentile, and warn us that the first often
becomes the last; while its subsequent history
has illustrated this great principle, by its awful,
and absolute, and inscrutable, and irreversible{5}
passage from country to country, as its territory
and its home. Such, then, it has been in the
Divine counsels, and such, too, as realized in fact;
but man has ways of his own, and, even before
its introduction into the world, the inspired{10}
announcements, which preceded it, were distorted
by the people to whom they were given, to
minister to views of a very different kind. The
secularized Jews, relying on the supernatural
favors locally and temporally bestowed on{15}
themselves, fell into the error of supposing that a
conquest of the earth was reserved for some mighty
warrior of their own race, and that, in
compensation of the reverses which befell them, they
were to become an imperial nation.{20}

What a contrast is presented to us by these
different ideas of a universal empire! The
distinctions of race are indelible; a Jew cannot
become a Greek, or a Greek a Jew; birth is an
event of past time; according to the Judaizers,{25}
their nation, as a nation, was ever to be
dominant; and all other nations, as such, were
inferior and subject. What was the necessary
consequence? There is nothing men more pride
themselves on than birth, for this very reason,{30}
that it is irrevocable; it can neither be given to
those who have it not, nor taken away from
those who have. The Almighty can do anything
which admits of doing; He can compensate every
evil; but a Greek poet says that there is one
thing impossible to Him—to undo what is{5}
done. Without throwing the thought into a
shape which borders on the profane, we may see
in it the reason why the idea of national power
was so dear and so dangerous to the Jew. It was
his consciousness of inalienable superiority that{10}
led him to regard Roman and Greek, Syrian and
Egyptian, with ineffable arrogance and scorn.
Christians, too, are accustomed to think of those
who are not Christians as their inferiors; but the
conviction which possesses them, that they have{15}
what others have not, is obviously not open to
the temptation which nationalism presents.
According to their own faith, there is no insuperable
gulf between themselves and the rest of mankind;
there is not a being in the whole world but is{20}
invited by their religion to occupy the same
position as themselves, and, did he come, would
stand on their very level, as if he had ever been
there. Such accessions to their body they
continually receive, and they are bound under{25}
obligation of duty to promote them. They never
can pronounce of any one, now external to them,
that he will not some day be among them; they
never can pronounce of themselves that, though
they are now within, they may not some day{30}
be found outside, the Divine polity. Such are
the sentiments inculcated by Christianity, even
in the contemplation of the very superiority
which it imparts; even there it is a principle, not
of repulsion between man and man, but of good
fellowship; but as to subjects of secular{5}
knowledge, since here it does not arrogate any
superiority at all, it has in fact no tendency whatever
to center its disciple's contemplation on himself,
or to alienate him from his kind. He readily
acknowledges and defers to the superiority in{10}
art or science of those, if so be, who are
unhappily enemies to Christianity. He admits the
principle of progress on all matters of knowledge
and conduct on which the Creator has not decided
the truth already by revealing it; and he is at{15}
all times ready to learn, in those merely secular
matters, from those who can teach him best.
Thus it is that Christianity, even negatively, and
without contemplating its positive influences, is
the religion of civilization.{20}

---

If I were asked to describe as briefly and
popularly as I could, what a University was, I
should draw my answer from its ancient
designation of a Studium Generale, or "School of
Universal Learning." This description implies{5}
the assemblage of strangers from all parts in one
spot—from all parts; else, how will you find
professors and students for every department of
knowledge? and in one spot; else, how can there
be any school at all? Accordingly, in its simple{10}
and rudimental form, it is a school of knowledge
of every kind, consisting of teachers and learners
from every quarter. Many things are requisite
to complete and satisfy the idea embodied in this
description; but such as this a University seems{15}
to be in its essence, a place for the
communication and circulation of thought, by means of
personal intercourse, through a wide extent of
country.

Mutual education, in a large sense of the word,{20}
is one of the great and incessant occupations of
human society, carried on partly with set
purpose, and partly not. One generation forms
another; and the existing generation is ever
acting and reacting upon itself in the persons of its
individual members. Now, in this process, books,
I need scarcely say, that is, the litera scripta,
are one special instrument. It is true; and{5}
emphatically so in this age. Considering the
prodigious powers of the press, and how they are
developed at this time in the never intermitting
issue of periodicals, tracts, pamphlets, works in
series, and light literature, we must allow there{10}
never was a time which promised fairer for
dispensing with every other means of information
and instruction. What can we want more, you
will say, for the intellectual education of the
whole man, and for every man, than so exuberant{15}
and diversified and persistent a promulgation
of all kinds of knowledge? Why, you will ask,
need we go up to knowledge, when knowledge
comes down to us? The Sibyl wrote her
prophecies upon the leaves of the forest, and wasted{20}
them; but here such careless profusion might be
prudently indulged, for it can be afforded
without loss, in consequence of the almost fabulous
fecundity of the instrument which these latter
ages have invented. We have sermons in stones,{25}
and books in the running brooks; works larger
and more comprehensive than those which have
gained for ancients an immortality, issue forth
every morning, and are projected onwards to
the ends of the earth at the rate of hundreds of{30}
miles a day. Our seats are strewed, our pavements
are powdered, with swarms of little tracts;
and the very bricks of our city walls preach
wisdom, by informing us by their placards where we
can at once cheaply purchase it.

I allow all this, and much more; such{5}
certainly is our popular education, and its effects are
remarkable. Nevertheless, after all, even in this
age, whenever men are really serious about
getting what, in the language of trade, is called "a
good article," when they aim at something{10}
precise, something refined, something really
luminous, something really large, something choice,
they go to another market; they avail themselves,
in some shape or other, of the rival method, the
ancient method, of oral instruction, of present{15}
communication between man and man, of teachers
instead of learning, of the personal influence of a
master, and the humble initiation of a disciple,
and, in consequence, of great centers of
pilgrimage and throng, which such a method of {20}
education necessarily involves.

If the actions of men may be taken as any test
of their convictions, then we have reason for
saying this, viz.: that the province and the
inestimable benefit of the litera scripta is that of{25}
being a record of truth, and an authority of appeal,
and an instrument of teaching in the hands of a
teacher; but that, if we wish to become exact and
fully furnished in any branch of knowledge which
is diversified and complicated, we must consult {30}
the living man and listen to his living voice....
No book can convey the special spirit and
delicate peculiarities of its subject with that
rapidity and certainty which attend on the sympathy
of mind with mind, through the eyes, the look,
the accent, and the manner, in casual expressions{5}
thrown off at the moment, and the unstudied
turns of familiar conversation. But I am already
dwelling too long on what is but an incidental
portion of my main subject. Whatever be the
cause, the fact is undeniable. The general{10}
principles of any study you may learn by books at
home; but the detail, the color, the tone, the
air, the life which makes it live in us, you must
catch all these from those in whom it lives
already. You must imitate the student in French{15}
or German, who is not content with his
grammar, but goes to Paris or Dresden: you must
take example from the young artist, who aspires
to visit the great Masters in Florence and in
Rome. Till we have discovered some{20}
intellectual daguerreotype, which takes off the course of
thought, and the form, lineaments, and features
of truth, as completely and minutely, as the
optical instrument reproduces the sensible
object, we must come to the teachers of wisdom{25}
to learn wisdom, we must repair to the fountain,
and drink there. Portions of it may go from
thence to the ends of the earth by means of
books; but the fullness is in one place alone. It
is in such assemblages and congregations of{30}
intellect that books themselves, the masterpieces
of human genius, are written, or at least
originated.

The principle on which I have been insisting
is so obvious, and instances in point are so ready,
that I should think it tiresome to proceed with{5}
the subject, except that one or two illustrations
may serve to explain my own language about it,
which may not have done justice to the doctrine
which it has been intended to enforce.

For instance, the polished manners and{10}
high-bred bearing which are so difficult of attainment,
and so strictly personal when attained,—which
are so much admired in society, from society
are acquired. All that goes to constitute a
gentleman,—the carriage, gait, address, gestures,{15}
voice; the ease, the self-possession, the courtesy,
the power of conversing, the talent of not
offending; the lofty principle, the delicacy of thought,
the happiness of expression, the taste and
propriety, the generosity and forbearance, the{20}
candor and consideration, the openness of
hand—these qualities, some of them come by nature,
some of them may be found in any rank, some of
them are a direct precept of Christianity; but
the full assemblage of them, bound up in the{25}
unity of an individual character, do we expect
they can be learned from books? are they not
necessarily acquired, where they are to be found,
in high society? The very nature of the case
leads us to say so; you cannot fence without an{30}
antagonist, nor challenge all comers in disputation
before you have supported a thesis; and in
like manner, it stands to reason, you cannot learn
to converse till you have the world to converse
with; you cannot unlearn your natural
bashfulness, or awkwardness, or stiffness, or other{5}
besetting deformity, till you serve your time in
some school of manners. Well, and is it not so
in matter of fact? The metropolis, the court,
the great houses of the land, are the centers to
which at stated times the country comes up, as to{10}
shrines of refinement and good taste; and then
in due time the country goes back again home,
enriched with a portion of the social
accomplishments, which those very visits serve to call out
and heighten in the gracious dispensers of them.{15}
We are unable to conceive how the
"gentleman-like" can otherwise be maintained; and
maintained in this way it is....

Religious teaching itself affords us an
illustration of our subject to a certain point. It{20}
does not indeed seat itself merely in centers of
the world; this is impossible from the nature of
the case. It is intended for the many not the
few; its subject-matter is truth necessary for us,
not truth recondite and rare; but it concurs in{25}
the principle of a University so far as this, that
its great instrument, or rather organ, has ever
been that which nature prescribes in all education,
the personal presence of a teacher, or, in
theological language, Oral Tradition. It is the living{30}
voice, the breathing form, the expressive countenance,
which preaches, which catechises. Truth,
a subtle, invisible, manifold spirit, is poured into
the mind of the scholar by his eyes and ears,
through his affections, imagination, and reason;
it is poured into his mind and is sealed up there{5}
in perpetuity, by propounding and repeating it,
by questioning and requestioning, by correcting
and explaining, by progressing and then recurring
to first principles, by all those ways which are
implied in the word "catechising." In the first{10}
ages, it was a work of long time; months,
sometimes years, were devoted to the arduous task
of disabusing the mind of the incipient Christian
of its pagan errors, and of molding it upon the
Christian faith. The Scriptures indeed were at{15}
hand for the study of those who could avail
themselves of them; but St. Irenæus does not
hesitate to speak of whole races, who had been
converted to Christianity, without being able to
read them. To be unable to read or write was in{20}
those times no evidence of want of learning: the
hermits of the deserts were, in this sense of the
word, illiterate; yet the great St. Anthony,
though he knew not letters, was a match in
disputation for the learned philosophers who came{25}
to try him. Didymus again, the great
Alexandrian theologian, was blind. The ancient
discipline, called the Disciplina Arcani, involved the
same principle. The more sacred doctrines of
Revelation were not committed to books but{30}
passed on by successive tradition. The teaching
on the Blessed Trinity, and the Eucharist
appears to have been so handed down for some
hundred years; and when at length reduced to
writing, it has filled many folios, yet has not been
exhausted.{5}

But I have said more than enough in
illustration; end as I began—a University is a place
of concourse, whither students come from every
quarter for every kind of knowledge. You
cannot have the best of every kind everywhere; you{10}
must go to some great city or emporium for it.
There you have all the choicest productions
of nature and art all together, which you find
each in its own separate place elsewhere. All
the riches of the land, and of the earth, are{15}
carried up thither; there are the best markets, and
there the best workmen. It is the center of
trade, the supreme court of fashion, the umpire
of rival talents, and the standard of things rare
and precious. It is the place for seeing galleries{20}
of first-rate pictures, and for hearing wonderful
voices and performers of transcendent skill. It
is the place for great preachers, great orators,
great nobles, great statesmen. In the nature of
things, greatness and unity go together;{25}
excellence implies a center. And such, for the third
or fourth time, is a University; I hope I do not
weary out the reader by repeating it. It is the
place to which a thousand schools make
contributions; in which the intellect may safely{30}
range and speculate, sure to find its equal in
some antagonist activity, and its judge in the
tribunal of truth. It is a place where inquiry
is pushed forward, and discoveries verified and
perfected, and rashness rendered innocuous, and
error exposed, by the collision of mind with mind,{5}
and knowledge with knowledge. It is the place
where the professor becomes eloquent, and is a
missionary and a preacher, displaying his science
in its most complete and most winning form,
pouring it forth with the zeal of enthusiasm, and{10}
lighting up his own love of it in the breasts of
his hearers. It is the place where the catechist
makes good his ground as he goes, treading in the
truth day by day into the ready memory, and
wedging and tightening it into the expanding{15}
reason. It is a place which wins the admiration
of the young by its celebrity, kindles the
affections of the middle-aged by its beauty, and rivets
the fidelity of the old by its associations. It is a
seat of wisdom, a light of the world, a minister of{20}
the faith, an Alma Mater of the rising generation.
It is this and a great deal more, and demands a
somewhat better head and hand than mine to
describe it well.

It has been my desire, were I able, to bring{25}
before the reader what Athens may have been,
viewed as what we have since called a University;
and to do this, not with any purpose of writing
a panegyric on a heathen city, or of denying
its many deformities, or of concealing what was
morally base in what was intellectually great, but
just the contrary, of representing as they really{5}
were; so far, that is, as to enable him to see what
a University is, in the very constitution of society
and in its own idea, what is its nature and object,
and what its needs of aid and support external to
itself to complete that nature and to secure that{10}
object.

So now let us fancy our Scythian, or Armenian,
or African, or Italian, or Gallic student, after
tossing on the Saronic waves, which would be his
more ordinary course to Athens, at last casting{15}
anchor at Piræus. He is of any condition or rank
of life you please, and may be made to order,
from a prince to a peasant. Perhaps he is some
Cleanthes, who has been a boxer in the public
games. How did it ever cross his brain to betake{20}
himself to Athens in search of wisdom? or, if he
came thither by accident, how did the love of it
ever touch his heart? But so it was, to Athens he
came with three drachms in his girdle, and he got
his livelihood by drawing water, carrying loads,{25}
and the like servile occupations. He attached
himself, of all philosophers, to Zeno the
Stoic,—to Zeno, the most high-minded, the most haughty
of speculators; and out of his daily earnings the
poor scholar brought his master the daily sum of{30}
an obolus, in payment for attending his lectures.
Such progress did he make, that on Zeno's death
he actually was his successor in his school; and,
if my memory does not play me false, he is the
author of a hymn to the Supreme Being, which is
one of the noblest effusions of the kind in classical{5}
poetry. Yet, even when he was the head of a
school, he continued in his illiberal toil as if he
had been a monk; and, it is said, that once, when
the wind took his pallium, and blew it aside, he
was discovered to have no other garment at{10}
all—something like the German student who came up
to Heidelberg with nothing upon him but a great
coat and a pair of pistols.

Or it is another disciple of the Porch—Stoic
by nature, earlier than by profession—who is{15}
entering the city; but in what different fashion
he comes! It is no other than Marcus, Emperor
of Rome and philosopher. Professors long since
were summoned from Athens for his service, when
he was a youth, and now he comes, after his {20}
victories in the battlefield, to make his
acknowledgments at the end of life, to the city of wisdom, and
to submit himself to an initiation into the
Eleusinian mysteries.

Or it is a young man of great promise as an{25}
orator, were it not for his weakness of chest, which
renders it necessary that he should acquire the art
of speaking without over-exertion, and should
adopt a delivery sufficient for the display of his
rhetorical talents on the one hand, yet merciful{30}
to his physical resources on the other. He is
called Cicero; he will stop but a short time, and
will pass over to Asia Minor and its cities, before
he returns to continue a career which will render
his name immortal; and he will like his short
sojourn at Athens so well, that he will take good{5}
care to send his son thither at an earlier age than
he visited it himself.

But see where comes from Alexandria (for we
need not be very solicitous about anachronisms),
a young man from twenty to twenty-two, who{10}
has narrowly escaped drowning on his voyage,
and is to remain at Athens as many as eight or
ten years, yet in the course of that time will not
learn a line of Latin, thinking it enough to
become accomplished in Greek composition, and in{15}
that he will succeed. He is a grave person, and
difficult to make out; some say he is a Christian,
something or other in the Christian line his father
is for certain. His name is Gregory, he is by
country a Cappadocian, and will in time become{20}
preëminently a theologian, and one of the
principal Doctors of the Greek Church.

Or it is one Horace, a youth of low stature and
black hair, whose father has given him an
education at Rome above his rank in life, and now is{25}
sending him to finish it at Athens; he is said to
have a turn for poetry: a hero he is not, and it
were well if he knew it; but he is caught by the
enthusiasm of the hour, and goes off campaigning
with Brutus and Cassius, and will leave his shield{30}
behind him on the field of Philippi.

Or it is a mere boy of fifteen: his name
Eunapius; though the voyage was not long, sea
sickness, or confinement, or bad living on board the
vessel, threw him into a fever, and, when the
passengers landed in the evening at Piræus, he{5}
could not stand. His countrymen who
accompanied him, took him up among them and carried
him to the house of the great teacher of the day,
Proæresius, who was a friend of the captain's,
and whose fame it was which drew the{10}
enthusiastic youth to Athens. His companions
understand the sort of place they are in, and, with the
license of academic students, they break into the
philosopher's house, though he appears to have
retired for the night, and proceed to make {15}
themselves free of it, with an absence of ceremony,
which is only not impudence, because Proæresius
takes it so easily. Strange introduction for our
stranger to a seat of learning, but not out of
keeping with Athens; for what could you expect of a{20}
place where there was a mob of youths and not
even the pretense of control; where the poorer
lived any how, and got on as they could, and the
teachers themselves had no protection from the
humors and caprices of the students who filled{25}
their lecture halls? However, as to this
Eunapius, Proæresius took a fancy to the boy, and told
him curious stories about Athenian life. He
himself had come up to the University with one
Hephæstion, and they were even worse off than{30}
Cleanthes the Stoic; for they had only one cloak
between them, and nothing whatever besides,
except some old bedding; so when Proæresius
went abroad, Hephæstion lay in bed, and
practiced himself in oratory; and then Hephæstion
put on the cloak, and Proæresius crept under the{5}
coverlet. At another time there was so fierce
a feud between what would be called "town and
gown" in an English University, that the
Professors did not dare lecture in public, for fear of
ill treatment.{10}

But a freshman like Eunapius soon got
experience for himself of the ways and manners
prevalent in Athens. Such a one as he had hardly
entered the city, when he was caught hold of by
a party of the academic youth, who proceeded to{15}
practice on his awkwardness and his ignorance.
At first sight one wonders at their childishness;
but the like conduct obtained in the mediæval
Universities; and not many months have passed
away since the journals have told us of sober{20}
Englishmen, given to matter-of-fact calculations,
and to the anxieties of money making, pelting
each other with snowballs on their own sacred
territory, and defying the magistracy, when they
would interfere with their privileges of{25}
becoming boys. So I suppose we must attribute it to
something or other in human nature. Meanwhile,
there stands the newcomer, surrounded by a circle
of his new associates, who forthwith proceed to
frighten, and to banter, and to make a fool of him,{30}
to the extent of their wit. Some address him with
mock politeness, others with fierceness; and so
they conduct him in solemn procession across the
Agora to the Baths; and as they approach, they
dance about him like madmen. But this was to
be the end of his trial, for the Bath was a sort of{5}
initiation; he thereupon received the pallium, or
University gown, and was suffered by his
tormentors to depart in peace. One alone is
recorded as having been exempted from this
persecution; it was a youth graver and loftier than{10}
even St. Gregory himself: but it was not from his
force of character, but at the instance of Gregory,
that he escaped. Gregory was his bosom friend,
and was ready in Athens to shelter him when
he came. It was another Saint and Doctor; the{15}
great Basil, then, (it would appear,) as Gregory,
but a catechumen of the Church.

But to return to our freshman. His troubles
are not at an end, though he has got his gown
upon him. Where is he to lodge? whom is he{20}
to attend? He finds himself seized, before he
well knows where he is, by another party of men
or three or four parties at once, like foreign
porters at a landing, who seize on the baggage of the
perplexed stranger, and thrust half a dozen cards{25}
into his unwilling hands. Our youth is plied by
the hangers-on of professor this, or sophist that,
each of whom wishes the fame or the profit of
having a houseful. We will say that he escapes
from their hands,—but then he will have to{30}
choose for himself where he will put up; and, to
tell the truth, with all the praise I have already
given, and the praise I shall have to give, to
the city of mind, nevertheless, between ourselves,
the brick and wood which formed it, the actual
tenements, where flesh and blood had to lodge{5}
(always excepting the mansions of great men of
the place), do not seem to have been much better
than those of Greek or Turkish towns, which are
at this moment a topic of interest and ridicule
in the public prints. A lively picture has lately{10}
been set before us of Gallipoli. Take, says the
writer,[41] a multitude of the dilapidated outhouses
found in farm-yards in England, of the rickety
old wooden tenements, the cracked, shutterless
structures of planks and tiles, the sheds and stalls,{15}
which our bye lanes, or fish-markets, or
river-sides can supply; tumble them down on the
declivity of a bare bald hill; let the spaces
between house and house, thus accidentally
determined, be understood to form streets, winding of{20}
course for no reason, and with no meaning, up and
down the town; the roadway always narrow, the
breadth never uniform, the separate houses
bulging or retiring below, as circumstances may have
determined, and leaning forward till they meet{25}
overhead—and you have a good idea of
Gallipoli. I question whether this picture would
not nearly correspond to the special seat of the
Muses in ancient times. Learned writers assure
us distinctly that the houses of Athens were for{30}
the most part small and mean; that the streets
were crooked and narrow; that the upper stories
projected over the roadway; and that staircases,
balustrades, and doors that opened outwards
obstructed it—a remarkable coincidence of{5}
description. I do not doubt at all, though
history is silent, that that roadway was jolting to
carriages, and all but impassable; and that it
was traversed by drains, as freely as any Turkish
town now. Athens seems in these respects to{10}
have been below the average cities of its time.
"A stranger," says an ancient, "might doubt, on
the sudden view, if really he saw Athens."

I grant all this, and much more, if you will;
but, recollect, Athens was the home of the {15}
intellectual and beautiful; not of low mechanical
contrivances and material organization. Why
stop within your lodgings counting the rents in
your wall or the holes in your tiling, when nature
and art call you away? You must put up with{20}
such a chamber, and a table, and a stool, and a
sleeping board, anywhere else in the three
continents; one place does not differ from another
indoors; your magalia in Africa, or your grottoes
in Syria are not perfection. I suppose you did {25}
not come to Athens to swarm up a ladder, or to
grope about a closet: you came to see and to
hear, what hear and see you could not elsewhere.
What food for the intellect is it possible to
procure indoors, that you stay there looking about{30}
you? do you think to read there? where are your
books? do you expect to purchase books at
Athens—you are much out in your calculations.
True it is, we at this day, who live in the
nineteenth century, have the books of Greece as a
perpetual memorial; and copies there have been,{5}
since the time that they were written; but you
need not go to Athens to procure them, nor would
you find them in Athens. Strange to say, strange
to the nineteenth century, that in the age of Plato
and Thucydides, there was not, it is said, a{10}
bookshop in the whole place: nor was the book trade
in existence till the very time of Augustus.
Libraries, I suspect, were the bright invention of
Attalus or the Ptolemies;[42] I doubt whether
Athens had a library till the reign of Hadrian.{15}
It was what the student gazed on, what he heard,
what he caught by the magic of sympathy, not
what he read, which was the education furnished
by Athens.

He leaves his narrow lodging early in the{20}
morning; and not till night, if even then, will he
return. It is but a crib or kennel, in which
he sleeps when the weather is inclement or the
ground damp; in no respect a home. And he
goes out of doors, not to read the day's{25}
newspaper, or to buy the gay shilling volume, but to
imbibe the invisible atmosphere of genius, and
to learn by heart the oral traditions of taste.
Out he goes; and, leaving the tumble-down
town behind him, he mounts the Acropolis to
the right, or he turns to the Areopagus on the left.
He goes to the Parthenon to study the sculptures {5}
of Phidias; to the temple of the Dioscuri to see
the paintings of Polygnotus. We indeed take
our Sophocles or Æschylus out of our coat pocket;
but, if our sojourner at Athens would understand
how a tragic poet can write, he must betake{10}
himself to the theater on the south, and see and
hear the drama literally in action. Or let him go
westward to the Agora, and there he will hear
Lysias or Andocides pleading, or Demosthenes
haranguing. He goes farther west still, along the{15}
shade of those noble planes, which Cimon has
planted there; and he looks around him at the
statues and porticoes and vestibules, each by
itself a work of genius and skill, enough to be the
making of another city. He passes through the{20}
city gate, and then he is at the famous Ceramicus;
here are the tombs of the mighty dead; and here,
we will suppose, is Pericles himself, the most
elevated, the most thrilling of orators, converting a
funeral oration over the slain into a philosophical{25}
panegyric of the living.

Onwards he proceeds still; and now he has
come to that still more celebrated Academe,
which has bestowed its own name on Universities
down to this day; and there he sees a sight which{30}
will be graven on his memory till he dies. Many
are the beauties of the place, the groves, and the
statues, and the temple, and the stream of the
Cephissus flowing by; many are the lessons
which will be taught him day after day by teacher
or by companion; but his eye is just now arrested{5}
by one object; it is the very presence of Plato.
He does not hear a word that he says; he does
not care to hear; he asks neither for discourse
nor disputation; what he sees is a whole,
complete in itself, not to be increased by addition, and{10}
greater than anything else. It will be a point in
the history of his life; a stay for his memory to
rest on, a burning thought in his heart, a bond of
union with men of like mind, ever afterwards.
Such is the spell which the living man exerts on{15}
his fellows, for good or for evil. How nature
impels us to lean upon others, making virtue, or
genius, or name, the qualification for our doing
so! A Spaniard is said to have traveled to Italy,
simply to see Livy; he had his fill of gazing, and{20}
then went back again home. Had our young
stranger got nothing by his voyage but the sight
of the breathing and moving Plato, had he
entered no lecture room to hear, no gymnasium to
converse, he had got some measure of education,{25}
and something to tell of to his grandchildren.

But Plato is not the only sage, nor the sight of
him the only lesson to be learned in this
wonderful suburb. It is the region and the realm
of philosophy. Colleges were the inventions of{30}
many centuries later; and they imply a sort of
cloistered life, or at least a life of rule, scarcely
natural to an Athenian. It was the boast of the
philosophic statesman of Athens, that his
countrymen achieved by the mere force of nature and
the love of the noble and the great, what other{5}
people aimed at by laborious discipline; and all
who came among them were submitted to the
same method of education. We have traced our
student on his wanderings from the Acropolis to
the Sacred Way; and now he is in the region of{10}
the schools. No awful arch, no window of
many-colored lights marks the seats of learning there
or elsewhere; philosophy lives out of doors. No
close atmosphere oppresses the brain or inflames
the eyelid; no long session stiffens the limbs.{15}
Epicurus is reclining in his garden; Zeno looks
like a divinity in his porch; the restless Aristotle,
on the other side of the city, as if in antagonism
to Plato, is walking his pupils off their legs in his
Lyceum by the Ilyssus. Our student has{20}
determined on entering himself as a disciple of
Theophrastus, a teacher of marvelous popularity, who
has brought together two thousand pupils from
all parts of the world. He himself is of Lesbos;
for masters, as well as students, come hither from{25}
all regions of the earth—as befits a University.
How could Athens have collected hearers in such
numbers, unless she had selected teachers of such
power? it was the range of territory, which the
notion of a University implies, which furnished{30}
both the quantity of the one and the quality of
the other. Anaxagoras was from Ionia, Carneades
from Africa, Zeno from Cyprus, Protagoras from
Thrace, and Gorgias from Sicily. Andromachus
was a Syrian, Proæresius an Armenian, Hilarius
a Bithynian, Philiscus a Thessalian, Hadrian a{5}
Syrian. Rome is celebrated for her liberality in
civil matters; Athens was as liberal in
intellectual. There was no narrow jealousy, directed
against a Professor, because he was not an
Athenian; genius and talent were the qualifications;{10}
and to bring them to Athens, was to do homage
to it as a University. There was a brotherhood
and a citizenship of mind.

Mind came first, and was the foundation of the
academical polity; but it soon brought along with{15}
it, and gathered round itself, the gifts of fortune
and the prizes of life. As time went on, wisdom
was not always sentenced to the bare cloak of
Cleanthes; but, beginning in rags, it ended in
fine linen. The Professors became honorable{20}
and rich; and the students ranged themselves
under their names, and were proud of calling
themselves their countrymen. The University
was divided into four great nations, as the
mediæval antiquarian would style them; and in the{25}
middle of the fourth century, Proæresius was the
leader or proctor of the Attic, Hephæstion of
the Oriental, Epiphanius of the Arabic, and
Diophantus of the Pontic. Thus the Professors
were both patrons of clients, and hosts and{30}
proxeni of strangers and visitors, as well as masters
of the schools: and the Cappadocian, Syrian,
or Sicilian youth who came to one or other of
them, would be encouraged to study by his
protection, and to aspire by his example.

Even Plato, when the schools of Athens were{5}
not a hundred years old, was in circumstances
to enjoy the otium cum dignitate. He had a villa
out at Heraclea; and he left his patrimony to
his school, in whose hands it remained, not only
safe, but fructifying, a marvelous phenomenon in{10}
tumultuous Greece, for the long space of eight
hundred years. Epicurus too had the property
of the Gardens where he lectured; and these too
became the property of his sect. But in Roman
times the chairs of grammar, rhetoric, politics,{15}
and the four philosophies were handsomely
endowed by the State; some of the Professors
were themselves statesmen or high functionaries,
and brought to their favorite study senatorial
rank or Asiatic opulence.{20}

Patrons such as these can compensate to the
freshman, in whom we have interested ourselves,
for the poorness of his lodging and the turbulence
of his companions. In everything there is a
better side and a worse; in every place a{25}
disreputable set and a respectable, and the one is
hardly known at all to the other. Men come
away from the same University at this day, with
contradictory impressions and contradictory
statements, according to the society they have found{30}
there; if you believe the one, nothing goes on
there as it should be: if you believe the other,
nothing goes on as it should not. Virtue,
however, and decency are at least in the minority
everywhere, and under some sort of a cloud or
disadvantage; and this being the case, it is so{5}
much gain whenever an Herodes Atticus is found,
to throw the influence of wealth and station on
the side even of a decorous philosophy. A
consular man, and the heir of an ample fortune, this
Herod was content to devote his life to a{10}
professorship, and his fortune to the patronage of
literature. He gave the sophist Polemo about
eight thousand pounds, as the sum is calculated,
for three declamations. He built at Athens a
stadium six hundred feet long, entirely of white{15}
marble, and capable of admitting the whole
population. His theater, erected to the memory of
his wife, was made of cedar wood curiously carved.
He had two villas, one at Marathon, the place of
his birth, about ten miles from Athens, the other{20}
at Cephissia, at the distance of six; and thither
he drew to him the èlite, and at times the whole
body of the students. Long arcades, groves of
trees, clear pools for the bath, delighted and
recruited the summer visitor. Never was so{25}
brilliant a lecture room as his evening
banqueting hall; highly connected students from Rome
mixed with the sharp-witted provincial of Greece
or Asia Minor; and the flippant sciolist, and the
nondescript visitor, half philosopher, half tramp,{30}
met with a reception, courteous always, but suitable
to his deserts. Herod was noted for his
repartees; and we have instances on record of
his setting down, according to the emergency,
both the one and the other.

A higher line, though a rarer one, was that{5}
allotted to the youthful Basil. He was one of
those men who seem by a sort of fascination to
draw others around them even without wishing
it. One might have deemed that his gravity and
his reserve would have kept them at a distance;{10}
but, almost in spite of himself, he was the center
of a knot of youths, who, pagans as most of them
were, used Athens honestly for the purpose for
which they professed to seek it; and, disappointed
and displeased with the place himself, he seems{15}
nevertheless to have been the means of their
profiting by its advantages. One of these was
Sophronius, who afterwards held a high office in
the State: Eusebius was another, at that time
the bosom friend of Sophronius, and afterwards{20}
a Bishop. Celsus too is named, who afterwards
was raised to the government of Cilicia by the
Emperor Julian. Julian himself, in the sequel of
unhappy memory, was then at Athens, and known
at least to St. Gregory. Another Julian is also{25}
mentioned, who was afterwards commissioner of
the land tax. Here we have a glimpse of the better
kind of society among the students of Athens; and
it is to the credit of the parties composing it,
that such young men as Gregory and Basil, men{30}
as intimately connected with Christianity, as they
were well known in the world, should hold so high
a place in their esteem and love. When the two
saints were departing, their companions came
around them with the hope of changing their
purpose. Basil persevered; but Gregory relented,{5}
and turned back to Athens for a season.

THE SCHOOLMEN

It is most interesting to observe how the
foundations of the present intellectual greatness
of Europe were laid, and most wonderful to think
that they were ever laid at all. Let us consider{10}
how wide and how high is the platform of our
knowledge at this day, and what openings in
every direction are in progress—openings of
such promise, that, unless some convulsion of
society takes place, even what we have attained,{15}
will in future times be nothing better than a poor
beginning; and then on the other hand, let us
recollect that, seven centuries ago, putting aside
revealed truths, Europe had little more than that
poor knowledge, partial and uncertain, and at{20}
best only practical, which is conveyed to us by the
senses. Even our first principles now are beyond
the most daring conjectures then; and what has
been said so touchingly of Christian ideas as
compared with pagan, is true in its way and degree{25}
of the progress of secular knowledge also in the
seven centuries I have named.

"What sages would have died to learn,
[Is] taught by cottage dames."

Nor is this the only point in which the
revelations of science may be compared to the
supernatural revelations of Christianity. Though{5}
sacred truth was delivered once for all, and
scientific discoveries are progressive, yet there is
a great resemblance in the respective histories of
Christianity and of Science. We are accustomed
to point to the rise and spread of Christianity as{10}
a miraculous fact, and rightly so, on account of
the weakness of its instruments, and the appalling
weight and multiplicity of the obstacles which
confronted it. To clear away those obstacles
was to move mountains; yet this was done by{15}
a few poor, obscure, unbefriended men, and
their poor, obscure, unbefriended followers. No
social movement can come up to this marvel,
which is singular and archetypical, certainly;
it is a Divine work, and we soon cease to admire{20}
it in order to adore. But there is more in it
than its own greatness to contemplate; it is so
great as to be prolific of greatness. Those whom
it has created, its children who have become such
by a supernatural power, have imitated, in their{25}
own acts, the dispensation which made them
what they were; and, though they have not
carried out works simply miraculous, yet they have
done exploits sufficient to bespeak their own
unearthly origin, and the new powers which had{30}
come into the world. The revival of letters by
the energy of Christian ecclesiastics and laymen,
when everything had to be done, reminds us of
the birth of Christianity itself, as far as a work of
man can resemble a work of God.

Two characteristics, as I have already had{5}
occasion to say, are generally found to attend the
history of Science: first, its instruments have
an innate force, and can dispense with foreign
assistance in their work; and secondly, these
instruments must exist and must begin to act,{10}
before subjects are found who are to profit by
their action. In plainer language, the teacher is
strong, not in the patronage of great men, but
in the intrinsic value and attraction of what he
has to communicate; and next, he must come{15}
forward and advertise himself, before he can gain
hearers. This I have expressed before, in saying
that a great school of learning lived in demand and
supply, and that the supply must be before the
demand. Now, what is this but the very history{20}
of the preaching of the Gospel? who but the
Apostles and Evangelists went out to the ends
of the earth without patron, or friend, or other
external advantage which could insure their
success? and again, who among the multitude they{25}
enlightened would have called for their aid unless
they had gone to that multitude first, and offered
to it blessings which up to that moment it had
not heard of? They had no commission, they
had no invitation, from man; their strength lay{30}
neither in their being sent, nor in their being sent
for; but in the circumstances that they had that
with them, a Divine message, which they knew
would at once, when it was uttered, thrill through
the hearts of those to whom they spoke, and
make for themselves friends in any place,{5}
strangers and outcasts as they were when they first
came. They appealed to the secret wants and
aspirations of human nature, to its laden
conscience, its weariness, its desolateness, and its
sense of the true and the Divine; nor did they{10}
long wait for listeners and disciples, when they
announced the remedy of evils which were so real.

Something like this were the first stages of the
process by which in mediæval Christendom the
structure of our present intellectual elevation{15}
was carried forward. From Rome as from a
center, as the Apostles from Jerusalem, went
forth the missionaries of knowledge, passing to
and fro all over Europe; and, as Metropolitan
sees were the record of the presence of Apostles,{20}
so did Paris, Pavia, and Bologna, and Padua,
and Ferrara, Pisa and Naples, Vienna, Louvain,
and Oxford, rise into Universities at the voice of
the theologian or the philosopher. Moreover, as
the Apostles went through labors untold, by{25}
sea and land, in their charity to souls; so, if
robbers, shipwrecks, bad lodging, and scanty fare
are trials of zeal, such trials were encountered
without hesitation by the martyrs and confessors
of science. And as Evangelists had grounded{30}
their teaching upon the longing for happiness
natural to man, so did these securely rest their
cause on the natural thirst for knowledge: and
again as the preachers of Gospel peace had often
to bewail the ruin which persecution or
dissension had brought upon their nourishing colonies,{5}
so also did the professors of science often find or
flee the ravages of sword or pestilence in those
places, which they themselves perhaps in former
times had made the seats of religious, honorable,
and useful learning. And lastly, as kings and{10}
nobles have fortified and advanced the interests
of the Christian faith without being necessary
to it, so in like manner we may enumerate with
honor Charlemagne, Alfred, Henry the First of
England, Joan of Navarre, and many others, as{15}
patrons of the schools of learning, without being
obliged to allow that those schools could not have
progressed without such countenance.

These are some of the points of resemblance
between the propagation of Christian truth and{20}
the revival of letters; and, to return to the two
points, to which I have particularly drawn
attention, the University Professor's confidence in his
own powers, and his taking the initiative in the
exercise of them, I find both these distinctly{25}
recognized by Mr. Hallam in his history of Literature.
As to the latter point, he says, "The schools of
Charlemagne were designed to lay the basis of a
learned education, for which there was at that time
no sufficient desire"—that is, the supply was{30}
prior to the demand. As to the former: "In
the twelfth century," he says, "the impetuosity
with which men rushed to that source of what
they deemed wisdom, the great University of
Paris, did not depend upon academical privileges
or eleemosynary stipends, though these were{5}
undoubtedly very effectual in keeping it up. The
University created patrons, and was not created
by them"—that is, demand and supply were all
in all....

Bec, a poor monastery of Normandy, set up in {10}
the eleventh century by an illiterate soldier, who
sought the cloister, soon attracted scholars to its
dreary clime from Italy, and transmitted them
to England. Lanfranc, afterwards Archbishop of
Canterbury, was one of these, and he found the{15}
simple monks so necessitous, that he opened a
school of logic to all comers, in order, says William
of Malmesbury, "that he might support his needy
monastery by the pay of the students." The
same author adds, that "his reputation went into{20}
the most remote parts of the Latin world, and
Bec became a great and famous Academy of
letters." Here is an instance of a
commencement without support, without scholars, in order
to attract scholars, and in them to find support.{25}
William of Jumièges, too, bears witness to the
effect, powerful, sudden, wide spreading, and
various, of Lanfranc's advertisement of himself.
The fame of Bec and Lanfranc, he says, quickly
penetrated through the whole world; and "clerks,{30}
the sons of dukes, the most esteemed masters of
the Latin schools, powerful laymen, high nobles,
flocked to him." What words can more strikingly
attest the enthusiastic character of the movement
which he began, than to say that it carried away
with it all classes; rich as well as poor, laymen as{5}
well as ecclesiastics, those who were in that day
in the habit of despising letters, as well as those
who might wish to live by them?...

ABELARD

We can have few more apposite illustrations
of at once the strength and weakness of what{10}
may be called the University principle, of what
it can do and what it cannot, of its power to
collect students, and its impotence to preserve and
edify them, than the history of the celebrated
Abelard. His name is closely associated with{15}
the commencement of the University of Paris;
and in his popularity and in his reverses, in the
criticisms of John of Salisbury on his method,
and the protest of St. Bernard against his
teaching, we read, as in a pattern specimen, what a{20}
University professes in its essence, and what it
needs for its "integrity." It is not to be supposed,
that I am prepared to show this here, as fully as
it might be shown; but it is a subject so
pertinent to the general object of these Essays, that it{25}
may be useful to devote even a few pages to it.

The oracles of Divine Truth, as time goes on,
do but repeat the one message from above which
they have ever uttered, since the tongues of fire
attested the coming of the Paraclete; still, as
time goes on, they utter it with greater force and{5}
precision, under diverse forms, with fuller
luminousness, and a richer ministration of thought
statement, and argument. They meet the
varying wants, and encounter the special resistance
of each successive age; and, though prescient of{10}
coming errors and their remedy long before, they
cautiously reserve their new enunciation of the
old Truth, till it is imperatively demanded. And,
as it happens in kings' cabinets, that surmises
arise, and rumors spread, of what is said in{15}
council, and is in course of preparation, and secrets
perhaps get wind, true in substance or in direction,
though distorted in detail; so too, before the
Church speaks, one or other of her forward
children speaks for her, and, while he does anticipate{20}
to a certain point what she is about to say or
enjoin, he states it incorrectly, makes it error
instead of truth, and risks his own faith in the
process. Indeed, this is actually one source, or
rather concomitant, of heresy, the presence of{25}
some misshapen, huge, and grotesque foreshadow
of true statements which are to come. Speaking
under correction, I would apply this remark to
the heresy of Tertullian or of Sabellius, which may
be considered a reaction from existing errors, and{30}
an attempt, presumptuous, and therefore unsuccessful,
to meet them with those divinely
appointed correctives which the Church alone can
apply, and which she will actually apply, when
the proper moment comes. The Gnostics boasted
of their intellectual proficiency before the time{5}
of St. Irenæus, St. Athanasius, and St.
Augustine; yet, when these doctors made their
appearance, I suppose they were examples of that
knowledge, true and deep, which the Gnostics
professed. Apollinaris anticipated the work of{10}
St. Cyril and the Ephesine Council, and became
a heresiarch in consequence; and, to come down
to the present times, we may conceive that
writers, who have impatiently fallen away from
the Church, because she would not adopt their{15}
views, would have found, had they but trusted
her, and waited, that she knew how to profit by
them, though she never could have need to
borrow her enunciations from them; for their
writings contained, so to speak, truth in the ore, truth{20}
which they themselves had not the gift to
disengage from its foreign concomitants, and safely
use, which she alone could use, which she would
use in her destined hour, and which became their
stone of stumbling simply because she did not{25}
use it faster. Now, applying this principle to
the subject before us, I observe, that, supposing
Abelard to be the first master of scholastic
philosophy, as many seem to hold, we shall have still
no difficulty in condemning the author, while we{30}
honor the work. To him is only the glory of
spoiling by his own self-will what would have
been done well and surely under the teaching
and guidance of Infallible Authority.

Nothing is more certain than that some ideas
are consistent with one another, and others{5}
inconsistent; and, again, that every truth must be
consistent with every other truth—hence, that
all truths of whatever kind form into one large
body of Truth, by virtue of the consistency
between one truth and another, which is a{10}
connecting link running through them all. The science
which discovers this connection is logic; and,
as it discovers the connection when the truths are
given, so, having one truth given and the
connecting principle, it is able to go on to ascertain{15}
the other. Though all this is obvious, it was
realized and acted on in the middle age with
a distinctness unknown before; all subjects of
knowledge were viewed as parts of one vast
system, each with its own place in it, and from{20}
knowing one, another was inferred. Not indeed
always rightly inferred, because the art might
be less perfect than the science, the instrument
than the theory and aim; but I am speaking of
the principle of the scholastic method, of which{25}
Saints and Doctors were the teachers—such
I conceive it to be, and Abelard was the ill-fated
logician who had a principal share in bringing it
into operation.

Others will consider the great St. Anselm and{30}
the school of Bec, as the proper source of Scholasticism;
I am not going to discuss the question;
anyhow, Abelard, and not St. Anselm, was the
Professor at the University of Paris, and it is
of Universities that I am speaking; anyhow,
Abelard illustrates the strength and the{5}
weakness of the principle of advertising and
communicating knowledge for its own sake, which I have
called the University principle, whether he is,
or is not, the first of scholastic philosophers or
scholastic theologians. And, though I could not{10}
speak of him at all without mentioning the
subject of his teaching, yet, after all, it is of him and
of his teaching itself, that I am going to speak,
whatever that might be which he actually taught.

Since Charlemagne's time the schools of Paris{15}
had continued, with various fortunes, faithful, as
far as the age admitted, to the old learning, as
other schools elsewhere, when, in the eleventh
century, the famous school of Bec began to
develop the powers of logic in forming a new{20}
philosophy. As the inductive method rose in
Bacon, so did the logical in the mediæval
schoolmen; and Aristotle, the most comprehensive
intellect of Antiquity, as the one who had
conceived the sublime idea of mapping the whole{25}
field of knowledge, and subjecting all things to
one profound analysis, became the presiding
master in their lecture halls. It was at the end
of the eleventh century that William of
Champeaux founded the celebrated Abbey of St.{30}
Victor under the shadow of St, Geneviève, and by
the dialectic methods which he introduced into his
teaching, has a claim to have commenced the
work of forming the University out of the Schools
of Paris. For one at least, out of the two
characteristics of a University, he prepared the way;{5}
for, though the schools were not public till after
his day, so as to admit laymen as well as clerks,
and foreigners as well as natives of the place, yet
the logical principle of constructing all sciences
into one system, implied of course a recognition{10}
of all the sciences that are comprehended in it.
Of this William of Champeaux, or de Campellis,
Abelard was the pupil; he had studied the
dialectic art elsewhere, before he offered himself for
his instructions; and, in the course of two years,{15}
when as yet he had only reached the age of
twenty-two, he made such progress, as to be
capable of quarreling with his master, and
setting up a school for himself.

This school of Abelard was first situated in{20}
the royal castle of Melun; then at Corbeil, which
was nearer to Paris, and where he attracted to
himself a considerable number of hearers. His
labors had an injurious effect upon his health;
and at length he withdrew for two years to his{25}
native Britanny. Whether other causes coöperated
in this withdrawal, I think, is not known;
but, at the end of the two years, we find him
returning to Paris, and renewing his attendance
on the lectures of William, who was by this time{30}
a monk. Rhetoric was the subject of the lectures
he now heard; and after a while the pupil
repeated with greater force and success his
former treatment of his teacher. He held a
public disputation with him, got the victory,
and reduced him to silence. The school of{5}
William was deserted, and its master himself became
an instance of the vicissitudes incident to that
gladiatorial wisdom (as I may style it) which was
then eclipsing the old Benedictine method of the
Seven Arts. After a time, Abelard found his{10}
reputation sufficient to warrant him in setting
up a school himself on Mount St. Geneviève;
whence he waged incessant war against the
unwearied logician, who by this time had rallied
his forces to repel the young and ungrateful{15}
adventurer who had raised his hand against him.

Great things are done by devotion to one idea;
there is one class of geniuses, who would never
be what they are, could they grasp a second.
The calm philosophical mind, which{20}
contemplates parts without denying the whole, and the
whole without confusing the parts, is notoriously
indisposed to action; whereas single and simple
views arrest the mind, and hurry it on to carry
them out. Thus, men of one idea and nothing{25}
more, whatever their merit, must be to a certain
extent narrow-minded; and it is not wonderful
that Abelard's devotion to the new philosophy
made him undervalue the Seven Arts out of which
it had grown. He felt it impossible so to honor{30}
what was now to be added, as not to dishonor
what existed before. He would not suffer the
Arts to have their own use, since he had found a
new instrument for a new purpose. So he
opposed the reading of the Classics. The monks
had opposed them before him; but this is little{5}
to our present purpose; it was the duty of men,
who abjured the gifts of this world on the
principle of mortification, to deny themselves
literature just as they would deny themselves
particular friendships or figured music. The doctrine{10}
which Abelard introduced and represents was
founded on a different basis. He did not
recognize in the poets of antiquity any other merit
than that of furnishing an assemblage of elegant
phrases and figures; and accordingly he asks{15}
why they should not be banished from the city
of God, since Plato banished them from his own
commonwealth. The animus of this language is
clear, when we turn to the pages of John of
Salisbury and Peter of Blois, who were champions of{20}
the ancient learning. We find them complaining
that the careful "getting up," as we now call it,
"of books," was growing out of fashion. Youths
once studied critically the text of poets or
philosophers; they got them by heart; they analyzed{25}
their arguments; they noted down their fallacies;
they were closely examined in the matters which
had been brought before them in lecture; they
composed. But now, another teaching was
coming in; students were promised truth in a{30}
nutshell; they intended to get possession of the sum-total
of philosophy in less than two or three
years; and facts were apprehended, not in their
substance and details, by means of living and,
as it were, personal documents, but in dead
abstracts and tables. Such were the{5}
reclamations to which the new Logic gave occasion.

These, however, are lesser matters; we have
a graver quarrel with Abelard than that of his
undervaluing the Classics. As I have said, my
main object here is not what he taught, but why{10}
and how, and how he lived. Now it is certain
his activity was stimulated by nothing very high,
but something very earthly and sordid. I grant
there is nothing morally wrong in the mere desire
to rise in the world, though Ambition and it are{15}
twin sisters. I should not blame Abelard merely
for wishing to distinguish himself at the
University; but when he makes the ecclesiastical
state the instrument of his ambition, mixes up
spiritual matters with temporal, and aims at a{20}
bishopric through the medium of his logic, he
joins together things incompatible, and cannot
complain of being censured. It is he himself,
who tells us, unless my memory plays me false,
that the circumstance of William of Champeaux{25}
being promoted to the see of Chalons, was an
incentive to him to pursue the same path with an
eye to the same reward. Accordingly, we next
hear of his attending the theological lectures of
a certain master of William's, named Anselm, an{30}
old man, whose school was situated at Laon. This
person had a great reputation in his day; John
of Salisbury, speaking of him in the next
generation, calls him the doctor of doctors; he had been
attended by students from Italy and Germany;
but the age had advanced since he was in his{5}
prime, and Abelard was disappointed in a teacher,
who had been good enough for William. He left
Anselm, and began to lecture on the prophet
Ezekiel on his own resources.

Now came the time of his great popularity,{10}
which was more than his head could bear; which
dizzied him, took him off his legs, and whirled
him to his destruction. I spoke in my foregoing
Chapter of those three qualities of true wisdom,
which a University, absolutely and nakedly{15}
considered, apart from the safeguards which
constitute its integrity, is sure to compromise.
Wisdom, says the inspired writer, is desursum, is
pudica, is pacifica, "from above, chaste,
peaceable." We have already seen enough of Abelard's{20}
career to understand that his wisdom, instead of
being "pacifica," was ambitious and contentious.
An Apostle speaks of the tongue both as a blessing
and as a curse. It may be the beginning of a fire,
he says, a "Universitas iniquitatis"; and alas!{25}
such did it become in the mouth of the gifted
Abelard. His eloquence was wonderful; he
dazzled his contemporaries, says Fulco, "by the
brilliancy of his genius, the sweetness of his
eloquence, the ready flow of his language, and the{30}
subtlety of his knowledge." People came to
him from all quarters—from Rome, in spite of
mountains and robbers; from England, in spite
of the sea; from Flanders and Germany; from
Normandy, and the remote districts of France;
from Angers and Poitiers; from Navarre by the{5}
Pyrenees, and from Spain, besides the students
of Paris itself; and among those, who sought his
instructions now or afterwards, were the great
luminaries of the schools in the next generation.
Such were Peter of Poitiers, Peter Lombard, John{10}
of Salisbury, Arnold of Brescia, Ivo, and Geoffrey
of Auxerre. It was too much for a weak head
and heart, weak in spite of intellectual power;
for vanity will possess the head, and worldliness
the heart, of the man, however gifted, whose{15}
wisdom is not an effluence of the Eternal Light.

True wisdom is not only "pacifica," it is
"pudica"; chaste as well as peaceable. Alas for
Abelard! a second disgrace, deeper than
ambition, is his portion now. The strong man—the{20}
Samson of the schools in the wildness of his course,
the Solomon in the fascination of his
genius—shivers and falls before the temptation which
overcame that mighty pair, the most excelling
in body and in mind.{25}

In a time when Colleges were unknown, and the
young scholar was commonly thrown upon the
dubious hospitality of a great city, Abelard might
even be thought careful of his honor, that he
went to lodge with an old ecclesiastic, had not{30}
his host's niece Eloisa lived with him. A more
subtle snare was laid for him than beset the
heroic champion or the all-accomplished monarch of
Israel; for sensuality came upon him under the
guise of intellect, and it was the high mental
endowments of Eloisa, who became his pupil,{5}
speaking in her eyes, and thrilling on her tongue,
which were the intoxication and the delirium of
Abelard....

He is judged, he is punished; but he is not
reclaimed. True wisdom is not only "pacifica,"{10}
not only "pudica;" it is "desursum" too. It is
a revelation from above; it knows heresy as
little as it knows strife or license. But Abelard,
who had run the career of earthly wisdom in two
of its phases, now is destined to represent its{15}
third.

It is at the famous Abbey of St. Denis that we
find him languidly rising from his dream of sin,
and the suffering that followed. The bad dream
is cleared away; clerks come to him, and the{20}
Abbot begging him to lecture still, for love
now, as for gain before. Once more his school is
thronged by the curious and the studious; but
at length a rumor spreads, that Abelard is
exploring the way to some novel view on the{25}
subject of the Most Holy Trinity. Wherefore is
hardly clear, but about the same time the monks
drive him away from the place of refuge he had
gained. He betakes himself to a cell, and thither
his pupils follow him. "I betook myself to a{30}
certain cell," he says, "wishing to give myself to
the schools, as was my custom. Thither so great
a multitude of scholars flocked, that there was
neither room to house them, nor fruits of the
earth to feed them," such was the enthusiasm of
the student, such the attraction of the teacher,{5}
when knowledge was advertised freely, and its
market opened.

Next he is in Champagne, in a delightful
solitude near Nogent in the diocese of Troyes. Here
the same phenomenon presents itself, which is{10}
so frequent in his history. "When the scholars
knew it," he says, "they began to crowd thither
from all parts; and, leaving other cities and
strongholds, they were content to dwell in the
wilderness. For spacious houses they framed for{15}
themselves small tabernacles, and for delicate food they
put up with wild herbs. Secretly did they
whisper among themselves: 'Behold, the whole
world is gone out after him!' When, however,
my Oratory could not hold even a moderate{20}
portion of them, then they were forced to enlarge
it, and to build it up with wood and stone."
He called the place his Paraclete, because it had
been his consolation.

I do not know why I need follow his life further.{25}
I have said enough to illustrate the course of one,
who may be called the founder, or at least the first
great name, of the Parisian Schools. After the
events I have mentioned he is found in Lower
Britanny; then, being about forty-eight years of{30}
age, in the Abbey of St. Gildas; then with St.
Geneviève again. He had to sustain the fiery
eloquence of a Saint, directed against his novelties;
he had to present himself before two Councils;
he had to burn the book which had given offense
to pious ears. His last two years were spent at{5}
Clugni on his way to Rome. The home of the
weary, the hospital of the sick, the school of the
erring, the tribunal of the penitent, is the city
of St. Peter. He did not reach it; but he is
said to have retracted what had given scandal in{10}
his writings, and to have made an edifying end.
He died at the age of sixty-two, in the year of
grace 1142.

In reviewing his career, the career of so great
an intellect so miserably thrown away, we are{15}
reminded of the famous words of the dying
scholar and jurist, which are a lesson to us all,
"Heu, vitam perdidi, operosè nihil agendo." A
happier lot be ours!

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