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A South-Sea Siren

Chapter XX

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Chapter XX

Religion,’ remarked Raleigh, sententiously, from his presidential chair, ‘is sentiment.’

‘That I absolutely deny,’ blurted forth Arthur Irving.

‘I hope,’ observed the parson, blandly, ‘that we are not going to allow ourselves to be drawn into a religious discussion. It is against the rules.’

‘I have no intention of saying anything more about it,’ retorted the second speaker. ‘I only just wanted to lodge a formal protest against any such heretical opinion, that's all!’

‘Is not the essential of religion to love God, and to love your neighbour as yourself?’ pursued the president, speaking slowly, between the puffs of his pipe.

The parson nodded assent.

‘And is not love sentiment?’

‘And what about Faith, then?’ inquired Irving, abruptly.

‘Faith is undoubtedly sentiment.’

‘It must be so,’ put in the major, ironically, ‘for it is certainly not reason.’

‘And doctrine, then?’ asked Mr Beaumont.

‘Doctrine is not religion.’

‘I suppose, at that rate,’ observed the parson, ‘you would sweep away the whole body of theology at one stroke.’

‘I am not aware,’ replied the imperturbable president, in the same quiet tone, ‘that true religion would be much the worse for such a catastrophe.’

‘What! do away with the odium theologicum!’ exclaimed Tippings. ‘Why, the occupation of the Church would be gone. There would be no bone of contention left; nothing to hate a fellow Christian for.’

‘If Theology is to retain any rational existence at all,’ remarked Major Dearie, emphatically, ‘I maintain that it must be reduced to scientific principles. Whatever admits of reasonable argument or investigation must show some logical connection between cause and effect; must be based on collected data or deduced from ascertained fact. It is useless attempting to explain the supernatural, consequently the miraculous element of religion must be eliminated. The religion of the future must be a science.’

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‘I entirely disagree with that,’ observed Mr Seymour; ‘and I fail to see what science has to do in the business. You must make a broad distinction between the material universe and the spiritual nature of man. I'm none the less gifted with a thinking and willing personality of my own—a spiritual existence, of which I am quite as conscious as of my natural body—because I can't measure it with a foot-rule, weigh it in a balance, or put it into a crucible and resolve it into its elements. The mind of man revolts at any attempt, however plausible, at denying its own existence. You may demonstrate to a person that he has no personality, that he is only an organism, an automaton, and he may confess to that belief, but his own soul gives it the lie. Every one knows right enough, in his heart, that he has a responsible and spiritual being. I must confess that I never could see the force of all these tirades concerning the opposition of science to religion. Things to clash with one another must be of a similar nature.’

‘All things are related in nature,’ asserted the major, dogmatically. ‘Force and matter are inseparably connected together in some mysterious way. In fact, it is quite possible that they may ultimately be reducible to the same element. The spiritual may only be a function of the material. But, apart from all such speculations, the fact remains, that if we are to reason on religious questions we must do so upon some definite grounds, and found our conclusions on a certain body of evidence, whether physical or merely historical. Now, as soon as this knowledge is collected, classified, analysed, and reduced to a system, it becomes scientific.’

‘But if it all passeth the understanding of man?’ inquired Tippings.

‘That does not affect the position,’ continued the major. ‘The conclusions of science are often beyond our comprehension, yet they are none the less scientific truths. Thus the laws of gravity have been proved, and are well understood, but no one has yet been able to explain them. What causes one particle of matter to attract another? How is it possible to account for molecular affinities? These things are just as much a mystery to us as any religious dogma. Nevertheless, in their action and effects these phenomena are strictly amenable to scientific inquiry and demonstration. It should be the same with religion.’

‘Yes, we have heard all this sort of thing before,’ answered Mr Seymour, languidly; ‘but it does not bring one any nearer the truth, or lead to any practical result. The conditions are totally different. In the one case we deal exclusively with the laws of nature and mechanical force; in the other with spiritual agencies which do not admit of experimental demonstration. It is impossible to prove anything page 219 in religion, not even the First Great Cause—the existence of God.’

The president returned to the charge. ‘Precisely,’ he exclaimed; ‘then why attempt to explain the inexplicable, to conceive the inconceivable? Take religion out of the domain of reason to which it does not belong, and call it simply—what it is—Sentiment.’

‘Derogatory,’ ejaculated Tippings.

‘Derogatory? Quite the reverse!’ continued the other. ‘There can be nothing derogatory about sentiment. I consider that sentiment represents all that is noblest, highest, truest, and worthiest in human nature. The best qualities of man arise from the heart, and any system of philosophy that takes no account of sentiment is, in its essentials, partial and misleading. No system of ethics either that is not based on sentiment can effectually deal with the great problems of our social existence. Man is guided as well as ennobled by his affections. It is sentiment that makes a good man, a loyal man, an honest man. You cannot found moral worth on the understanding alone; virtue has its origin in the heart. What is it, I may ask, that constitutes patriotism—the foundation of national greatness—but the love of one's country—sentiment? What is it that creates nationality, clanship, fraternity, good fellowship——but sentiment? What is it that kindles enthusiasm in the human breast, that inspires man to heroism, to self-sacrifice, to philanthropy—but sentiment? Reverence for age, public spirit, “the quality of mercy”, charity, that “covereth a multitude of sins”, divine pity, devotion—sentiment all! The noblest and least selfish of all attachments, Friendship, is sentiment pure and simple. Last, but not least, that mysterious oracle of the soul, that supreme appeal to our inner self, and nature's spiritual guide—Conscience—is mainly sentiment. It has its sources in the heart, and is not the outcome of the reasoning faculty. God only reveals Himself to man as sentiment.’

‘Do you leave nothing to the understanding then?’ inquired the major, with a smile.

‘Oh, certainly! the Intellect has its uses. It is not a question of dispensing with Reason, but only of limiting its application. The main thing is to comprehend these limits. The world of the present day worships Intellect. Knowledge is supposed to be the great propelling power of human advancement. Man has built up this temple of Science, and he is elated to bursting with his own stupendous achievement. He falls down and adores his boasted Idol of Progress, very much as his savage ancestors, a few thousand years ago, used to grovel in the dirt before their own handiwork in wood and stone. In fact, he worships himself. If we look upon man as merely a tool- page 220 using animal, then it must be conceded that he has turned his mechanical genius to some good purpose. The printing press, the gatling gun, the steam engine, and the electric telegraph will all attest to that. We can never hear enough about the marvellous strides made in material, commercial, and industrial progress. But if we look at the moral and spiritual nature of man, there is no such advancement. This shows conclusively that the moral and the intellectual faculties of man have not much in common, and do not march together in the way of development. The divine part of man needs sustenance of another kind, and cannot flourish on reason alone. The most subtle agencies of our nature, our highest conceptions and aspirations, do not emanate from the intellect, they spring from more sympathetic affinities. Thus sentiment is our highest guide in morals as in faith. Sentiment alone can open to us the portals of the spiritual world; by sentiment alone can we reach heaven. Religion is sentiment!’

“Tis love that makes the world go round,’ warbled Tippings.

‘I don't believe that anyone was ever argued into being virtuous or benevolent.’ remarked Mr Beaumont. ‘The good qualities of a man are inborn, or, if they can be acquired, it must be by some subtle influence, some moral power—the force of example, for instance—but not by any logical process. Then there is the Sense of Duty—the worthiest impulse that can animate human nature—which is also, I should think, strongly allied to sentiment.’

‘Why then,’ asked Arthur Irving, ‘is this glorious and all-powerful Sentiment you talk of made so little account of in the world?’

‘Because it doesn't pay,’ interjected Tippings.

‘There is something in that,’ observed Mr Seymour, gravely. ‘We live in a thoroughly practical and mercenary age, in which all values must be reduced to a common denominator. John Stuart Mill, I believe, discovered a money value for honesty—I never heard that he had done so for sentiment. Love has no market; it cannot even be quoted in the financial column of the Times. Scientifically it has no existence; for its energy, though mighty, cannot be expressed in foot-pounds. It won't turn a machine. From a strictly utilitarian point of view it can hardly be classified as useful, or productive of anything but encumbrances. For getting on in the world a man is decidedly the better without it. Therefore it may wisely be discarded, and the world knows what it is about.’

‘I must refer you gentlemen to Buckle,’ exclaimed the major, with a thump on the table. ‘Read his introduction to the “History of Civilisation”, and then report progress. You will find it explained and proved in his pages that the whole advancement and development of page 221 man, from the beginning of history, has been entirely through the Intellect, It must be confessed that human nature remains very much the same; it doesn't seem to vary more in sentiment, passion, or morals than it does in its physical constitution. It has been shown that types of race are permanent; so, I believe, are types of character. But it is quite different with the mental faculties; they admit of indefinite expansion, and every year adds to our store of knowledge, and to our intellectual conquests.’

‘Don't you think, then,’ inquired Irving, ‘that the world is getting better as well as wiser? I am a firm believer in all-round progress. I was brought up that way.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ continued the major, ‘the march of civilisation has advanced the cause of morality also, but it has all been accomplished through the intellect. The enlightenment of the mind has had a refining influence on manners and sentiment. It has also purged humanity of degrading superstitions. Then the amelioration of our social conditions has removed the causes of much vice and debasement. The great reformer is scientific sanitation.’

‘A young friend of mine who is a civil engineer,’ added Irving, ‘lectured on that subject before a learned society in England. He showed conclusively that the moral standard of the community in a town, depended mainly on its sanitary condition. In fact, that there is an intimate connection between morality and drainage. He was awarded a medal.’

‘He deserved it,’ exclaimed Tippings. ‘I wonder if he was able to show that the percentage of illegitimate births diminished in the same ratio as cases of typhoid.’

‘I can't say as to that,’ replied the other; ‘but I always heard that “cleanliness is next to godliness”. I was brought up that way.’

‘I doubt very much,’ observed the president, musingly, ‘whether the Intellect, upon which so much reliance is placed, and which is so assiduously cultivated now-a-days, to the exclusion of nearly everything else, contributes much towards the happiness and well-being, or even to the worldly success of the individual.’

The mind's the standard of the man—Dr Watts’, exclaimed Irving.

‘The biceps, rather!’ answered Tippings, with a broad grin. ‘Muscle before brain. Why, there was more popular enthusiasm shown the other day in welcoming Bob Strand, the champion oarsman, than there would have been over the reception of a ship-load of the greatest philosophers and writers of the age. Hardly had he arrived in port than he was rushed by reporters, and interviewed in his night-shirt. He was dragged in triumph to the town-hall, madly cheered all day, page 222 and furiously serenaded at night. Half the city turned out to gaze at the hero of a boat race. He was presented with an illuminated address and a purse of sovereigns, and intoxicated all the time on champagne and adulation, and now his photograph, in trunk hose, is exposed in every tobacconist shop throughout the land. Never was seen such an ovation before, and all because he could pull a pair of sculls better than any other man. Talk about the worship of intellect after that!’

‘Yes, the victorious athlete can give points to the Senior Wrangler in popular favour any day,’ remarked Mr Seymour. ‘The champion cricketer in England is a personage of far more importance than the foremost thinker of the age, and takes precedence after royalty. Next would come, I should say, the people's demagogue for the time being, a big gun of a general, a celebrated quack, or a favourite singer. Intellect, unless boomed, doesn't go for much, nor modest worth for anything at all.’

‘But surely you will admit that, as a rule, the clever and well-educated man gets on best in life?’ demanded the major.

‘By no means. It is the smart man who scores best in the struggle for existence, and smartness is a natural gift, that is not to be acquired, and which is rather marred by education. I am convinced that mere mental culture—what is called a liberal education—is a positive hindrance to its possessor in the way of getting on in the world.’

‘I am sure of it,’ asserted Mr Beaumont. ‘To the first question of our venerable catechism. What is the chief end of man? there is but one answer nowadays. “Man's chief end is to make money, and to enjoy it as long as he can.” Now the art of making money is not taught in schools, neither can it be acquired from books. It is a talent peculiar to itself, although it may be studied and partly improved in our battle with the world. It is not a noble quality, neither is it an essentially intellectual one. Look round and judge for yourselves, and you will soon see who among your acquaintances have won success and how they came by it.’

‘Among the farmers,’ said Irving, ‘I have noticed that it is the miserly plodder who gets on best. He may be as stolid and as stupid as the bullock he yokes to his plough, but he sticks to the safe old style, grabs all and spends nothing, and he eventually does well. But as for these smart young men, fresh from an agricultural college, and who want to farm on scientific principles, I have not met one who has not come to grief.’

‘In trade,’ continued Mr Beaumont, ‘it is the man with one idea page 223 that succeeds best. That idea is limited to turning over his wares at a profit. Let him depart ever so little from that line, and he is lost. The grocer's assistant, whose soul never soars above sugar, will get on; he may safely be trusted in business. He will slave, and scrape, and dodge, and make his fortune. But afford that same lad some scraps of learning, teach him to direct his mind to more noble objects, give him a taste for literature, science, or art, and he is done for. You have marred his chances of ever getting on, while making him thoroughly discontented with his mode of life. To him, intellect is poison.’

‘It is not much better in the learned professions,’ remarked Mr Seymour. ‘I must admit with regret, from a lengthy experience of the world, that success does not generally fall to merit or to worth. Of course, there are exceptional positions in all walks of life that need exceptional talents to fill them. Distinguished ability will assert itself in many instances, but, as a general rule, plodding mediocrity, with patronage or good luck to assist, does best. Practical sense, and steadiness of purpose, with ever an eye to the main chance, are probably the safest conductors to success. As regards good principles, I am sure that the old adage, honesty is the best policy, is by no means true in a money-making sense.’

‘I have often thought so,’ observed Raleigh, in a dreamy way. ‘Not only does honesty not pay, but you have to pay to be honest.’

‘Brilliant but unsound! as they say in chess,’ ejaculated the major, with a laugh. ‘Let me entreat you to take the consideration of this broad question away from side issues and paltry particulars. Personal illustrations go for nothing. I am noways concerned about chaw-bacon, or the fate of the grocer's assistant. I am quite aware that there are crowds of fools in fat places, while unnoticed genius may be starving in a garret. But such instances do not affect the main issue. It must surely be admitted, in a general way, that intellect governs the world. I maintain that it is to the spread of education, and the growth of science, that the progress of the world is mainly due. The advance of civilisation is merely the consequence of the diffusion of useful knowledge. If we are better off than were our barbarous ancestors, in most things—better fed, better clothed, better lodged; if we live longer, and enjoy life more; if we travel faster, see more, go further, and accumulate greater wealth; if we have largely reduced the evils of war, pestilence, and famine; if we have achieved solid comforts and removed serious discomforts in the ordinary conditions of our existence; if we have opened our eyes to the light of truth, and dispelled much of the mists and superstition and intoler- page 224 ance; if we are also more humane, more politic, more philanthropical than we were of old; in short, if we are wiser in our generation, then. I say, all this substantial progress has been accomplished through Intellectual Development. Religion and morality are for very little in it. The real benefactors of mankind are not the preachers, or the prophets, or even the philosophers, but the inventors, the mechanics, the explorers, the chemists, and such like. They are the true apostles of the New Salvation—the only one that leads to any practical benefit. The future of humanity rests upon science. For my part. I believe in nothing that is not positive and scientific.’

‘I cannot follow you so far,’ said Arthur Irving, gravely. ‘The soul of man surely goes for something, nor do we exist merely for material purposes.

'Tis the divinity that stirs within us,
'Tis heaven itself, that points out a hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.

‘I do not discard religion,’ continued the major, ‘so long as it is confined to its proper sphere. There is a strong emotional element in human nature to which religion appeals. There is also an innate longing in man towards the spiritual which cannot be ignored. These vague and mysterious aspirations should, however, be controlled by reason. Men of sound judgment and of scientific attainments are little subject to them, and such men can accordingly get along with their life work without the aid of religion; or else, they adapt themselves to some sensible creed of their own. But it is different with women, who are much more under the influence of their feelings. Religion is to woman a consolation and a moral support; it meets a fervent want of her nature. This is why women, as a rule, are so much more religious than men. They are pious by temperament. It is the same with children, and to some extent with the ignorant masses. Thus Napoleon the First restored public worship and re-established the Roman Catholic Church purely from political motives and to meet a popular demand. For my part, although I rarely attend church myself, yet I make it a rule to send my wife and family there regularly twice every Sunday.’

‘And yet you want to make religion scientific,’ observed Tippings, with a quizzical look.

‘I merely remarked that if theology was to be maintained on a rational basis, it would have to be reduced to scientific principles. You may believe without reasoning, but if you attempt to reason on your page 225 belief, then you should do so on established premises, and in a logical manner. What says our reverend friend to that?’

Parson Tupper, thus directly appealed to, laid down his pipe with a sigh, and mildly addressed himself to his limited congregation, with something of his pulpit drawl. He was a most amiable young man, of excellent principles, and a peaceable disposition, also a M.A. of Oxford, but without two ideas of his own on any serious subject. Great at small talk, and a lover of afternoon tea-parties, he could also thoroughly enjoy a smoke social and a glass of brandy and water, providing the conversation did not turn upon theological topics, which were little to his taste.

‘I can only discuss religion on the basis of the Holy Scriptures,’ he remarked demurely. ‘That is the foundation of all Christian theology—the rock upon which we stand. Admit the plenary inspiration of the Bible, and then we can meet on common ground, and discuss debatable points outside the Catholic faith. But these are grave matters, hardly suited for disputation at our social gatherings.’

‘That is begging the question,’ said the major, with a shrug of the shoulders.

‘That piety springs from the heart,’ continued the placid divine, ‘I readily admit; but the Christian religion also appeals to the reason, on the basis of an orthodox doctrine founded on the Scriptures. The great truths of religion must be accepted by faith; they are mysteries which have been revealed to us, and which are entirely beyond our comprehension. Religion is also a moral law—a rule of life. There is an emotional side to religion, just as there is an intellectual side, also a moral and a dogmatic side. You cannot separate them.’

‘How do you define it then?’ inquired Raleigh.

‘You cannot define it as sentiment,’ replied the other, authoritatively.

‘Here is a proper definition for you,’ exclaimed Mr Beaumont, as he rose from the table and took down a volume from the bookshelf. ‘It is by one of our profoundest thinkers—Samuel Taylor Coleridge. See what you make of it.

“‘Revealed religion (and I know of no religion not revealed) is in its highest contemplation the unity, that is, the ideality or co-inherence, of subjective and objective. It is, in itself, and irrelatively, at once inward life and truth, and outward fact and luminary.”’

‘Bother your philosophical jargon,’ blurted forth Tippings; ‘I don't even know the meaning of the words.’

‘You say,’ observed the major, tartly, addressing the parson, ‘that the truths of religion have been supernaturally revealed to us, and that they are mysteries which are entirely beyond the grasp of our reason. page 226 Why then attempt to formulate these mysteries into unmeaning dogmas, with a pretence of understanding them? The Church would set up as the expositor of the incomprehensible.’

‘That is my argument entirely,’ observed the president.

‘The blind leaders of the blind,’ cried Tippings, who loved to quote Scripture.

‘You don't mean to say,’ called out Irving, ‘that a fellow should understand everything he believes. At that rate we should all be infidels. I have always been taught that the less a man seeks to understand what he believes the better; and I don't see any merit in believing only what can be proved—any fool can do that. It stands to reason.’

‘The theological virtue of faith,’ said Mr Seymour, ‘consists in this, that you overrule your reason. You disbelieve your senses. The more impossible a thing is the more credit is due to you for believing in it. This is where the wonderful advantage of the doctrine of transubstantiation comes in. It is a test question. Having swallowed that you cannot well stick at anything further. You are henceforth safe.’

‘But what is the meaning of such a (so-called) belief?’ inquired Raleigh. ‘Does it consist in merely repeating, parrot fashion, certain words that convey no distinct impression to the brain? That is what I can't get over. Take a mathematical illustration. We know, and can demonstrate, that in every possible case the three angles of a plane triangle equal two right angles. If there is such a thing as a fact in this world then that is a fact. Now, we will assume that by faith you are called upon to believe that the angles of a particular plane triangle equal four right angles. You reply that is impossible, but you are informed that it is a mystery, which you must devoutly accept and believe, or else suffer eternal damnation. Sooner than undergo so extreme a fate you bow before this divine dictum, and confess your belief in what you know to be untrue. It is all very well to exhort a man to self-abasement, to overrule his natural reason, or disbelieve his senses; he cannot possibly do it. He might just as well pretend to see with his eyes shut.’

‘The mysteries of religion must not be taken in this argumentative spirit,’ replied the Rev. Mr Tupper. ‘They must be accepted as revelations, just as a little child will implicitly believe what it is told, out of absolute reliance on its informant.’

‘Even to the finding of babies under cabbages,’ interjected Tippings.

‘For my part,’ exclaimed Irving, ‘I make it a rule, on principle, page 227 never to doubt points of doctrine. It all seems clear enough to me, but then—I was brought up that way.’

‘I quite agree,’ argued Mr Beaumont, ‘that theology has laid far too much stress on formularies of faith, and even verbal quibbles; yet the truths of religion must admit of being defined and established by the Church. There are fundamental principles to Christianity, a kernel of doctrine, which is essential to its existence as a religion, forming a bond of union among the faithful, and a communion of souls in the worship of God. The Christian's belief is founded upon certain manifestations of which we have historical evidence, and all Christians must surely agree on certain articles of a common faith.’

‘In answer to all this,’ replied Raleigh, ‘I have only one retort, but it is effectual. The first Christians had no such formularies of faith as you mention. Our Lord never gave His disciples a creed to swear by. He gave them a prayer, and the sermon on the Mount; He called the people to repentance, and taught them that the kingdom of Heaven was at hand, but no such things as articles of belief. The very first attempt at formulating a creed, that we know of, dates more than a century after the death of Christ. Theology is in no respect essential to our religion, as it was taught by the Founder of Christianity; theology is the work of the Church during ages of bigotry and darkness; it has struck at the spiritual nature of the Christian faith, and has proved to be religion's most deadly foe.’

‘I have often thought,’ said Tippings, ‘that if the apostle Peter were to return to this world, and enter himself for one of the primary exams, of a theological college on the essential doctrines of the Christian faith, he would be ignominiously plucked.’

‘Christianity,’ pursued the other, ‘is essentially a moral force, not an argument. It appeals to the heart of man, not to his intellect. It inspired a strong enthusiasm for humanity and the cause of virtue among its first converts, and by such means conquered the world, but to reduce it to a system is to destroy its soul. Christianity was founded on love.’

‘That was the corner stone,’ answered the parson; ‘but the great edifice of the Christian religion has been built up afterwards by the Church.’

‘You have no edifice,’ cried the major, ‘only a number of dilapidated ruins.’

‘On ground,’ added Mr Seymour, ‘soaked in human gore, and strewn with the bones of victims.’

‘Theology,’ continued the president, earnestly, ‘is generally described as the Science of God—that is a dictionary definition, which appears to page 228 me absurd and impious on the face of it. Others call dogma the rationale of religion, but that is no name for it, as there cannot be a rationale of the irrational; for, although religion may not be contrary to reason, it is beyond the grasp of reason, which comes to much the same thing. Theology is the attempt to theorise, explain, and dogmatise on matters essentially spiritual and occult, and which, therefore, in the very nature of things, do not admit of scientific or even rational treatment. You might as well try to substitute a dry treatise on counterpoint for a symphony of Beethoven's, as to make religion out of theology. For bear in mind that religion is not of this world; its domain is the Kingdom of Heaven which we have no practical knowledge whatever. All our ideas are drawn exclusively from our material senses, and our experience of this world. We cannot go beyond it. The intellect is absolutely powerless to compass anything outside of the manifestations of our natural five senses. A man born blind—even if gifted with the most powerful intellect ever granted to a human being—would be utterly unable to understand the nature of light. It could not possibly be explained to him. Although surrounded by people who can see the light, and who talk about it constantly, who describe to him its wonderful effects—the glorious radiance of the sun, the pale effulgence of the moon, the exquisite combination of colours, and the enchanting impressions of vision generally—yet all to no purpose. They speak an unknown language to him, and convey no conception to his mind. But quicken the optic nerve, and at once a new world opens to his astonished gaze. A tiny thread of tissue performs in one moment what all the capabilities of that stupendous faculty The Mind cannot possibly accomplish.

‘Now, may not the same analogy apply to our intimations of the spiritual world; we are dimly conscious of its existence, and we are drawn towards it by an inward inspiration, but we cannot comprehend it. The gift of another sense might make it all clear as daylight to us, but failing such means of perception, we grope about in utter darkness, and must continue to do so as long as human nature remains what it is.’

‘All this may be quite true,’ observed the parson, authoritatively. ‘We are taught that of his own seeking man cannot discover God. It is by Revelation that we can enter the Kingdom of Heaven, and then only through the medium of the Church. For Christianity is essentially a Church.’

‘I plead for a heart-church instead of an official one,’ replied the other.

‘For my part,’ said Irving, ‘I can't conceive a Church without a page 229 catechism. That, I think, is the foundation of religion. I could repeat mine by heart when I was three years old, and it remains engraven in my mind. The bishop confirmed me before the usual age, because he said I had been so well grounded.’

‘You are, indeed, to be congratulated,’ exclaimed Tippings, ‘especially as by your own admission you did not understand a word of what you professed. As for myself, I have not yet been confirmed—except in my small vices. A rich old aunt, who stood my godmother at the baptismal font, and who therefore took upon herself the burden of my youthful sins—a pretty heavy one, as it has proved—is now very anxious to be relieved of that responsibility, and writes me pressing and imploring letters on the subject. But I don't see it. She has treated me very shabbily, and I decline to sever the partnership, unless for a substantial consideration.’

‘All this is irreverent, and irrelevant too,’ answered Irving, testily; ‘and what's more, I don't see the use of this sort of discussion; it leads to nothing. And although I have listened attentively to the argument, I have not heard anything which seems to be new.’

‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed the president aghast, throwing himself suddenly back in his chair, and dropping his pipe through the shock, ‘would you, then, like a press-reviewer, expect from us something original?’