Piccadilly Part 16

"That is, nevertheless, exactly what I do mean. To know the doctrine, it is necessary to do the will. Christians of the present day adopt certain theological dogmas intellectually and call them their religious belief.

This has a superficial and varying influence upon their lives, for it consists merely of opinions which are liable to change. The only kind of faith which is inseparable from life is a divine conviction of truth imparted to the intellect through the heart, and which becomes as absolute to the internal conscience as one's existence, and as impossible of proof. It may be added to, but what has once been thus accepted can never be changed. Such a faith cannot be selfish, for it has been derived from the affections, hence the life must be charitable.

But the modern Christian belief, received by an effort of pure reason directly through the intellect, is not a divine intuition, which, if embodied, would result in a perfect life and a united Church, but a theological problem which professors of religion, unlike professors of mathematics, are at liberty to solve for their own benefit, according to their own taste, and to quarrel about incessantly, thereby giving occasion to the thoughtless to scoff, and to the thoughtful to reject all revelation as 'foolishness'--since it is incapable of demonstration by the Baconian method,--the only one known to these 'wise and prudent'

philosophers, but one by which, fortunately for them, 'babes' are not expected to prove their relationship before believing in their mothers."

"Then," said Broadhem, "you actually mean to say that the whole of Christendom is wanting in this faith?"

"I fear that almost universally they mistake a bare belief for faith.

Their theology thus becomes an _act_ of memory instead of a rule of life, and Christianity is reduced to a superst.i.tion. The only way of distinguishing superst.i.tion from true religion is by an examination of results. But where are the fruits of modern Christianity? If it be absolutely true, and all-sufficient for purposes of regeneration, how am I to account for the singular fact that there is as much wickedness in London in the year 1865 A.D., as there was in Jerusalem in the year 1 B.C.? If the object of the last revelation was to take the place of the one before it, and to reform the world, why are the best modern Christians of my acquaintance no holier than the best modern Jews whom I have the honour to know?"

"But the object of the last revelation was not to reform the world, but to save it," he replied.

"Thanks, Broadhem, for having put in rather too epigrammatic a form, perhaps, to please those who believe it, the most diabolical sophism that was ever invented to beguile a Church--the doctrine that men can be saved by opinion without practice: that a man's practice may be bad, and yet because his faith is good his salvation is sure--that he can, by such a miserable philosophy as would disgrace the justice of the earth, escape the just sentence to be pa.s.sed upon all his deeds. The results of so fatal a dogma must be a Church that tends to atheism, and that loves corruption. There is in every heart a something that speaks against this, and speaks with a burning language that sweeps the invisible chords of the inmost consciousness, and awakens a torrent of indignant denial of the shallow sophistry that a man can be saved if his thoughts and life are bad. If he cherish self-love, and the love of ruling others, though he intrench the intellect in the midst of all creeds, and span the reason with all faiths, making a sacred public profession before all men, he but adds to the heinousness of his crime, and makes more terrible the fast-coming and final judgment."

Broadhem stopped suddenly in the street as I finished in a somewhat excited tone, and gasped rather than spoke, "Frank, you literally astound me. I could never have believed it possible you would have come out in that line. Are those your own ideas or another's?"

"Another's," I replied, coolly. "I believe they are rather unsound, but I commend them to your notice, because, if they are not correct, Christianity will soon cease to exist, even in name; but if they are, then it contains within it a regenerating power hitherto undeveloped, whereby the world may be absolutely reformed. I will venture to a.s.sert that Christian nations will make no moral progress so long as they continue to cherish the pagan superst.i.tion that religion consists in trying to save themselves by virtue of a creed, instead of in trying to save others by the virtues of a life."

"But that's works," said Broadhem.

"Yes," I repeated, "that's works, but of a kind only possible when accompanied by intuitive living faith, which I have just endeavoured to describe. There is a promise that 'greater works than these shall they do' who 'believe.' Why, I want to know, have these 'works,' greater than any that were then accomplished, and which would reform the world, never been attempted? Because people don't believe in the tremendous power of disinterestedness, and they can't face the severe training which the perfection of self-sacrifice involves. So one set of 'worldly-holies'

regard all personal discipline as a tempting snare to be avoided, and entertain a great horror of what they conceitedly term 'their own merits.' This very superfluous sentiment, combined with a selfish belief in certain doctrinals (of which they usually do make a merit), is enough, they imagine--the 'works' will follow; and so they do, and take the form we have just seen in your mother's drawing-room. Another set delight in a mild aesthetic sort of training, to be performed in a particular costume, according to the obsolete ceremonial rules of a Church 'which is divided against itself,' and their works take the fatuous form of ecclesiastical high art. Others, again, go to a still further extreme, and consider discipline not the means but the end.

Hence they go through their drill in seclusion, exclusively for their own benefit, and their works take the form of scourgings and horse-hair shirts, and other mortifications of the flesh, which do no good to themselves nor to anybody else. And then, in strong contrast, are those who train enough in all conscience with 'gloves,' single-stick, sculls, and all suchlike appliances, and whose works take the form of tubbing, volunteering, and a general jovial philanthropy. I am not sure that they are not the most hopeful set after all; they believe in severe muscular training as necessary to produce great physical results. Get them to accept, the possibility of the world's regeneration by a divinely-directed effort of heroic spiritual discipline on the part of its inhabitants, and you might convert them from 'physical' into 'moral force' Christians. They understand the efficacy of 'a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull all together;' and they might be shown that the real place for a 'biceps' is the will, not the arms; and instead of a body 'as hard as nails,' the chief aim of one's life should be to bring one's spirit to that condition--'hard,' be it understood, in the sense of being impervious to the influences which weaken and demoralise it--hard in its resistance to the tyranny of society, to the claims of family or friends, and to the force of 'natural' ties, where any of these things interfere with the 'spiritual' training. It is only by thus remaining in the world, and yet refusing to concede a jot to it upon any pretence, however plausible, that it is possible to acquire the internal isolation and strength of will necessary to the achievement of 'these greater works.' Depend upon it, the task of performing them is not hopeless because it seems stupendous. There are spiritual forces now latent in humanity powerful enough to restore a fallen universe; but they want to be called into action by fire. They are in a cold fluid state, and must be turned into stone. Sublime moment! when, conscious of the t.i.tanic agency within them, and burning with desire to give it expression, men first unite to embody, and then with irresistible potency to impart to others that 'Life' which is 'the Light of men.'"

As I was thus speaking, we turned into Piccadilly, and an arm was pa.s.sed through mine.

"Why is it," asked Broadhem, "that men are not yet at all conscious of possessing this spiritual agency?"

"Why is it, ask you?"--and the clear solemn voice of my new companion startled Broadhem, who had not seen him join me, so that I felt his arm tremble upon mine. "Ask rather why sects are fierce and intolerant; why worship is formal and irreverent; why zealots run to fierce frenzies and react to atheistic chills; why piety is constrained and lifeless, like antique pictures painted by the old Byzantines upon a golden ground; why Puseyism tries to whip piety to life with scourges, and starve out sin with fasts; why the altar is made a stage where Ritualists delight a gaping crowd, and the pulpit a place where the sleek official drones away the sleepy hour; why religious books are the dullest; why the clergyman is looked upon by the millions as a barrel-organ, whom the sect turns like the wandering Savoyard, unable to evolve a free-born note. There is but one answer----" and he stopped abruptly.

"What is it?" I said, timidly, for I was overwhelmed by the torrent of his eloquence.

"We have lost our G.o.d! That is why men are unconscious of His force within them. It is a terrible thing for a nation to lose its G.o.d.

History shows that all nations wherein the religious inspiration has gone down beneath formalism, infidelity, a warlike spirit, an enslaving spirit, or a trading spirit, have burst like so many gilded bubbles, most enlarged and gorgeous at the moment of their close. Think of the old Scripture, 'The wicked shall be turned into h.e.l.l, and all the nations that forget G.o.d.'"

"Who is that?" whispered Broadhem. "I never saw him before."

"I want to be alone with him," I replied. "Good night, Broadhem. You had better go back now, or you will find your friends gone. Think over what I have said. Once realise the '_mystery_ of G.o.dliness,' and the martyrdom which it must entail will lose its terrors."

"Let him sacrifice us if He will," said he who had before spoken. "The true man is but a cannon-shot, rejoicing most of all when the Divine Artillerist shall send him irresistible and flaming against some foeman of the race risen from Pandemonium. Man--the true man--is like the Parthian's arrow, kindling into fiery flames as it leaves the bow.

Man--the true man--is the Spirit-sword, but the sword-arm is moved by the heart of the Almighty."

Ah Piccadilly! hallowed recollections may attach to those stones worn by the feet of the busy idiots in this vast asylum, for one sane man has trodden them, and I listened to the words of wisdom as they dropped from the lips of one so obscure that his name is still unknown in the land, but I doubted not who at that moment was the greatest man in Piccadilly.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CONCLUSION.

MORAL.

PICCADILLY, _July 15_.

It will be seen by the date at which I am writing this, that I have been compelled to increase the pace I have been keeping up during the season.

The fact is, my episode, like those of my neighbours, seems likely to be prematurely concluded by the course of political events, which will no doubt act prejudicially this year upon the happiness of many interesting members of society. Towards the close of the London season it is only natural that everything should culminate; but generally the actors in the scenes of real life so calculate that the curtain falls just at the right moment; or rather, that they shall be doing just the right thing when the curtain falls. The artists insensibly group themselves for the _grand tableau_. All over the stage episodes are occurring, any one of which taken separately would make a good sensation finale. There are wily mothers and desperate daughters throwing with unerring aim their nets over youths who have become reckless or imbecile. And there are unprincipled poachers setting snares for the pretty game they hope to destroy. Look at the poor victims, both male and female, trying to get disentangled. What a rush, and shuffle, and conflict of feelings and affections it is! The hearts that for the first time feel they have been touched as the moment of separation draws near; the "histories" which in all future time will form the most marked page in his or her life, and which have begun and ended in the season; the intimacies that have been formed, and which are to last for ever; those that have been broken; the fatal friendships which have been cemented this year, and the disastrous results of which, suspected on neither side, we shall read of in the newspapers years to come. What a curious picture would be the mind of London society if we could photograph it in February, and how strangely different would it be from a photograph of the same subject taken in July, more especially when, as now, the elections throw everything into confusion; and little Haultort gets so bewildered, that he encloses, by mistake, his address to his const.i.tuents to Wild Harrie, instead of his proposal to her, which he has forwarded to his local attorney for publication in the Liberal organ of that borough which is honoured by possessing him as a representative!

In these days when good taste requires that our affections should be as shallow as our convictions, we are puzzled, at a crisis like this, to know which we love most, our seats or our mistresses. There is a general disposition on the part of the lavender-gloved tribe to resent the extra wear and tear of mind suddenly imposed upon them this hot weather. Why should they unexpectedly be called away from the corners devoted to _tete-a-tetes_, to stand on hotel balconies, and stammer, in unintelligible language, their views upon Reform to crowds of free and independent electors? "For goodness' sake," says Larkington to Lady Veriphast, "give me some ideas; I've got to go and meet these wretched const.i.tuents of mine, and I had promised myself a much more agreeable occupation with you at Richmond. Couldn't you get Veriphast to go down?

I should be delighted to retire in his favour; and with his abilities it is ridiculous his not being in Parliament."

"How absurdly you talk about my persuading Veriphast to do anything? the only person, as you know, who has any influence over him is Mrs Loveton," responds her ladyship, with a sigh--arising from dyspepsia.

"I have hit it;" and for a moment Larkington looks animated.

"Squabbleton is close to the coast, and we will make a party, and I will take you all round in my yacht, the Lovetons and you and Veriphast; we'll go and do the electioneering business together, and keep the yacht as a sort of _pied a terre_, or rather _pied a mer_;" and Larkington chuckled, partly at his joke, and partly at this brilliant solution of his dilemma.

And so, while all the world is trying to reconcile their pleasure with what they are pleased to term their duty, being always the duty they owe to themselves, my thoughts are diverted into a very different channel. I am beginning daily to feel, while in the world, that I am less of it.

Already I have cut myself off from the one great source of interest which Parliament afforded me, and I have not succeeded in my love as a compensation--that is why Larkington's arrangement to secure both seemed a sort of mockery of my misery. For it was impossible to resist the occasional fits of depression which reduced my mind to the condition of white paper, and the world to that of a doll stuffed with sawdust. I was suffering in this manner the day following the evening entertainment at Lady Broadhem's, which I have already described. The interview which impended inspired me with vague terrors. The night before I had looked forward to it with positive enjoyment. There is no greater bore than to get up morally and physically unhinged, upon the very day that you expect an unusual strain upon your faculties. The days it does not matter, you feel up to anything; but nature too often perversely deserts you at the most critical moment.

Now, upon the morning in question it was necessary as a preliminary measure for me to go into the City and acquire some information essential to the success of my interview with Lady Broadhem, but before starting I was anxious to gain a few particulars from Grandon, the knowledge of which would materially aid me in disentangling the complicated skein of our joint affairs. I therefore looked in upon him for a moment _en pa.s.sant_.

"I went to Lady Broadhem's last night, Grandon," I said, "and I have reasons for wishing to know whether you have had any communication with the family lately. I think the time is coming when I shall be able to explain much of my conduct which I can well understand has perplexed and distressed you."

"It would be a relief to me to feel that there was no more mystery between us," he replied. "You have certainly at last most effectually contradicted the report you were the means of originating, but the reparation was tardy, and should never have been rendered necessary.

However, there is no use in recurring to the past; but I am ent.i.tled to ask what your object is in making your present inquiries?"

"I am to see Lady Broadhem this afternoon," I said, "and I wish to be prepared on all points. I heard something last night which may influence your future far more seriously than mine; and it is in fact in your interests, and not in my own, that I wish to be well informed."

"What do you want to know?"

"I want to know whether you have ever actually proposed to Lady Ursula, and, if so, what was the result?"

"Frank," said Grandon, "after what has pa.s.sed you are pushing my confidence in you, and my friendship for you, to their utmost limits, in expecting me to answer you in this matter. Still I cannot believe your motives to be unworthy, though they may be unintentionally perverted; nor do I think that it is in your power to affect the position of affairs either for good or harm. The fact is, then, that Lady Ursula does know precisely the state of my feelings towards her, and I feel that, though there may be insuperable obstacles to our union at present, she would never consent to yield to any pressure exercised by her mother in favour of another."

"In other words, the situation is unchanged, for I think I knew as much as that before. Have you never spoken to Lady Broadhem directly on the subject?"

"No," said Grandon--"never."

"I think," said I, "the time is coming when you will be able to do so with advantage. I cannot tell you more now, but this afternoon I shall hope to retrieve myself in your estimation by being the bearer of some good news. By the way, what are you going to do about your election?--they say your prospects are getting cloudy."

"Say rather utterly obscured," he replied. "You know the borough I sit for is in Lord Scilly's pocket, and he says I have not sufficiently stuck to my party. They have never forgiven me for understanding the Schleswig-Holstein question; and Scilly has extracted a promise from his new nominee that he is never to inform himself upon any question of foreign politics. The Government is so weak in this department that they are more afraid of their own _enfants terribles_ than they are of the Opposition, which is not saying much for the latter."

"Who is Scilly's new nominee?" I asked.

"No less a person than our old friend Chundango," he replied. "It seems Lady Broadhem put pressure upon his lordship in his favour, and he at last consented, though I suspect it was with a bad grace."

"Well, I don't think the Government need be afraid of Chundango on foreign policy, though he probably knows as much as the others."