aid; believing that if they prove unequal to the task of doing any good in this sphere of endeavour, they shall only fail in the best of causes. Nay although they may at first seem to differ from every one of the many statements of Christian doctrine, which appear to the sceptic and the denier to be so many different systems of belief altogether, they feel well assured that they in reality agree with them all, in a certain high sense. Having no right to speak as theologians, they will never presume to do so. They only stand forward with the Bible on the one hand and the Universe on the other, and, as the humble readers of both these public manuscripts of the Most High, burn with the desire of doing all they can to symphonise the general theory of the latter with the most orthodox Christianity. Only have patience. To return to my allegorical biography. You will not wonder when I tell you that, on the occasion of my birth in France, Christopher resolved to call his son Victorious, in spite of the humorous remonstrances of Old Fidian, the paternal, almost brotherly and inseparable friend of his youth. Moreover, I am sure you must applaud the patience with which I have borne about with me the hateful epithet, and never complained nor given it up, even since I abandoned universal scepticism. Indeed, my long-suffering is at length rewarded in the due course of Providence; and this ought to serve for an example to both of us, of God's way being ever the best: for, since last November, my Christian name has been changed by a formal process of law; and this is what I wish to speak about. It happened thus. The good, very trustful, and consequently happy friend of my father's youth chanced to love me so dearly as to make me free of his home and cheer, when left an orphan boy in this wide inquiring world, where I had no other to care for me. In truth, he loved me like a son; and little wonder, for I had been affianced from the very cradle to his favourite child, Kind Charity with her tremulous blue eye of hope. Ah me the maid told her whispered message of gentlest amity, told it very gracefully, and then hasted away again, full of pitying love, to the bosom of God who sent her hither for a time and I wait her return to this sunlit vale of tears, at the second coming of our Lord, with all the rest of his holy angels. Little wonder, then, that Old Fidian pitied and loved young Analysis, presumptuous scapegrace though he was, and wept tears of joy when he heard from a far country that his ward had, by favour of Heaven, wholly changed the theory and practice, or in one word the meaning of his life, and become like a 'little child.' Less wonder still, that, since I had already lost so much, he should resolve to constitute me the heir of his possessions; for he was rich, and had laid up great treasures in heaven, especially one goodliest pearl, as you may understand. Well! the faithful man has just at length been gathered to his fathers, and has willed me the priceless inheritance, burdened with the sole condition that I assume his name, and assimilate his nature to my own. Gentle Reader! this is why I now sign myself your loving Brother, CHRIST CHURCH, TELLUS, FIDIAN ANALYSIS. FOR the worthy Knight could answer all the objections of the Devil and reason, "with the odd resolution he had learnt of Tertullian: Certum est quia impossibile est. It is certainly true, because it is quite impossible!" Now this I call Ultra-fidianism. Again, there is a scheme constructed on the principle of retaining the social sympathies, that attend on the name of a believer, at the least possible expenditure of belief; a scheme of picking and choosing Scripture texts for the support of doctrines, that had been learned beforehand from the higher oracles of common sense; which, as applied to the truths of religion, means the popular part of the philosophy in fashion. Of course, the scheme differs at different times and in different individuals in the number of articles excluded; but, it may always be recognised by this permanent character, that its object is to draw religion down to the believer's intellect, instead of raising his intellect up to religion. And this extreme I call Minimi-fidianism. COLERIDGE'S Aids to Reflection, Fourth Edit., 1839, pp. 151, 152. BROTHER! you were born into the world between sore anguish and hearty joy, your entry into life having been hailed both by the cry of solitary pain, and the voice of crowding gratulation. You were nursed among alternate tears and smiles, now nestling in a mother's bosom with the clear eye of love upon you, and then sprawling in some spasm of infancy, refusing to be soothed. Your childhood was a sunbright chain of merry ringing days and sleepful nights, yet many a one of the golden links was soiled by the stain of early suffering and sorrow. Lightsome boyhood may have been a joyous time of every kind of growth with you; swelling limbs, expanding affections, aspiring hopes, and even ambitious thoughts; but you perhaps remember how you were brought down almost to corruption by the usurping tyranny of fever; or how your heart was like to break when you heard some experienced matron say that sister was too good to live long; or how your half-knit frame was riven by the rightful accusation of having partly forged some problem, to which a glittering honour was attached; or how your poor boy's soul sickened within you when your own living sire, with his hand of love and voice of counsel, became a mere dead body, and was buried out of sight. Then came the glorious prime of youth, with its generous pulse and bounding step; with its burning heart of tenderest love, and manly purposes of honour; its swift power of thought and plenteous treasury of overflowing utterance; and its deep and passionate love of truth, with that unquenchable thirst of glory which derives its principal significance from being the unconscious tending of the spirit towards an unknown glory, honour, and immortality in the life ever young which is to come. Had not it too its weary days of malady; temples aching with the toil of ambitious strife, the languor of sensuous indulgence, or even the mad delirium of an altogether mismanaged life, finding its feverous vent as best it could? Was there no ruination of high-built hopes, your young love dying, your friend falling away in the hour of need? Had winged thought and flowing words no equivalent in the rashness of speech and action into which they continually hurried you? Did that love of the universe, such as it seemed to your inexperienced eye-material, immaterial, or both; one God made manifest, or a godless whirl-and that love of glory which was the polestar of your life's new voyage, did they never lead you wrong to your peril? Or, if you have been better fated than the most of us, did they not inflict the penalties of ceaseless moil, and impose heavier cares than you were strong enough to bear with impunity? Such has been your way to manhood: and what are you now?—You have your more or less honourable position in the world; but does the world see your carking fears? Your domestic joys perhaps, and your domestic griefs. Your manly consciousness of individuality, as the centre of your sphere of loving and admiring ones; and the frequent sense of the ease with which some out ward power, or combination of forces-call my living God with His countless rays of immortality what you will-may strip you of them all, and leave you alone. Your self, too, has altered now. In childhood you often did amiss, and often knew you did; boyhood was full enough of errors, but vivacity wiped them out of memory; in youth tempestuous passion drove everything before it, but now it is different. You are too old to be easily cheated by the fair shows of vice; you have become wiser at last, and bow before the public conscience if not your own; your responsibilities are increased, and you feel the weight of them; you have hard struggles now; in fine, the mystery of human life thickens and thickens about you, and you cannot always be at ease for the multitude of your thoughts. The mystery of human life! can I know anything about it? How came I hither? I see infants born every day, but never was an infant to my own consciousness. I found myself here, sometimes it feels like an eternity ago and sometimes like yesterday, fearing and hoping, loving and hating, thinking, and in one pregnant word LIVING; but the beginning of my true self is clouded in the thickest darkness behind me, which, for all I know, may be immense in space, and infinite in duration. And where is my end to be? Death is all I can see before me; say slow or quick consumption is to come with its remorseless harpies, gnawing down tissue after tissue; hot, grinding hectic, the first and the last in the greedy train; life must soon give way, and agonizing weakness follow; no strength then to relieve the burdened lungs; the blood stagnates in the delicate brain; filmy darkness and groping hands; insensibility, convulsive struggle of breast and throat, one gasp; and-death. If that be all, let me eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow I die, and VOL. II. F |