Part 54 (1/2)

And as to the Saviour, he had a good deal also to say on that subject; a good deal which might show that he was not so far from others as others thought. And so he would prove that he was no infidel.

But could he thus satisfy himself now that he again heard the psalms of his youth? and remembered as he listened, that he had lost for ever that beauty which had cost him so dear? Did he not now begin to think--to feel perhaps rather than to think--that, after all, the sound of the church bells was cheering, that it was sweet to kneel there where others knelt, sweet to hear the voices of those young children as they uttered together the responses of the service?

Was he so much wiser than others that he could venture on his own judgment to set himself apart, and to throw over as useless all that was to others so precious?

Such were his feelings as he sat, and knelt, and stood there--mechanically as it were, remembering the old habits. And then he tried to pray. But praying is by no means the easiest work to which a man can set himself. Kneeling is easy; the repet.i.tion of the well-known word is easy; the putting on of some solemnity of mind is perhaps not difficult. But to remember what you are asking, why you are asking, of whom you are asking; to feel sure that you want what you do ask, and that this asking is the best way to get it;--that on the whole is not easy. On this occasion Bertram probably found it utterly beyond his capacity.

He declined to go to afternoon church. This is not held to be _de rigueur_ even in a parson's house, unless it be among certain of the strictly low-church clergymen. A very high churchman may ask you to attend at four o'clock of a winter morning, but he will not be grievously offended if, on a Sunday afternoon, you prefer your arm-chair, and book--probably of sermons; but that is between you and your conscience.

They dined early, and in the evening, Bertram and his host walked out. Hitherto they had had but little opportunity of conversation, and Bertram longed to talk to some one of what was within his breast.

On this occasion, however, he failed. Conversation will not always go exactly as one would have it.

”I was glad to see you at church to-day,” said the parson. ”To tell you the truth, I did not expect it. I hope it was not intended as a compliment to me.”

”I rather fear it was, Arthur.”

”You mean that you went because you did not like to displease us by staying away?”

”Something like it,” said Bertram, affecting to laugh. ”I do not want your mother and sisters, or you either, to regard me as an ogre. In England, at any rate in the country in England, one is an ogre if one doesn't go to church. It does not much matter, I believe, what one does when one is there; so long as one is quiet, and lets the parson have his say.”

”There is nothing so easy as ridicule, especially in matters of religion.”

”Quite true. But then it is again true that it is very hard to laugh at anything that is not in some point ridiculous.”

”And G.o.d's wors.h.i.+p is ridiculous?”

”No; but any pretence of wors.h.i.+pping G.o.d is so. And as it is but a step from the ridiculous to the sublime, and as the true wors.h.i.+p of G.o.d is probably the highest sublimity to which man can reach; so, perhaps, is he never so absolutely absurd, in such a bathos of the ridiculous, as when he pretends to do so.”

”Every effort must sometimes fall short of success.”

”I'll explain what I mean,” said Bertram, attending more to himself than his companion. ”What idea of man can be so magnificent as that which represents him with his hands closed, and his eyes turned to that heaven with which he holds communion? But imagine the man so placed, and holding no such communion! You will at once have run down the whole gamut of humanity from St. Paul to Pecksniff.”

”But that has nothing to do with belief. It is for the man to take care that he be, if possible, nearer to St. Paul than to Pecksniff.”

”No, it has nothing to do with belief; but it is a gauge, the only gauge we have, of what belief a man has. How many of those who were sitting by silently while you preached really believed?”

”All, I hope; all, I trust. I firmly trust that they are all believers; all, including yourself.”

”I wonder whether there was one; one believer in all that which you called on us to say that we believed? one, for instance, who believes in the communion of saints? one who believes in the resurrection of the body?”

”And why should they not believe in the communion of saints? What's the difficulty?”

”Very little, certainly; as their belief goes--what they and you call belief. Rumtuns.h.i.+d gara shushabad gerostophat. That is the s.h.i.+bboleth of some of the Caucasian tribes. Do you believe in Rumtuns.h.i.+d?”

”If you will talk gibberish when talking on such a matter, I had rather change the subject.”

”Now you are unreasonable, and want to have all the gibberish to yourself. That you should have it all to yourself in your own pulpit we accede to you; but out here, on the heath, surely I may have my turn. You do not believe in Rumtuns.h.i.+d? Then why should farmer b.u.t.tercup be called on to believe in the communion of the saints?

What does he believe about it? Or why should you make little Flora b.u.t.tercup tell such a huge fib as to say, that she believes in the resurrection of the body?”

”It is taught her as a necessary lesson, and will be explained to her at the proper age.”